First Awakening

I am a singer, you've probably heard me on the radio; you may even own some of my CDs. I am Dawn, known by some as the Siren of Suburbia. My fans say they love me because they can relate to my songs, that I express emotions in an everyday way they can draw comfort and inspiration from. My detractors say I have a narrow vocal range and my songs are mundane, why don't I sing about death and crack and things. That's not my reality, so I'd say it's their loss! I'm guess I'm pretty, but I know I'm not especially beautiful, although my English rose looks do seem to have an strong effect on certain men, as I have discovered while surfing the net! I'm 5' 6" with darkish blonde hair - natural - I have small kind of pointy breasts with slightly puffy, pink nipples, a little bit of a tummy sometimes from too much junk food on the road, my bottom is a bit bigger than maybe it should be for my height, but I'd rather it stayed that way, personally. I swim nearly every day to keep fit and stay in good general shape, and have a carefully planned programme of exercises to keep other very important parts of my body supple and trim.

I became a big, if reasonably low-key star in my late 20's, originally due to a remarkably successful collaboration with my brother, who is also a musician with a successful band of his own, and subsequently with a great deal of hard work. I tour a lot, I don't have strictly conventional relationships with men any more, they find it hard to cope with either my stardom, or the long periods I'm away from home. Or my need for... well, you'll find out! Recently, with the help of fairly new friends, I have adapted quite well to my situation. My lyrics give very few hints of the dark depths of my erotic appetite. Nearly everyone thinks I'm a nice girl, a good girl, because that's what I look like, and that is how I appear to them. But now I'm going to tell all, because writing it down may help me to understand where the driving force behind my private sexual obsessions sprang from.

So, we're going right back to the beginning, to my very first sexual experiences. When I was eight years old, I became a rocking-horse girl. Riding the old rocking-horse had been a favourite pastime ever since I was old enough to climb onto his back, but until I was eight it had stayed in my brother Rowan's room. He's about three years my senior, and I adored him then, as I do now. I suppose I was already getting a little old for such childish games, but I was so happy that the rocking-horse was now mine. Swaying back and forth had a kind of meditative effect upon me. I would sit there, rocking, singing to myself, making up little tunes and daydreaming. On that special day something extraordinary happened. Maybe, because I was bigger, the pommel of the hard wooden saddle pressed that much more tightly against my groin, maybe in the celebrations of Beauty (short for Black Beauty) becoming mine, I rode harder than usual, but that afternoon, after a few minutes, I felt a delicious tingling warmth in my middle, spreading through me from between my plump little legs. It was a bit like wanting to wee, but much nicer. The longer I rocked the nicer it felt, until something seemed to overtake me, and I couldn't stop. I found myself galloping furiously while ecstatic sensations rippled through me. It was scary, but utterly wonderful. I trembled all over, and cried out as the feelings reached an amazing crescendo, breaking over me so that for a few seconds I was barely conscious. I slumped across Beauty's neck and buried my face in his real horse hair mane. I felt the wetness of tears on my cheeks, and oddly there was moistness between my legs too, but I knew I hadn't actually peed myself.

It must be instinct with sex and secrecy, because somehow I knew that I must not breathe a word about this to Mum or Rowan. I went and lay on my bed, wondering if I was normal, if I was the only little girl in the world to feel that intense building pleasure and final rapture. I didn't have the years or the experience to analyse it as I could now. I also wondered if I would ever feel it again! Ever curious, I began to experiment. For quite a while I thought that Beauty was the key; that it could only happen when I was on his back. For nearly a year I rode Beauty to orgasm nearly every day, often just before bed, as I always felt so soft and dreamy afterwards. Eventually I discovered that my fingers could achieve the same affect, and could even enhance it further. The first time this happened really was because I wanted to pee, and I was too cosy in bed to get out. I was fondling and rubbing myself to alleviate the symptoms, when I felt the familiar sexy feelings bubbling up. I quickly went to the bathroom, and actually came as I peed, and felt VERY wicked after that. I knew I had done something dirty, but it wasn't going to stop me doing it again.

I carried on riding Beauty as well for a while longer, but now I had something I could take with me everywhere. My fingers! It never crossed my mind that what I was doing was unnatural for a girl my age; though I listened without success to my friends talking about stuff, in the hopes that one of them would say something that sounded familiar. As far as I was concerned, it just happened, and it happened naturally, and the only rule I had was that for the time being it must remain private. It was like I had been given a very special gift, and if I told anyone, it might be taken away again.

The next part of my story isn't about paedophilia or incest, don't get the wrong idea, it is all about my sexual precocity, boundless curiosity, openness, and to some extent, the trust that can exist between brother and sister. The next stage of my awakening involved Rowan, though his part in it was almost entirely down to me. By then I was twelve, getting on for thirteen, masturbating at least twice a day as I went through a rather plump phase in which so-called school friends were bullying me a bit, and boys used to shout rude things at me in the street. Orgasms were my compensation and my comfort. By then I was menstruating and fully clued up on the facts of life, which Mum told me in a lovely easy way when I was ten, though I didn't really connect my private pleasures with the act of sex until I began my periods.

