Chapter 1

Thinking back on it now that I have more time to consider all the pros and cons, I can easily see where I made my first mistake by trusting my fucked up brother to do the right thing. 0f course, I call Jack my brother despite the fact he was not really related by blood but was a foster kid my mom acquired when I was only ten years old, and he was older than me by a year and a half. You could tell right away that he was not true Cherry blood because of his much darker complexion and his naturally curly hair that looked like he just stepped out of a beauty parlor.

That was an event that took place almost ten years ago and now I was just turning twenty, I still was tagged with the dreadful name of “Cherry” although the physical truth was that I was no longer in that Cherry category in terms of my sexuality and he was the prick that opened up all my feminine openings with his demanding dick ever since I passed my sweet sixteenth birthday and eager to learn all the ins and outs of “doing it” with him as my partner in misbehavior. It was usually under the cover of night in the nocturnal hours of frenzied humping with my face buried in the pillow and my ass raised for his full attention until the deed was done. We did it in my ass a lot more than in my feminine folds because we both liked the fact that we didn’t need a condom for it back there and I liked the wetness of his spunk inside me and feel of his stuff running down the insides of my legs like I had wet myself or had my period.

I confessed my misdeeds to the old priest at the local church but never revealed Jack’s identity as my legal brother because he was not a blood relation, and I felt no remorse at engaging in incest because he was not a biological “brother” in any sense of the word. I knew it was a sin to be fornicating with a man outside of marriage, but I knew everybody was doing it all around me and most of them were married to some other person making it even more sinful than our explorations in the privacy of our happy little home.

My mom never liked the name of Cherry because she found the sexual connotation to be distasteful and not proper for any female to carry around like some albatross around their neck for the rest of their natural life. She came from a large family of “Murphy’s” which suited her fine, and she hated it when she was addressed by her last name of Mrs. Cherry because it made her feel like people were thinking about her vaginal entrance whenever they spoke to her.

Jack, my erstwhile brother was not bothered by the name until he signed up for the military and then he had the constant barrage of “Cherry boy” jokes that followed him like a kind of sickness that annoyed him for not reason other than he hated to be ridiculed.

I had gotten used to the jokes and did my best to avoid the fun and games with “Cherry” this and “Cherry” that by getting down on my knees and giving out free sucks to guys that only wanted my wet lips around their dick and my doing a good job of swallowing up the evidence at the conclusion.

My female schoolmates were envious of my constant line of prospective dates that pestered me for movies and popcorn or a night up at the lookout point to watch the stars over the lights of the city. I never got a good look at those stars with my head buried between those horny boy’s legs doing what comes naturally sometimes more than once on a single date. Fortunately for me, the guys were wise enough to keep their mouths shut and I was certainly not going advertise my easy attitude in going down for any guy that politely asked for instantaneous relief from the stresses of teenage frustration in the search for mindless sex on demand.

Jack got me started on the whole oral thing with his silly “69” routine that started with his tongue licking my pussy with serious intent. The next thing I knew, he had my face in his crotch and he guided my mouth on the proper speed and depth of penetration with his grunting encouragement for my efforts. After that training, I acquired a taste for the act and was always curious to discover new facts about guy’s hard dicks and discovering the little tricks that seemed to make them my slaves as I gave them the deep throat that they all seemed to love the best.

This year had started off with a bang and ended with a pitiful whimper with me passed out on the living room sofa next to an empty bottle of Johnny Walker to keep me company. In January of that terrible year, we got a letter from the military to inform us that our Jack had gotten himself MIA (Missing in Action) in some God forsaken Southeast Asian country where they still brought in the crops with water buffalo instead of a fucking tractor.

I was ashamed to admit I didn’t shed a single tear because the prick hadn’t written me as much as a postcard after years of using my teenaged bottom as his personal receptacle for his frustrated emissions. I couldn’t refuse his pleas after his shitty “girlfriends” took his money and never delivered on their promises of pussy at the end of their date. It wasn’t quite nice of me to react that way because in all honesty, I never had cause to complain about his training sessions teaching me all the dirty tricks boys used on innocent girls to set them straight about reality and the importance of mindless sex in the scheme of things.

The most he ever got from those bitches was a spiritless jerk-off or the favor of touching their unexcited nipples or feminine folds with his eager fingers.

I mollified my tasteless reaction by reminding myself that he was only “Missing” and was not dead and buried with a flag on top of his empty casket like so many others. There was still a chance he might return someday after all was said and done.