Hi. My name’s Bobby, and I’m s’posed to tell you all about what happened to us. I mean how we ended up like we are in my family. I remember a lot of it pretty good, but sometimes I can’t quite put it into words, you know? So I’m just going to tell you what I know about and Mr. B.O.B. here is going to fill in the rest, cause he’s talked to everybody else and all, and I guess everybody else is too embarrassed about things to say it themselves. So he’s going to write down their part, cause he’s a writer and all. But he says I’m what they call a “pivotal character”, whatever the heck that is, so I have to tell my part myself.

Anyway, I’ll start with the dreams. Because I think that’s what set it all off in a way.

Have you ever had one of those weird recurring dreams? You know ... the one you have over and over again, and you aren’t sure what it means ... or you know what it means but you can’t stop having it? Well, mine went like this. I kept having this dream that the skin of my face was all thick, and it didn’t move very easy, like it was stiff, and all I could see was the sky. I could tell it was the sky because there were clouds against a cobalt blue background. It was beautiful. Then something dark would descend and cover my stiff face, and then it was dark and humid and hot except that for some reason it was good too. And I’d wake up and my dick would be so hard I’d have to beat off to get back to sleep.

Pretty strange, huh?

And the way I figured out what it meant was strange too. But more on that later. First I need to tell you a little about us. I’m Bobby Wilson, like I said, and I’m an orphan. My parents were flying in a light plane piloted by my Uncle Ralph when it went down in bad weather.

I know, all you psychologists out there are already analyzing the dream to be all about how the sky represents them flying, and then the plane crashes, which is the dark thing coming down on top of my face, which represents the inflexible ground, or death, or the face of someone who’s buried in the ground or something. And the darkness and humidity and heat are the grave, or something like that. But you can’t figure out why I always had the erection, right? That’s because you’re all on the wrong track.

The dream didn’t have anything to do with how I got to be an orphan. It has to do with what happened after I was an orphan. See I went to live with my Aunt Paula, and her daughter Beth, who was my age, because they were orphans too, kind of. I mean the pilot was Aunt Paula’s husband and Beth’s father. And we all shared that loss, and depended on each other to get through it. Beth and I were really little when it happened, seven or eight I think, and we knew what happened, but we didn’t really understand it. I know that for years and years I thought my parents would miraculously walk through the door of that old farm house one night, and everything would be fine.

Of course that didn’t happen. Instead, Beth and I grew up together, brother and sister for all intents and purposes, though we knew we were technically cousins. And we spent almost all of our time together. There had been a big insurance payoff, which my Aunt knew all about, but didn’t really talk about with us. She didn’t want to work the farm, because it had been Uncle Ralph’s ... well she called it his mistress ... so she rented it out for shares of the crop.

The heavy work around the house was done by Dub, who was this kind of old guy who wasn’t quite right in the head. I don’t know what was wrong with him, but he lived in the tool shed some of the time. He set up a bed in there, but he had these little nests on several farms around, and he sort of drifted from one to the other. Everybody fed him while he was living on their property and he sharpened tools, and moved hay bales, and fixed broken things and the like. He was kind of a traveling handyman, which on most farms isn’t really needed, but folks mostly felt sorry for him, so they found stuff for him to do. Course at our place we didn’t have a man, so we really did have a lot of stuff that Dub took care of. Beth and me were kind of scared of him. He smiled a lot, and he talked funny, and when you’re little that’s scary. But he could do some work. Yes he could.

That meant Beth and I didn’t have many chores, and could go pretty much wherever we wanted, for as long as we wanted to.

