Chapter 2

After that first occasion, over the next year, things changed rapidly. We both started taking any opportunity to get right to touching each other’s bodies. We quickly stopped bothering with the elaborate games and scenarios; either I’d just start tickling her or, more often, she would come over wearing a loose top and start tickling me. Her tickling me wasn’t really a “thing” between us, as I didn’t especially enjoy it the way she seemed to, but I would of course reciprocate right away. In this way it allowed her to initiate the play when she wanted to. The tickling would quickly progress to feeling each other up under our tops and then holding each other and rubbing up against each other, and would end with one or, usually, both of us having an orgasm in our jeans, at which point we’d stop - but still never admit to each other what had happened!

Oddly, at this point we weren’t getting naked or even partly naked; in fact we had never really seen each other fully unclothed, except perhaps by accident, since we were little kids being bathed together. But while we were still playing dramatic games, we would contrive ways to “flash” each other. Especially, Chrissy had always seemed to be willing to show herself off a little, perhaps enjoying the effect it had on me, which must have been terribly obvious. From the “consumption” game and others I already had a good idea what her breasts looked like (very small with nut-brown nipples), and I’d caught glimpses of her panties and the pubic hair around them - she’d figure out excuses to sit cross-legged so that I could see up her dress, for example. Nevertheless, we doggedly kept our clothes on once we progressed from tickling to “wrestling” with each other. That’s how I thought of it anyway, though it was basically just dry-humping. Uncharacteristically for us, we didn’t make up a special code-name for what we were doing - as I said, we weren’t really admitting to each other that we were doing anything different from what we’d always done, even though we had clearly entered a totally different phase in our “play.”

At some point I realized that what I really wanted was to see Chrissy naked, and then to hold and “wrestle” her thus. The thought infested my dreams, and I woke up on more than one occasion with a large wet stain on my sheets. Considering what we were already doing, one wouldn’t think getting undressed would be so big a step; but I was reluctant in the extreme to simply ask her, as it would be acknowledging that I was interested in her. That, clearly, I was, just as she was in me — but it would have been embarrassing to admit it. In the end, though, I didn’t have to ask. Chrissy came into my room one evening after taking a shower, ostensibly to ask a question. She was wearing, quite atypically, only a yellow T-shirt and no jeans. It was a long shirt, and I couldn’t see if she had panties on, but it must have been pretty obvious that I was staring at her thick thighs and trying to catch a better glimpse. I said something, I no longer remember what, to encourage her to sit down on my bed in the hopes that I’d be able to see more that way. Sure enough, she sat down kind of cross-legged - holding my pillow in her lap. I made some lame joke about the pillow, and she said “I need it because I don’t have panties on.” That was silly, of course - she didn’t need to be sitting cross-legged on my bed in the first place if she didn’t want me to see anything. But I recognized the game, and said something to the effect of “that’s OK, I don’t mind.” After a pause, she put the pillow aside - but also shifted her position so her legs were closed. Once I again said something lame, trying to make a joke of it: “I don’t believe you’re not wearing panties.” She said “Really, I swear, I’m not!” and I took the obvious bait and said “well, show me.” She had been angling for that; she immediately spread her legs out again. And just like that I was looking (true, from my seat at the desk across the room) at the thick mat of curly pubic hair framed by her pale thighs.

I pretended to be blasé about it. She stayed sitting that way and I kept looking while pretending not to, which wasn’t fooling anyone, while she chattered away about whatever unimportant question she’d used as an excuse to come in in the first place, which wasn’t fooling anyone either. As if the point of the whole exercise hadn’t been for her to flash me and see how I reacted! She was talking a bit too fast and seemed a little pink in the face and breathless; it was obvious to me that her exhibitionism was exciting her.

Well, seeing her pubic hair was exciting for me too. It was the first time I’d gotten a real look at a girl’s genitalia outside of the illicit Playboys I had stashed behind my dresser, and those - neatly trimmed, airbrushed, glossy - weren’t nearly as real and interesting as my sister’s dense and unruly mass. But what I really wanted to see was full nakedness. I know today that breasts, and in particular small breasts on a chubby frame are what really pushes me over the edge (like so many of my sexual kinks, this one was clearly shaped by my early experiences with my sister). While I’d seen (and felt) her breasts down her blouse, I’d never seen her fully topless. And I wanted to! Given that she was right this moment sitting on my bed showing off her vulva, it felt like a good time to try to push my luck. As embarrassing as it was going to be to ask (and therefore undeniably admit my interest), I wasn’t really going to be able to be able to beat around the bush (so to speak).

I finally just said something silly and obvious, along the lines of “since you’re not wearing panties, why do you need a top?” Unsurprisingly (to me, since I knew her) she tweaked me a little by pretending to be shocked (“what? I’m not going to get naked in front of you!”), but she didn’t make a big fuss about it. We both knew what was up. She was as excited to show me as I was to look. And so we talked for a couple minutes more about whatever, and then all of a sudden, in an exaggeratedly casual manner and without skipping a beat, she started to take her yellow T-shirt off while still talking. Unfortunately for her dignity it got stuck halfway off (despite the length of the shirt, I guess the neck was somehow slightly small for her). I will never, ever, ever forget that first sight of her, with her shirt raised over her head, sparse little tufts of hair under her armpits that I’d never noticed before, her chubby little breasts rising with her exertion, a slight pink flush to her chest, her belly jutting out just as far as her breasts with two little rolls above it, and underneath the dark triangle.