Chapter 1

Have you ever thought about the word "Slut"? It's an interesting word, usually meaning a girl or woman who has sex with multiple men on a more or less casual basis. Right? But what do they call a guy who has sex as often as he can with multiple girls or women?

You don't call him a slut. Not even sluts call him a slut. It's an interesting philosophical question to some. Humor me for a few paragraphs to explore that philosophical question, and then I'll get to the part of the story you're actually looking for.

The fancy name is Gigolo, but that infers that he fucks for money ... that he's a male prostitute, and while you could make an argument that all prostitutes are sluts, you can't go the other way.

I even did some very unscientific research about what guys like that are called, but all I came up with was "cocksman" (alternatively spelled coxman) and "sex machine". In other words, I didn't find much.

Anyway, whatever you call guys who do that, I'm one of them.

Now I know there are some of you out there who are saying "Shame, shame!" But you have to understand something. And here it is:

There has probably never been a time when a girl was sitting around playing with her dollies and thought to herself "I'm going to grow up and be a slut!"

And, I doubt seriously if most boys are climbing a tree one day and think "I'm going to fuck as many girls as I possibly can when my peter will actually squirt stuff."

You might notice that I used the terms "probably never" with the girls and "doubt seriously" with the boys. Isn't it interesting that one is more definitive than the other? Both are conditional statements, but lets face it, it's more likely that a guy will try to spread his seed far and wide, than it is for a girl to accept seed from a variety of sources. It's worth thinking about that if a girl does it though, she's called a slut, and that's not a complimentary title. But if I guy does it, he's called a sex machine, or maybe a cocksman, both of which suggest he might be proud of himself. And, it follows that most men would LIKE to be cocksmen, but not all that many are.

So, understanding that - and I admit it's open for argument - the question that bubbles to the top of the mind is: What is it that tips the balance for a guy to make him a cocksman?

I can think of arguments based on Biology, and arguments based on Culture and arguments based on Evolution. But before we get too deep and you all quit reading, let me just tell you the story of how I became a sex machine. Then you can decide which argument might explain me.

Let me throw a wrench in the works from the very start by saying it was an accident.

I was a normal, ordinary, every day sixteen year old boy, growing up in a smallish town in middle America. It wasn't the Bible Belt, but it wasn't far from that either. It was in the late sixties, but I wasn't tuned in to the "Love Generation" or any of that Hippie stuff, and neither were any of the girls I'm going to tell you about.

I had a mom and a dad, and a sister named Claire. I also had a mutt named Buddy, who I probably loved more than the others simply because Buddy always loved me, no matter what kind of trouble I got into. I couldn't afford a car, but had access to my Dad's 1966 Chevy Malibu for dates and to cruise the highway between Junctionville, where we lived and Derby, eleven miles down the road. Most all of us kids participated in that little rite, on a more or less regular basis, going from the A&W Root beer place in "Junktown", to the Dairy Queen in Derby. And back, of course. Gas was twenty cents a gallon in those days and you could cruise the strip all night for a buck.

I took a lot of girls on that trip and, though I had an interest in necking, I never pushed it. The girls appreciated that too, which was the whole point. I got a reputation for being "safe", which encouraged most girls to accept an invitation to drag the strip.

It also encouraged them to experiment a little, since they all knew I'd stop whenever they said stop. That led to a lot of hot kisses and quite a bit of stroking breasts and a ton of heavy breathing.

Now girls talk about boys whenever they get together, so my name got mentioned a lot, even when Claire was in the group. Not every guy got the stamp of excellence during these talks. From what I understand, the talk would usually start out something like

"I had to fight Jimmy Johnson off with a stick last night. That boy has more than two hands, I'll tell you that!"

And from there they'd all complain about whatever boy had tried to do this, or begged them to do that and so on. Then, comparisons would begin, about which boy was more dangerous than the rest. This had nothing to do with how cute the boy was. That was a separate issue. They might all agree that Joe Bob was the cutest boy in town, and all swear they'd never ever let him get them alone, all in the same sentence. And, inevitably, so I was later told, my name would come up and there would be sighs all around. It wasn't because I was cute, or a football star. It was because I had tweaked nipples so nice and then quit when told to.

And, of course, girls lie just like boys, particularly about how far they've been. You can tell when a girl lies, because they say they did something, but not who with. If it's the truth they give credit where credit is due, or blame, as the case may be.

So, whenever my name came up around Claire, all she ever heard about me was good things, and about how nice things felt when I did them, and how it wasn't scary at all. And Claire decided, somehow, that I was some kind of legend, who knew everything there was to know about sex.

But the fact was that I was a virgin. I knew quite a bit about tweaking nipples and was a pretty good kisser, but that was about it. I'd never had the courage to put my hand below the belt, and no girl had ever spread her legs and yelled "Rub my pussy Bobby, I'm on fire!"