Now, about the time my crazy dreams started up we were 14, and we rode bicycles everywhere we went. Mine was a Schwinn with 26 inch wheels, and it was tough and would take a beating. Beth’s was a dull red Roadmaster Supreme that had to be 30 years old, with a leather seat, and it was a boy’s bike, meaning it had a bar on it that we boy’s called the “ball buster bar”. The one on the Roadmaster had sheet metal formed around it that was hollow and it looked a little like a gas tank on a motorcycle or something. Back then I had no idea where that bike came from, or why her mother got her a boy’s bike. Now that I’m older I know that Dub got her that bike from an old barn and fixed it up so it would work. But the point is but she had it and she rode it as good as any boy.

Which is why, when we were powering down the dirt road that led to the blacktop that led to town, and she was standing up on the pedals, when her left foot went down her right hip had to lift, so her ... crotch ... wouldn’t hit the ball buster bar. And then her right foot would go down and her left hip would rise. Now imagine her doing sixty revolutions per minute. Up down, up down, up down, up down, up down ... those fourteen-year-old hips rising and falling, her crotch hovering over the bar, swaying back and forth. And then, when we’d hit a level spot, or maybe a downhill, she’d sit on that leather seat to rest while we coasted a little.

And I figured out my dream one day while I was behind her, which is where I usually rode, so I could protect her from traffic coming up from behind us. And out of the blue I understood the dream. Mr. B.O.B, who’s writing all this down, says I had what’s called an “epiphany.”

See, I was in love with my cousin.

And my face was that seat.

Knowing that didn’t make any difference though. I mean we were buddies and all. And we spent all our time together, but that didn’t mean she felt the same way about me that I felt about her. We often felt completely opposite about things.

Like for instance, when we were exploring up in the attic one day and we found this really cool old Grandfather clock. It was tall and ornate, but it had been up there where the humidity changed all the time, and it got cold in the winter and blazing hot in the summer. So all the glue joints had popped and the thing was falling apart.

We asked Aunt Paula about it and she said that her father had made it when he was a boy - his father was a carpenter - and she remembered it chiming loudly in the hall when she was growing up. But he died, and then it stopped chiming one day, and her mother didn’t want it taking up space if it didn’t work, so she had it put up in the attic.

Well, that clock became our dream project. We decided we were going to figure out what was wrong with it, and fix it up. But that’s where things stopped being the same for us. Beth had this dream that it would be an heirloom that she could pass down to her own children some day, and it would be a hundred years old and still working and all that kind of stuff.

But for me, it was an antique that would be worth a lot of money if it was restored, and that money would be enough to buy a car with, or an air conditioner for the house, or something else Aunt Paula said we couldn’t afford.

We got in big arguments about it as we carefully took the clock apart, piece by piece, making notes and drawings of how it was put together. So I had no reason to think that Beth was hot for me, even though I had dreams of sticking my face in her ... well, you know where I wanted to stick my face.

I know things are different now, but back then, in the sixties, you just didn’t say the word “pussy” unless you were a hundred percent sure no adults would hear you. I guess that’s why I have a hard time using “dirty” language now, even though you can hear it in lots of movies these days.

The thing is ... I was wrong. Well not wrong, exactly. Clueless is probably the better word for what I was back then. I didn’t recognize how she felt about me because I was too stupid to be able to interpret the signals.

Like one day when we were working on that clock. We had the case all apart, and had been refinishing it piece by piece, getting it ready to be glued back together. She was working with the stain and a rag, and both her hands were all brown and oily with the stain. She had on a dress that day, an old thin thing that it didn’t matter if it got all dirty.

She said, “Bobby, I’ve got an itch in the middle of my back. Can you scratch it for me?”

So I put my fingers in her back and started scratching and she’s ooing and ahing and moving around like a hula dancer or something while she says, “higher” or “more to the right”. I realized she didn’t have on a bra, because her back was all smooth.

“Ohh Bobby, your fingers feel so nice. Don’t stop,” she moaned.

So I didn’t, and was rubbing up and down, all along her back, when she turned around to give me a hug and says thank you, and in the process she raised her arms and my hand touched her breast as she turned.

Man! It was so soft. “Sorry,” I said, automatically, hoping she wouldn’t see what was going on down in my pants.