Anyway, I was twelve, full of burgeoning hormones, which had made my nipples treble in size and become extremely sensitive, though my tits were still near non-existent. My pussy was changing too, the lips were becoming more pronounced, I could see my clitoris, and even knew its name, and there were a few sparse silky hairs growing on my pubis. The result of masturbating more than average girls or boys, was that I learned every millimetre of my clit, and could orgasm from all sorts of caresses. The pleasure was becoming stronger, deeper, and as it developed and grew, so I craved it more and more. I saw or sensed sex everywhere, on TV, in magazines, pop stars, actors, one of the cruel boys at school who taunted me with a certain look in his eyes...

Mum had told me about penises, how they got hard, how they ejaculated a seed into the woman's vagina, which swam furiously upwards until it fertilised her egg. I knew about penises in their softer state, because I had seen Rowan's on numerous occasions over my younger years, at the beach, swimming, the usual stuff. My Dad died when I was two, so I really don't remember him, but Rowan and Mum and me all got on really well, and maybe because of that, we weren't an especially shy family when it came to bodies. However, I hadn't put the little dangly thing between Rowan's legs together with the rather more theoretical image of a man's penis inside a woman. That was, until the day I accidentally saw him masturbating in his den, the old garden shed. I was in my latest hideaway, which was a rough lean-to against the back wall of the shed. In fact I was already idly touching myself, all warm and sexy on a hot summer afternoon, looking at a teen magazine, dreaming of boys. I remember with total clarity that I was reading an interview with Morten Harket from Aha, who were huge with me and my mates back then...

I heard the shed door creak and close, and Rowan's distinctive cough, so I knew it was him. What Rowan didn't know was that I had a couple of spy-holes into the shed, where my curious fingers had recently poked out knots from the clapboard cladding, which I could also pop back in again to keep them secret... Rowan often came into the shed to do music stuff, and to be alone. He had his guitar there, and an old ghetto-blaster for all the weird dance and disco music he listened too.

That afternoon began as usual, when he put a tape on. New Order, of course, he played them all the time. I followed this with my ears, but when the music had been playing for a couple of minutes, I prised out one of the knots, and applied a spying eye. Rowan was sitting in an old armchair, facing the back wall from which I watched, and he had a magazine in his hands that he was staring at with greedy eyes. While I watched, mouth drying with excitement and fear of discovery, he pulled out his willy - which I hadn't actually seen or even noticed for some time, and started to play with it. To my astonishment, it grew and grew to much more than twice its original size. When he pulled the foreskin back I saw a shiny purple helmet shape, and a tiny slit. He shifted in the seat, pulling his trousers down to his ankles, settled again, legs apart so I could see his balls, oval and hairy. In fact there was masses of hair all around his penis and balls that must have appeared fairly recently.

Rowan opened the magazine again and lay it on his thigh, obviously there was a favourite picture on show, because her began to stroke and tug his willy, until he was jerking it harder and faster all the time. His face became red, his gaze intent upon what I could just make out upside down, was a picture of a naked girl. I heard his breathing hoarsen, his stokes were longer, but more frenetic. I found that my eyes were glued to his cock. It looked so huge against his skinny body, so thick, so long. I couldn't imagine that there was enough space inside any female for something like that, but weirdly, the thought of it trying, stretching my sex around it until it filled me, instinctively thrilled me. I began to strum my fingers across my magic bud.

Suddenly Rowan grabbed for an old towel that I had vaguely noticed on the floor by the chair, and spread it over his tummy and chest. I couldn't imagine why. He resumed his wanking, building up speed again, until his hand was blurring as he flipped from page to page. Suddenly he stiffened, grunted, exhaled hard while his hand slicked back down his shaft, and held a rigid pose for half a second. I was glad about the ghetto-blaster racket, because it covered my own gasp, as a fountain of whitish fluid leapt from the tip of his penis, and fell back onto his hand, and the towel. It did it not once, but again and again, spasmodically. Rowan looked barely sane, his eyes a fixed stare, and I found myself counting... four, five... eight, nine... another, smaller... He carried on stroking, slower now. He sighed deeply, ran his thumb over the oozing slippery head, shuddered and spurted hard, a final time. He slumped back for a few moments, smiling blissfully, an expression of blank pleasure that I recognised from my own face, glimpsed in the bedroom or bathroom mirror after a good solo session with a couple of major starbursts (as I had termed them since I was eight, for lack of a better word for orgasms, which I didn't learn until Mum told me about them in the facts of life talk).