There was a period in my teen years when I was uncharacteristically positive about few things in life. This stance, so antithetical to how I would have people think of me, was operative only secretly. On the surface, what I lacked in self confidence, I compensated with bravado. Not a loud, in-your-face, strutting bravado, but more a quiet, act-as-if behavior. Yet, one of the facets of my personality about which I *was*certain was my lust for women. Not, mind you, a woman. But women. Pleural. That both the broad brush strokes of our culture as well as the more narrowly defined constraints of our local society didn't condone such a view was clear, even to an insensitive teenage male such as me. I may have been a libertine at heart, but I wasn't dumb about it. I kept my views to myself.

I was, at the time, dating a girl, a high-school cheerleader, named Sally. Our relationship wasn't "serious" - there was never anything approaching commitment, at least on my part. I was spared that near-fatal, teen-age malady known as "falling in love." Oh, I recognized readily that I'd fallen in lust, but that's quite another matter.

Sally was attractive, sexy, and very enthusiastic. She loved to fuck. That was it, the whole of it, readily summarized. Aside from that, we didn't have much of a relationship. Part of that was due to my own superficiality, I'm sure. Another part was a consequence of Sally's limited interest in life's matters distanced from fornication. I suppose that might be said another way: Sally was an attractive and very horny air head with no particular concerns or interests beyond getting laid.

Her interest and enthusiasm for things sexual knew few bounds and even as a lustful teenage male with an ingrown hard-on, there were times when she asked for more than I could deliver. It may be that there were nymphomaniacal elements there; even then I recognized this dilemma as a quality problem.

I'm attempting to set the stage for the main thrust of this little story. You see, Sally was the youngest of five girls and all her sisters were as attractive. More, they were sexy and to a one, knew of our affair. Somehow, that carried a charge for me. Knowing that they knew added considerable spice to the whole thing. Despite being fully sated with Sally, I remained keenly aware of her sisters. I didn't suppose I'd "make out" with any of them; heck, they were so much older. Three of them must have been in their early and mid twenties for God's sake! Still, no woman was *too*old, I reasoned.

Sally was from an old family in our home town and like many old families, they named their children after even older family members. Her real name was Sara and her next older sister - she was probably about three years older than Sally - was named Geraldine. No one - at least no one in our generation - called her Geraldine. Gerry was the most commonly used affectionate diminutive.

Anyway, Gerry was a raven-haired beauty with dark, snapping eyes and a sensuous, mostly unsmiling mouth. It wasn't that she was grim or lacked a sense of humor. It just appeared that her natural continence was serious and unsmiling. She had a way of looking at me that made me squirm a little. It was as if she knew something about me and expected an explanation.

The rational side of me knew this was only my self-centered fear speaking to me while the emotional (read irrational) side of me knew with a certainty that I'd been found out. She could see my licentious thoughts written across my face. And with good reason. At a later stage in my life I figured out why I felt guilty so often. Usually I *was*!

You see, Gerry was a knockout, a sex bomb. She had a fantastic figure with prominent breasts and a nice jutting butt. She had a habit of reaching with her right hand, under her left breast into her left arm pit as she was talking with me. This served to push her breast up and in, accenting the visible cleavage. I was powerless; I had to stare. Often, I suspected, she didn't wear a bra. Sometimes when I'd give her a hug, I'd be sure of it. She was chief among my illusionary women and an active masturbation fantasy. Her dark-eyed serious stare was often interpreted by me as representing her knowledge of my unbridled lust. Of course, that made it all the juicier.

Back to the story: Once Sally and I were sitting together in her living room. Actually, she was sitting on my lap as I sat in a large, over-stuffed chair as we often did. We'd been whispering and engaging in some low grade petting. It was the custom of her family to stay in the family room, rarely venturing into the living room it seemed. Perhaps it was because we were there and they were giving us space, but in any event, it had come to be held by us as a safe place to mess around. Sally was wearing a long and full skirt and was curled on my lap in such a way that it was easy and natural for me to slip my hand under her dress and into her panties to play with her pussy.

Sally secreted copiously when she was aroused, and that was most of the time when we were together. In addition to the lubricity, her secretions had a strong and sexy musk. Once, after a heavy petting session with Sally, I'd climbed into the car of a friend and he said, "Lordy, you smell like a French whore house." I briefly wondered how he knew... about French bawdy houses, that is. But back then, I'd grown accustomed to the odor and didn't realize how strong it was.