“It’s okay,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek.

And suddenly my arms were around her, and hers were around me, and her brown stained hands were on my back, getting my shirt dirty and we were kissing. I could feel her unfettered breasts against my chest and they felt so warm and soft and big. I got another hardon.

We broke apart and it was suddenly strange, like we didn’t know each other.

“Sorry,” I said, reflexively.

She stepped back. “Why? Was it so bad to kiss me?”

“No...” I was at a loss for words. “I just meant...” Hmmm. What did I mean?

But the mood was broken, and we went back to work on the clock. We didn’t talk too much the rest of that day, but she kept giving me these looks, like she was studying some kind of bug or something.

That night I had to jerk off to get my dick to go soft. I closed my eyes, and felt her breasts through that thin dress, against my chest ... and her lips on mine ... and bam! I was done.

And then there was the day. I call it the day because it was the day that everything in our lives changed forever. And it’s why you’re reading this, so it even effected you, way back then. How about that?

Anyway we were riding bikes, and she was in front of me, like usual, except we were on the dirt road that led to the back forty, and it ran by the pond. We were racing, without admitting we were racing, which meant I’d catch up to her and almost get by her and she’d put on a burst of speed to stay ahead and then I’d make another run and it was just exhilarating.

She was wearing Jeans that day and the fashion then was tight jeans, and her butt bobbed in front of me like ... I don’t know, but I watched it so much I missed the big rock in the middle of the road. My balloon tire hit it and I went flying. I was probably doing 20 miles an hour and I hit the ground hard.

It knocked the breath out of me ... you know, like you can’t breathe out and you can’t breathe in, for a few seconds anyway, and I was blacking out, just lying there, looking up at the deep blue sky.

Suddenly Beth’s face, and her hanging hair, appeared over my face like magic, cutting out the light. She was screaming right in my face. Then my chest muscles unlocked and I dragged in this huge shuddering breath, that felt so good. And I smelled her hair, and it smelled so good too.

And she was crying ... her tears falling on my face, as her hands went all over my face and head and she demanded that I say something.

So I said “Ow.”

And then she was kissing me like fifty times, on my cheeks and my nose and my mouth and laughing, but still crying.

I cried too ... when I saw the front wheel of my Schwinn. It was bent bad, and I didn’t even think Dub could fix it. And, it was a long way back home.

But I have to tell you, that wreck was the best thing that ever happened to me in my whole life, because she offered to let me ride double on her Roadmaster, to get back home so I could get the pickup and come back for my bike. And the way she wanted to do it was for me to sit on that old leather seat, while she stood on the pedals and pumped.

So I held her waist, and she bobbed in front of me, that smooth butt of hers rising and falling right in front of my dick, brushing it sometimes. And my hands sort of slid around on her waist too, and my fingers touched her breasts, or at least the sides and bottoms of them.

When we rolled up into the yard we sort of fell to the side, because neither of us could get off the bike like we normally would. So we ended up tangled up on the ground beside the bike. Her face was right in front of mine and my hand was right on her side, beside her left breast.

She said “I was so scared you were dead or hurt bad.” And then she kissed me. And this time it was an honest to goodness kiss and we both knew it and before I could even think about what I was doing my hand slid around and covered her left breast.

And she kept kissing me. And she didn’t make me move my hand.

Well, that went on for ... a while. Finally we had to breathe and she said, “Let’s go up to my room.”

I’d been to her room lots of times and, being stupid, I figured I’d gotten all the sex I was going to get that day. I was hard as a freaking rock. I mean it was almost painful, but I sort of moved it over to one side and up high in my pants and followed her as she took my hand and pulled me into the house.

Paula Reed pulled down the clothes that had dried on the clothes line and carried the basket into the house. She loved the smell of sun-dried clothes and was in a good mood. She was thankful for that, because all too often she thought of how unfair life was, mostly to her daughter, who’d lost her father, and poor Bobby, who’d lost both his parents. And both of those kids were so strong and were doing so well. Then she’d burst into tears because she wasn’t doing all that well.

