Chapter 1

Brian Andrews didn't really have any idea what to expect when he signed up for marching band. At the beginning of sixth grade, he had to make a choice: band or art. Learn how to play a trumpet, or learn how to paint. It was a whim, really. Almost a flip of a coin. So he floated along through middle school, learning to play the trumpet, never really thinking much about other possibilities.

And then, before the beginning of ninth grade, another choice: sign up for marching band in the Fall, or not? He put a little more thought into this one. After all, high school kids are supposed to start thinking for themselves, and making their own decisions ... right? High school offered lots of choices for extra-circulars: sports, newspaper, yearbook, debate. And marching band.

Brian was in good shape, but not especially talented at any sports. Sure, he had played the occasional football and baseball in the park, but he hadn't been playing on any summer leagues, as had many of his classmates. He didn't know much about writing or cropping photographs. He wasn't necessarily even sure which end of a paintbrush to use.

But he had been playing his trumpet for the last three years, and sometimes he thought he was okay at it. Besides, the high school band director made it sound pretty fun, and lots of the kids from the eighth grade band had already signed up. So he put his name down. He told his parents, and got his August schedule.

A little bit of thought, sure, but he didn't really have any idea what to expect. After all, high school was the big deal, right? Classes and dances, and older girls who actually had boobs. Marching band couldn't possibly take up that much time ... could it?

Sara Clark was lying on her stomach, binders and papers spread out around her. She felt silly in the middle of the day, wearing polka-dot boxer shorts. She liked feeling silly, sometimes. Ready to start her senior year, she was confident enough to be silly and not feel embarrassed. Anyway, she knew she looked good, lying there, if anyone had been around to see her.

She put the phone back in its cradle and put a check mark next to a name on her list.

It was close to August, almost time for marching band pre-season camp to start. She tried, as hard as she could, never to say band camp. Most of her friends had years ago grown tired of trying to make her repeat that line... this one time, at band camp...

This year was going to be her year. She was going to be the drum major this year, and the season took on a whole new dimension for her. The band director was in charge of teaching the music and the marching drill, but he was not actually part of the field show. When the band performed, he would be on the sidelines while she stood on the box and conducted.

She had just finished a week-long drum major camp, where drum majors from seven other schools had come to learn how to do their jobs. They learned about leadership, about conducting and calling commands. She had a whole binder full of material from that camp. It was all kind of a whirlwind still.

Sara licked her lips and picked up the phone again. She dialed the next number on the list. After three rings, an answer.

"Hi," she said, trying to get over her nervousness. "My name is Sara Clark. May I please speak with Brian Andrews?"

She waited a moment.

"Hi, Brian. My name is Sara Clark. I'm this year's drum major for the Hannibal High School marching band. I've got your name down on a list of ninth graders who signed up for the Fall."

She paused, listening.

"That's right," she said. "That's right. I'm just calling everyone on the list to introduce myself, and welcome you. So..." she giggled a little, "welcome! Is there anything you'd like to know?"

She twirled her blonde hair around her fingers.

"Well, obviously, I can't speak for everyone. There are always a few who drop out after the first week. But just keep in mind that the first week will be the toughest. Almost everyone really enjoys it. It's like a little family by the end of the season."

Sara's hair was kind of curled in a spring when she let it go. Cool.

"Uh huh," she said. "Uh huh. I see you're a trumpet player, right? Tony's the trumpet section leader. Tony Hardwell. He's a cool guy, you'll like him. On the first day, it'll only be the new freshmen, the section leaders, and me." Then she added, "And Mr. Williams, of course," naming the director. "We'll introduce most of the basics then, so you'll have an idea what's going on before everyone shows up starting the second day."

The spring in her hair loosened, until it hung straight again. Maybe she would get a haircut tomorrow.

"Yeah. And there'll be plenty of time just working in sections, not the whole band. Remember, a big part of the group will all be freshmen, and none of them is going to know what's going on either." She rolled over on her back and put her knees up. She almost giggled at the sight of her polka-dot boxers. "Okay? Well, it was good talking to you, Brian. See you next week. Uh huh. Bye."

Sara hung up, and scribbled another check mark. Two down, she thought. Her eyes scanned down the page, then glanced at the clock on her night table. It was going to be a long afternoon. She dialed again.

"Hello, My name is Sara Clark. May I speak with Julie Bakers?"

In her little bedroom, Julie Bakers put down the phone and stared out the window. Down the street, further along the row of double wide trailers, there were kids playing noisily. Over by the basketball courts, some of the neighborhood teenagers were in the middle of a game.

High school sounded scary. Lots of activities and opportunities, but still scary.