Claire had what she called her posse, which was a group of five girls who hung around together almost all the time. She was the Sheriff and when they were together it showed. She bossed those girls something terrible and they fell in line like ducks after their momma. They were all fourteen and just entering what's sometimes called the blush of womanhood. I'd known them all since we were little, and to them I was just like a piece of furniture. True, I had sharp corners, so to speak, that they bumped into once in a while, and I was dented and scratched a little as a result, but I wouldn't have been surprised at all if one of them came into the living room and sat down on me not knowing I was even there.

That all changed when Clair and the posse turned fifteen. It changed because all of a sudden Claire was allowed to date.

Well, that put a shock into the posse. None of them had been allowed to go on real dates until they were fifteen. And even then there was a lot of scrutiny by parents concerning who they went out with. Claire had bribed me a time or two to take the whole bunch out to drag the strip with me.

Have you ever been in a 1966 Malibu with six chattering teenaged girls? It was kind of fun in some ways. first of all it was crowded. They crammed four in the back, and two more up front with me on the bench seat, which meant one of them had to either almost sit on top of the other, or straddle the Hurst floor shifter. They talked like I wasn't there and it was hilarious to hear them tell about sneaking out and first kisses and all that stuff. Some of them had older sisters who had been out with me too, and they'd heard all about what fun girls had with me on dates. They didn't know the details - they just knew that the girls all liked going out with Bobby.

But of course, other than dragging the strip as a group, they didn't want to go out with ME. I was Claire's brother, and I farted when they were around, and drank a whole bottle of Coke just so I could try and perform the alphabet in one long burp and all that normal kind of thing boys did at age eleven and twelve. Of course by the time I took them down the strip, I was almost seventeen and they were fifteen, which made me an old man to them. They went to the Junior High School, and I was Junior IN High School.

I also had nicknames for them all that they pretty much didn't appreciate.

Claire was "Claire Bear", because sometimes she was a bear to be around. Of them all she was probably the second best looking, with shoulder length brown hair and dark eyes, and a really beautiful smile. She smiled a lot too. Life was fun for Claire. Her breasts didn't look that big usually, but when she wore a tight shirt, or something that showed a little cleavage, she got the attention of the boys. Her breasts had changed shape too. The last time I saw her without a top on they were like cones, with round points. Her nipples were flat and small, and she could have gone braless and nobody would be able to tell. Now they had gotten a lot rounder or more full or something. I could tell by the shape through her clothes, unless it was the bra that was making her look bigger.

Suzy Rumbell was "Loosey Suzy" because she always wore big oversized shirts. That was because she never wore a bra. She didn't have much up top and didn't need a bra, except she had nipples that poked out through everything she wore.

Then there was Monique Haskins. I called her Unique Monique because she was the only girl I knew who looked like she did. She had ass length dark hair that was almost blue it was so black, with dark skin, like she tanned all the time. Her lips were almost fat they were so full, but they didn't look fat. She was the first of the posse to develop breasts and they just kept growing. Now they were big and looked soft.

The best looking one of the bunch was Margaret Williams. she had short straight blond hair that framed her face, which had high cheekbones and big green eyes. Her nose was what they call a button nose and she had a smile even more beautiful than Claire's. She was slim everywhere except her chest. She looked like she might fall over if she wasn't careful, because her center of balance was so high. That was offset by a butt that she kept confined in tight jeans. It was round and stuck out in the back like her tits stuck out in the front. Every guy in school dreamed of sucking on her titties and feeling that ass. I called her Large Marge.

Donna Miles was the one I understood least. I called her Miss September, because she reminded me of the Playboy Bunny from that month when I was fifteen, whose name was also Donna. She was really tall with long dark red hair that she almost always kept draped across her chest. She played with it all the time. I later found out she thought her breasts were ugly and covered them up with her hair. She had the potential to put the rest of them to shame, with a perfectly proportioned body that was an hour glass shape.

Last was the one I liked the best, at least up until the time when this story took place. She was Roberta Simms and I called her Knobby Robby. She was a tomboy, and liked the same things I liked when we were growing up. She could run as fast as me, and climb as good as me and all that stuff. She was all knees and elbows and gawky, flat -chested well into her fourteenth year and even now only had small conical breasts, like Claire's had been before they filled out. She was just behind the others in physical development. But she treated me better than the others, which means she didn't make as much fun of me. And, in the end, she would be true to that emotional style.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The accident happened while I was dragging the strip with a car full of giggling, screaming ... embarrassing girls.

See, somebody had to sit beside me, and as I mentioned earlier, if she didn't want to sit on top of whoever was in the suicide seat, she had to straddle the shifter. Now that shifter only had a three and a half inch throw, so it didn't move all that much, but for a girl, barely fifteen, to sit there with her legs spread, one of them touching mine, and have my hand moving around between her legs ... well, it caused a sensation. When we were getting in the car I explained it to them, and there were squeals and chirps and sounds you wouldn't even think a human being could make as they argued about which one would be the "shifter slut".