It was the guilt she hated the most. She’d loved Ralph, no doubt about that, and he’d been a good provider and a good man. But he’d been a lousy lover and she knew that, even though he’d been her only lover. That’s because she’d found a couple of Playboys in Dub’s nest area in the shed and she’d read some of the articles. She also looked at the pictures, at the fancy lingerie the models wore and how they posed. She’d read those articles before her husband died, and she knew from them that he was not an imaginative lover ... or even a good one.

Paula could have posed for those pictures in that magazine. She was what they call statuesque, tall and straight, with a thin waist and firm jutting breasts high on her chest. Her stomach was flat as a board, even after having Beth, and her narrow waist flared into hips that made men’s groin’s ache when they watched those hips sway as she walked downtown.

There had been a raft of men who tried to get her to go out with them after Ralph died. And she was horrified by it. Some of them were just trying to be nice, but she thought of them as ghouls, trying to use her grief to sate their lust.

That was what part of her guilt was about.

Those men hadn’t actually suggested they wanted sex, or that they wanted anything other than to get her out of her widow’s black. But she assumed they wanted sex.

That’s because Paula wanted sex, and she wanted it from every man who asked her out, and every man she saw on the street, and every man she thought about at night while she abused her clitty, trying to cum.

But, as hot-blooded as she was, she couldn’t quite get there, and she always ended up frustrated.

She knew there was something wrong with her, and that she should go talk to somebody about it, but instead, she stayed on the farm, sending the children to town for things until she just had to go herself. Then she made herself look straight ahead, and got her business done and left.

They called her the Ice Queen behind her back in town. If she could have joined a convent, she probably would have, as long as no men were ever allowed to see her.

One way she controlled her lust was by submerging herself in mundane chores, like washing the clothing of the household. Which was why she was in her daughter’s closet when her daughter tugged Bobby into the room that fateful afternoon.

She’d taken the basket of clothing into the big walk-in closet to hang up Beth’s dresses. After that she planned to fold Beth’s shirts and shorts and put them in the chest of drawers back out in the bedroom.

The closet door had something wrong with it, and it wouldn’t stay open, always swinging shut. The closet was actually a dormer, a little room that stuck out from the roof of the house, with a window in the end. There were long bars to hang clothes on down both sides of the room, and odds and ends, old toys and such on the floor against the walls. So, when the door swung shut it was no problem, because the window provided all the light anyone needed.

Paula had just hung up a dress when she heard the kids come into the bedroom. She reached for the door to push it open, not wanting to frighten them by suddenly appearing after they began doing whatever it was they’d come in there to do. She assumed they were looking for something, or maybe they planned to read.

So, when she opened the door and saw them in a torrid embrace, arms wrapped around each other, lips firmly pressed together, she was astonished beyond words. She saw Beth’s hands slide down Bobby’s back to his buttocks and cup them, and her knees suddenly felt weak. She had to reach for the doorjamb to steady herself. And when Bobby’s hand fumbled between them, obviously feeling her daughter’s breast, Paula almost moaned. Her old enemy, Lust, flared in her belly and she looked at them not as a mother, but as a peeping Tom would, vicariously thrilled at what was going on.

Beth pulled me into her room and the next thing I knew we had a lip lock going. It was fantastic. Then she pushed me away from her, breaking our first kiss. My lips felt numb, and I was a little disappointed, thinking again that she was stopping things. Her eyes stared straight into mine, though, and she began unbuttoning her shirt. I just stared. I didn’t know what else to do.

She was bare under it, and I saw her breasts for the first time.