That girl ... the drum major ... Sara ... She sounded nice enough. But there were so many people to keep track of since she signed up for colorguard. The guard captain, the saber captain, the rifle captain, the flag captain, the body captain. Then there was the guard instructor, the band director, and now this drum major. Julie didn't have any idea what a drum major did.

But Sara had been nice. The director, Mr. Williams, had been nice. Mary, the guard instructor, seemed nice enough.

Julie was still scared.

She glanced at the row of ballerina dolls on her dresser. There was no dance program in the school district, and no real dance teachers in Hannibal. She didn't want to build human towers and tumble with the cheerleaders. She didn't want to shake her ass to rock songs with the pom-pons. This colorguard thing seemed a little silly, with all the flag waving, and all the time spent at marching band practices. But she knew the guard also used the kind of body work essential to a dancer. It seemed like her best chance.

Her thoughts were interrupted.

"Julie!" It was her brother, a year older and a head taller. He spent lots of time in detention, and probably would as a sophomore this year as well.

"Yeah?" she answered back. Her stomach did a little flip-flop.

"Dad's out. Come on in here."

"Hang on a sec." She knew what he wanted. She had done it to him all summer. But part of her mind kept telling her it was wrong, to stop.

She found herself getting up, going across the narrow hall to the next bedroom. Brett was sitting on his bed, bare chested, wearing only boxers.

"What do you want?" said Julie. She was still torn, trying to buy a little time to make a decision.

"You know what I want, little sis," said Brett. He was getting an obvious erection, and he moved his hand to start stroking it through the thin fabric. "Hurry up, Dad won't be gone for long."

"Okay fine," she answered, almost on autopilot.

Julie was still trying to remember how she'd agreed to this, even as she knelt down between her brother's thighs. His cock popped easily out of his boxers through the fly, and she wrapped her little fingers around it, and started stroking.

"That's the way," said Brett in a deep sigh as he leaned back to watch.

Just as she decided to back out, to leave the room and never come back, Julie realized her tongue had already flicked across the head, her lips were already opening, she was already leaning forward. She inhaled, filling her lungs with air, just in time. Brett's hand was behind her head, and he forced her forward.

"Yeah, that's the way..." he sighed again.

"Mmmgh..." Julie shot back.

She was trying not to gag. That hand behind her head was attached to a strong arm, and she could do very little to control the pace. Or the depth. Brett was pushing her faster and deeper than he had done before, faster and deeper than she wanted to go. She tried bracing her hands against her brother's legs, but his cock still slid alarmingly far down her throat.

"Mmmgh mgh..." Julie said again.

"Come on, faster..." was all the answer she got back.

She forced herself not to gag again and again as her throat cried in protest. Her eyes were open but unfocused, her tiny hands balled into fists. Deeper, deeper, each time. She was running out of air, gasping as much as she could every time her head was allowed to back off. A mess of slobber dripped from her mouth with each stroke.

"Yeah ... yeah..." Brett was chanting. " ... yeah, come on..."

Julie managed to take a half breath, hoping to take another next time. But then her eyes bugged out, opened wide in shock and alarm. She was choking, really choking, and suffocating. Brett had pushed her head forward, and then lifted his hips off the bed. The full length of his cock was stuffed inside her mouth, stretching the back of her throat beyond its limit.

"Holy shit!" Brett shouted, exhilarated.

Julie struggled, flailing her arms. This had never happened before! He always let her go when he came. But this time, she felt spurt after spurt of hot sperm plaster the back of her throat and begin sliding toward her stomach. She tried to retch but couldn't. She tried to breath, but couldn't. She tried to move, to do anything, but couldn't.

At last, just when she had given up the idea of ever breathing again, Brett let her go and she collapsed backward to the floor. She was seeing stars, coughing, unable to stop. She coughed mucus out onto the floor and held her hands to her throat.

Brett was still sitting on his bed, panting. "Aww, come on, it's not that bad," he said.

Julie barely heard him. She couldn't even think about answering. She was still coughing, and wanted water more than anything else.

"Better get cleaned up before Dad gets back," said Brett.

She managed to get on her hands and knees, and started crawling toward the bathroom.

Bill Williams tore open the envelope. The arrangements had finally come. He sat back in his chair and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

A marching band field show had to fit into a fifteen minute time slot, both for football games and for competitions. And the instrumentation was different than an inside sit-down band performance. He couldn't just take the music he picked out and have the marching band play it. It had to be slightly rewritten--clipped here, changed there, tweaked and fiddled with--until it was fit for the kids to play while they were out there marching around.

Of course, he could arrange the music himself, but it took a lot of time that he really didn't have. Most of the bigger schools--the power schools, the money schools--had a staff of directors with plenty of time to do the arrangements, to write the drill, to coordinate with the colorguard and drumline. He had to do most of that himself, so whenever the budget would allow it, he sent tasks off by mail or phone for someone else to do.