This was a new term to me. I'd never heard of a "shifter slut" before, but it made interesting images flash through my mind. That was the days when miniskirts were coming on board, much to the delight of us guys, and the thought of a girl in a miniskirt straddling that shifter made my dick stiff. Of course all these girls were wearing shorts, mostly cut-offs, but it was a nice little fantasy.

In the end Claire volunteered to be the shifter slut, since I was her brother and nobody would even think of accusing me of copping a feel of my own sister.

Right?

So, when they wanted me to do what mister nice policeman commonly called "an exhibition of speed" as we were dragging the strip, and my testosterone levels, already elevated by being around all that woman flesh, surged even higher, I decided to give them what they wanted.

I have to say here that Dad let me drive the Chevy because I took good care of it. It had a 357 in it, with positraction. My Dad had wanted one when he was a kid, but couldn't afford it, and when he found this one he lovingly rebuilt it just like his dream car back then. The station wagon was our "family car", which meant it was Mom's car, and it wasn't cool anyway. And Dad, bless his heart, understood what a young man felt when he drove that car. So, on pain of torture and death and being grounded for life if I so much as scratched it, he let me drive it. I knew I was lucky and didn't abuse things. Usually I didn't ever rod it. I'd get on it pretty good from time to time, to press some pretty little thing back into her seat and get her heart going, but that was about all.

In other words, I wasn't used to power shifting.

So, when I crammed it from first to second, and my hand slipped off the T handle ... it slapped Claire right on her money maker.

The engine screamed, now in neutral, and that got all my attention. Which meant my hand STAYED on the crotch of Claire's tight shorts, separated from her pussy by maybe two hundredths of an inch of terrycloth and polyester.

While I jerked my foot off the accelerator, Claire's surprised legs slammed closed, trapping my hand. By then, of course, my brain had registered where my hand was, and I was trying to pull it out. but Claire was a healthy young girl who played sports and had firm, well developed thigh muscles. So what happened was that I tugged, and went slack to tug again until, about the third time my hand basically stroked her pussy, her legs sprang back open and she yipped.

My hand came free, went back to the shifter, I put it in second and my exhibition of speed was put on indefinite hold.

It was an inglorious end to an attempt to impress a bunch of fifteen year old girls.

Well, truth be told, it DID impress two fifteen year old girls. It impressed Claire. But I didn't know it then. Then it was just an accident that I didn't want to talk about. It so happened that Unique Monique was sitting in the suicide seat, and saw the whole sordid affair. It impressed her too. She started laughing and laughed so hard that she couldn't tell the girls in the back what had happened. Claire started slapping at her, yelling for her to "Shut UP!" And, when Monique finally caught her breath Claire threatened her with terrible things if she opened her mouth.

Of course that got the four in the back all riled up and yelling and screaming about "What happened ... what HAPPENED?"

Claire was yelling "NEVER MIND." to them and "DON'T YOU SAY A WORD!" to Monique, and I knew things were going to get crazy in a minute.

So I accelerated to a hundred miles an hour and drove it that fast for a whole mile down route 64.

That did it. There was still screaming, but it was now about something completely different than the fact that I had just felt up my own sister's pussy. And, by the time I slowed down, which was only 36 seconds after I hit the 100 mark on the speedometer, there was a hush in the car as adrenaline flooded those young bodies and they concentrated on just breathing.

"Wow" said Claire. She was talking about a lot more than the speed, though I didn't know it then.

"Yeah, she's got some guts." I said in typical manly tones, trying to make them forget I'd muffed the shift ... in more ways than one, now that I think about it.

Then I spent some time checking gauges and listening for bad sounds. I'd seen the tac climb into the red there for just a second while I was groping Claire Bear. But everything seemed to be OK, so I loafed along the rest of the way.

No more exhibitions of speed that night. No sir.

We got back to Junk Town and they all piled out and Claire leaned over and kissed me on the cheek of all things! "Thanks" she said, and scrambled out after Monique. None of the rest of them thanked me. I was just furniture to them.

Now I just described that incident to the best of my memory, and in my memory I clearly remember Claire threatening Monique with dire consequences if she told the four in the back seat where my hand had been, albeit accidentally and only for five or six seconds.

So what does Claire do when they get back? She takes them all up to her room and then DESCRIBES IT in Technicolor, with details and sound effects, while Monique adds in even MORE details in her witness testimony. Only Claire embellished it "a little" and Monique went along with it!

Of course I wasn't there, but I heard about it later, from all six of them at one time or another, and the way SHE told it was nothing like it actually happened.

According to Claire I grabbed her pussy and squeezed it, pressing my finger between her plump pussy lips, like I was trying to rip a hole in her terrycloth shorts. Then I rubbed hard, and my fingers scrabbled at her waistband, trying to slip inside, so I could get INSIDE her panties and touch her naked pussy! According to her, if it hadn't been for her panties she'd have lost her cherry in an instant to my probing finger. Then she WRESTLED my hand out from between her legs, making me understand that I was totally wrong to be doing this to her and exacting somehow, without words, a promise that I'd do her chores for a month in penance for my transgression.