It was just like when I had hit that dirt. I couldn’t breathe. Her breasts were perfectly round, like somebody had found a way to cut a balloon in half and make it keep it’s shape. Then they had put the halves on her chest. The tips were brown and her nipples looked a lot like my own, except they were larger than mine. I got in a little air as she unfastened her jeans and slid them down her legs.

Now part of my brain knew what was happening here, but most of whatever was in my head just couldn’t quite grasp that it was actually ... happening.

“Take your clothes off,” she said softly, playing with the waistband of her white cotton panties.

I had a sort of short circuit that sometimes happens when a man’s mind is shocked by a situation. I remember saying, “I don’t know,” which didn’t make any sense in that circumstance.

Beth, who had that women’s intuition that men can’t understand, translated that correctly and she said, “It’s going to be okay Bobby. Take your clothes off for me ... please?”

Well, the upshot is that my hands just wouldn’t move and I needed help, and she helped me, speaking softly and touching me gently, like a hostler does to a spooked horse when he’s trying to calm him and get a halter on him.

And from what she described later, I responded like that horse, all wild eyed, and jittery and shaky as she got me naked in her bedroom.

She told me later my prick was everything she’d hoped it would be, though, at the time I thought she was horrified by it. She looked at it and her face got all scrunched up and she was breathing hard. I thought she was going to scream and tear out of there. Instead, when she saw it she skinned off her panties and herded me toward the bed.

“I want to do this Bobby,” she said, in her perfectly reasonable voice. She didn’t have to say what it was she wanted to do. I had a fairly good idea what she wanted, or at least what I wanted her to want. And there was a beast inside me that was perfectly willing to perform the task she wanted performed.

But I had this upbringing, though, and it said I couldn’t do this, and I thought it was strong enough to keep that beast in check. I thought I could tell her that it wasn’t right and I wasn’t going to do it. I thought I could stand there naked and reason with her that she’d be sorry after, and that it would mess us up. I thought I was strong.

Until she lay on the bed and pulled me on top of her.

Paula was in agony as she watched through the crack in the door and saw her daughter manipulate the boy. It was clear to her who was in charge out there. She felt the guilt, thinking that it must be something in her blood that she had passed to her daughter. Girls just didn’t act like that. Not good girls.

Then she saw Bobby’s penis and her lust flamed up. Bobby had entered his growth spurt, and his cock was fully the size her late husband’s had been. It was rampant too, as her daughter bared it, ready to fill a woman, prod her, make her feel good. And it was clear that her daughter intended to do just that. She wondered how often they had done this before.

The itch in her loins nagged, wanting something done about it. She lifted her dress and slid her hand into her own panties. Sweet relief made her pussy squirt and she hastily pulled her panties off so they wouldn’t get soaked and broadcast the odor of her arousal later. Then, her fingers firmly planted in her pussy, she stared greedily as her nephew mounted her daughter.

My memory of what happened on her bed is spotty. I think I was too unprepared for it in a lot of ways. I had thought a lot about her pussy coming down on my face, and had dreamed the feel and smell and taste of that, but I hadn’t figured on losing my virginity to her. So I s’pose the best thing is just to say what I do remember.

I remember my cock being so hard I thought it might shatter if something hit it, and I remember the feel of her hand on it. I remember her grip, not hard, but firm. I remember looking down and seeing her pull the tip of my cock and press it right into her pussy mouth.

I don’t remember deciding to do it, but I remember lunging forward ... hard.

I remember this whimpering cry she made when I did that, and the shame I felt at hurting her. I remember her hands on my back, moving, stroking, and knowing then that she didn’t mind the pain.

I’ll never ever forget the feeling I had when I realized that she still wanted me inside her after I hurt her, and the feel of her hot, tight sheath wrapped around my prick.

Bobby would never be able to dredge up the little details Beth would cherish in her heart for years, as the man she had chosen to be her mate filled her for the first time.

She would remember the feel of his skin, the smell of his hair, the dirt from his crash that was still on his cheek. She would never forget being gloriously filled with penis, and waiting for that penis to spurt hotly, thrusting her hips up as his slammed down.