Gerry walked through the living room from her bedroom upstairs and then stopped, looking at us, not speaking. I froze. At that moment, there was no way I could remove my hand without being obvious. She turned and walked over to our chair, still not speaking. She leaned over and sniffed the air. Busted! I was a goner, I just knew it.

Still without smiling, she said, "Nice to see you, Billy," and walked out of the room. Christ! What did that mean?

I whispered to Sally, "What did she mean by that?"

"Oh, she's just teasing you," Sally replied, giving it no more thought.

"Jesus, she must have been able to smell you," I argued.

"Yeah? So what?"

So what indeed. I knew the social dynamics of her family were leagues removed from my own. I had no notion of how things worked in this family and decided to do what I usually did when I didn't fully understand. Shut up and listen, try to figure it out.

Gerry seemed to be around more after that incident. It was nothing intrusive or objectionable, it was just that I was aware of her more than usual. Her comments, usually pithy, became even more pointed, particularly around allusions to sex. Her hugs were warmer and definitely fuller. I was always aware of her tits; now I knew what they felt like, pressed into my chest. My fantasies soared.

Once when she was wearing tight shorts, she bent over in front of me to pick up the paper. This pulled the shorts tight across her ass, outlining the panties underneath and pulling the crotch of the shorts tightly into her. The white, half-moons of her buttocks were calling out, "Look at me!" I was staring, trying to make out if I could see her pussy lips, when she looked back at me from her upside down position. "See anything you like?" she asked. The best I could manage was a smile and a nod.

What was the allure here? Why is it, I wondered then, did I find other women so attractive when I had all I could comfortably handle? I must admit that with my marginal maturation, things haven't changed a lot. I'm much like the alcoholic who admits that the drink he's most interested in is the *next*one.

The family resemblance among the sisters was remarkable. While their body types differed a bit, their coloration, eyes and hair notably, were characteristic. Sally was willowy while Gerry was fuller. Perhaps exaggerated is a better description, for everything about her was just a bit on the bold and exotic side. Her cheek bones were slightly more prominent and her lips just as bit fuller. She had an improbably small waist that threw into greater eminence her full breasts and wide hips. She wasn't nearly plumb enough to be called Rubenesque. Yes, exaggerated is a good term.

I was vaguely aware that while her family maintained a heightened concern about appearances, there was an undertone of "there's nothing wrong here and don't you tell." While no one spoke of it or acknowledged it in any way, I was aware that Gerry had been "dating" a serviceman. This took the form of them disappearing upstairs in her bed room, not to surface for a week. Everyone walked around this elephant without talking about it. Mostly I was jealous of the serviceman.

One warm afternoon Sally, Gerry and I were chatting in their family room, a bright place with lots of plants and a southern exposure. We'd been looking at photo albums together, sitting on a pillow-strewn day bed. I can't remember how I came to be sitting on the day bed in the first place, but I remember well that Gerry came and sat beside me, the bed sinking just enough that her thigh pressed against mine. I had to turn my head to speak to her and I was acutely aware how close our faces were to each other. I noticed gold flecks in her eyes I'd not seen before and how thick her eye brows were. She had a spray of light freckles across her nose. Her teeth were remarkably white and perfectly even. She wet her lips frequently as we chatted and I was increasingly aware of her warm breath. I tried not to look, but my eyes were drawn to the front of her shirt which gapped open when she turned toward me or leaned forward. No bra there it was clearly evident. Several times I was certain she'd seen me staring and a few times I thought the corners of her mouth turned up fractionally.

Thereafter, most of the interaction was between Sally and Gerry, chatting about this memory or that person. I had little more than polite interest in the pictures of dead relatives and it showed. It was a warm day and little air was moving. I lay back and closed my eyes for a moment as they argued about the people seen in an old photograph. Their voices droned on and became distant. I guess I fell asleep.

When I awoke again, the house was quiet and the lengthening shadows suggested I'd been asleep for an hour or more. Looking to the left, I saw Sally, apparently asleep. On the right was Gerry. She looked back and smiled, holding a forefinger up to her lips. We were all covered by a throw blanket. I didn't know how I came to be between them but I thought Gerry may have actually dozed off as well, for she had one knee thrown over my thigh. Slowly awakening, we stirred. I became exquisitely aware of Gerry's body pressed against mine. In the readjustment, Gerry's hand had moved down to my low belly, only inches from the tip of my dick. It lurched and I wondered if anyone besides me could feel the movement. Yeah, yeah, I know... grandiose thinking.