She would always remember the violence when he took her and made her his woman. She hoped it would never stop. She had dreamed of what romance would be like when she chose to give up her maidenhead. She says it was perfect in every way ... except for ... well, you’ll understand that soon enough.

Sophie entered the house looking for her sister. She had brought a warning and three bushels of tomatoes and was ready to spend the afternoon doing some canning and gossiping. “Paula?” she called out. “Hello? Anybody home?”

It was quiet in the old house.

“Yoo hoo,” she called, and then listened. There was a noise. It was coming from upstairs. They must be up there.

She went to the stairs and started up, clomping from step to step. “Yoo hoo, “ she called again. “Where is everybody?“

I was about fifteen or twenty seconds away from making Beth’s dream of being fertilized come true when Aunt Sophie’s voice came floating up the stairs and through the door to Beth’s bedroom.

Panic ensued.

Beth literally threw me off of her, and my prick made this strange sucking wet sound as it was jerked out of her.

“Shit!“ she said.

Now that’s something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. I had never heard Beth use a curse word in my whole life.

“She can’t find us here like this” whispered Beth urgently. “She’ll tell momma for sure. We have to hide you!” She looked around wildly and her eye fell on the closet door. “Quick ... Get in the closet. Hurry, Bobby!“ She was frantic now as her aunt’s cheery voice got closer and closer.

I darted for the door, scooping up my clothes on the way. I jerked it open and ran through.

I ran right into ... somebody, who clapped a hand over my mouth and pulled me deeper into the closet, letting the door swing shut.

Beth had just managed to get the bedspread pulled over her naked body when her aunt’s head poked in through the door.

“Beth? Honey? Are you in here?”

“Hi Aunt Sophie. I was just taking a nap. I wasn’t feeling too well.” Beth tried to sound sick.

“Oh, that’s too bad dear. Where’s your mother? We’re supposed to do some canning today.”

“I don’t know Aunt Sophie. Wasn’t she downstairs?” Beth’s lust had faded completely and she couldn’t believe she had practically raped Bobby not even knowing where her mother was.

“I didn’t see her. How are you feeling? Do you need me to make you some broth?” She started to come into the room.

Beth waved. “No, I’m fine now. Really, I think all I needed was a little rest. Why don’t you go find mom and I’ll come down and help.” Beth didn’t really want to help, but she did want her Aunt to leave so she could get dressed and get Bobby out of her closet.

When Aunt Sophie left Beth leapt out of bed and ran to her dresser. She grabbed a T shirt and pulled it on, then slipped into a clean pair of shorts, leaving her panties off. She headed for the door to the closet.

When I felt someone pulling me into the closet I panicked. You have to remember here that I had just been doing something I knew I wasn’t supposed to be doing, so I was pretty fired up anyway. My cock was still stiff as a board and I was going to have a case of the blue balls. I took in a breath to shout, but that hand cut me off by covering my mouth.

“Shhhh!“ came a loud whisper in my ear. About the same time I realized the hand covering my mouth and the whisper both seemed feminine some how, I was whirled around by a wild-eyed Aunt Paula. With no warning of any kind, she kissed me, and I’m here to tell you it was the same kind of kiss I had been sharing with her daughter only moments before.

“I’m sorry baby,” she gasped, “But I’m so hot I can’t stand it any more Bobby... please ... I have to do this.” She pulled on me and I felt myself falling on top of her. Somehow her dress was up around her waist and she was naked under there and her hand was on my prick and she was pulling it toward her pussy.

It was that de ja vu stuff. She did it almost exactly like Beth did.

And I did the same thing. I shoved ... hard. But then it was like everything was in slow motion. I felt my prick slide into my Aunt’s pussy, like a quarter of an inch at a time. I remember thinking it was strange how tight she was, and how hot she was, and how soft she was and how good she smelled, just like Beth.