Boathouse fun
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Boathouse Revisited free porn video
We’ll need a little genealogy: My uncle Robert, born in 1935; my mother, 1938; my brother Terry, 1961; me in 1963, and my Jeremy, 1986, and Rochelle, the year following.
Jeremy says the odds of three generations being boy-girl are 1:64. I didn’t learn anything that interesting when I took biology from Mrs. Thornton, though I read about this lady who had nine daughters in a row. I’ll bet the last one never got a new anything.
So here are three pairs of siblings in our family tree, one line per generation, each sister being the mother of the two below.
Grandma
Robert and Mom | Grandma’s kids
Terry and Me | Mom’s kids
Jeremy and Rochelle | My two
Stair-steps, so to speak. This is a story about the over-down-over-down-over links, five of them. It’s all about the connections, diagrammatically and physically
Link 0 Grandma and Robert
Link 1 Robert and Mom
Link 2 Mom and Terry
Link 3 Terry and Me
Link 4 Me and Jeremy
Link 5 Jeremy and Rochelle
As the rich landlords owned the level places in the Old Country, flat farmland in the middle of America looked pretty good to us Scandinavian types, why we’re still here.
Grandpa also picked up a half-acre up in Minnesota beside where a glacier scraped a hole — at least that’s how Mrs. Thornton explained our lakes — where there were too many rocks to plant more corn.
It’s where we still vacation.
Grandma wanted a front porch, a living room with a stone fireplace stones already on site) and a kitchen situated for central command. A Midwestern grandmother can manage her troops and bake cookies at the same time.
And given our nautical heritage, Grandpa built a boathouse with the leftover lumber. What we’d want for a herring lugger, as if we grandkids even knew what a herring lugger was. We did know about rowboats, though.
When it became difficult for Grandpa to look after the place, Dad and Uncle Robert took over, brother-in-law bonding we’d call it today. And now that those two are gone, it’s on Terry and my husband Steve. Someday Jeremy and whomever Rochelle marries will get the job.
Usually we’re there for a few weeks, Rochelle, Jeremy and myself, Steve maybe for one, as he has to work. Part of our stay usually overlaps with Terry’s family. Unlike Easterners, Midwesterners can share property.
LINK 3, THE BOATHOUSE, 1978 (Terry and meWhy are we starting here? Because it’s where I did.
As kids need something to wile the hours station-wagoning, we’d play License Plate. I won four to three with a Tennessee. Just because Terry was older didn’t mean he could see them faster. His opinion that License Plate was a stupid game didn’t come till he lost.
For real competition, though, was Toe Attack, slipping off our shoes and battling away until Dad said to pipe down, and Mom would say that if it’s getting chilly back there, there’s the blanket, then turn up the radio and return to her knitting, a new stocking hat for one of us, rather pointless, as it was summer, but we need it someday, she’d remind us.
As Terry’s legs were longer, he could score more easily, and when you got scored on, you had to freeze and allow the other free reign for the count of ten, the reason I’d never wear a skirt. When I scored, however, Terry would get a boner, so I considered it fair.
Mom always fired up the oven upon our arrival, fresh cookies as much a part of the place as the lake.
“Chocolate chip,” I’d request as my sneaky brother claimed another ten under the blanket.
“Oatmeal,” Terry’s vote while I retaliated, him hard by four, leaving me six to make is squirm.
It was late that evening before we finished unloading, but Mom did indeed whip out the cookies — gingersnaps, Dad’s choice since he drove.
As Terry and I shared the upstairs bathroom, I wore my new bra from Penney’s to brush teeth. That he noticed, I was sure, even if his comments were about my spitting toothpaste.
In bed — the first night always seems the beginning of an adventure — my mind replayed Toe Attack’s changes of fortune, the funnest part being at the end when we’d simultaneously scored.
Terry and I would have to put up with just each other until Uncle Robert’s crew rolled in. Aunt Clella would have a million-piece picture puzzle and Uncle Robert would have his fly-tying paraphernalia. My cousins would have their new records.
Next morning Terry and I worked on the rowboat, me reaching around him to wedge open the laps, him drawing the caulk-gun back and forth against me in my new bra.
“Better caulk that place again,” he decided, which I rather liked.
After lunch, off we paddled to the sand-spit on the lake’s far shore, swimsuits in our bag.
As unlike him, my changing couldn’t be accomplished under a towel, I held the top against me and had Terry fasten the back. I couldn’t tell if he peeked, but brothers always do.
It was fun getting buried, him mounding the sand over me, me puffing up as best I could. Maybe a million years ago we started breathing in to look bigger to lurking dinosaurs.
“Don’t,” I ordered when his manner of sand sculpting became too obvious.
“Don’t what?”
“Feel me up.”
“I’m not,” he grinned, grading off enough to feel me better. “Besides, what’s there to feel?”
As it would have been impossible to escape without ruining the rest of my burial, I shut my eyes as he pretended to rid my top of sand grains. Maybe my nipples don’t show much, I wanted to point out, but enough that you know where, right?
When he brushed his way to my belly button, and from there onto my bottoms, I let him. A girl doesn’t bulge as much as a guy down there, I suppose, but she knows he’s checking. And everybody knows that a buried captive is totally at the mercy of her captor.
“Cut it out!” as he ran his fingers over me.
“Cut what out?” too innocently to be innocent.
“Goosing me,” the tip of his finger making me twitch.
“You’re my prisoner,” now working his touch up and down.
It wasn’t that much different than what you got in Toe Attack, except this wasn’t his toe and this wasn’t in the car’s back seat, but when I realized how close I was to what he was trying to get me to do — siblings know that each other masturbates — I bit my lip and shook free. It’s one thing to let a brother feel you; it’s different to let him make you do something with him around.
When it came time for me to bury him back, I mounded enough sand on his chest to block his view and used just my wrist to check him out. Easy as pie.
Boys get boners, something we discuss at school, perhaps a sighting when a boy gets up from sitting, perhaps about bumping against one in the hallway. It’s hard to know what’s true, but it’s fun to talk about. I’d never heard any of my friends talk about their brothers though, but maybe they’d keep that one a secret.
Him letting me for so long surprised me, but he could have not wanted to demolish the remainder of his burial. The tie to his trunks was right there, but not my target, as I’d not have known what next to do.
Did Indian kids once canoe here to practice for their coming-of-age? A red-tailed hawk would report everything to the Chief’s wife, the one in charge of this particular ceremony.
I had Terry unhook my suit top and face away, but I switched my bottom for my panties under the towel, too much being at stake.
A blackbird lighted not that distance, then took off.
Paddling homeward, we splashed each other wickedly, fun because we were about to get drenched anyway. By the time we made it to the boathouse, we were soaked.
Terry spread out some life cushions for us “Stuck here till it stops,” offering me a foot rub.
“Could be a while,” I agreed, flopping back and resting my heels onto his lap.
I counted the rafters, six, as he moved the side of my foot again against what it had been against on the sand.
“You Injuns got feet like leather,” his opinion.
“Not us Sioux princesses,” resuming Toe Attack.
At last, though, he pulled me back up and onto his lap.
“What are you doing?” as to his reaching around me.
“It’s wet,” pulling up my top. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Had I been prepared, I’d have stopped him, but it was so sudden.
This too,” meaning my bra.
Alice Jean said a guy can unhook you with a pat on your back, right there by your locker. Just flex your shoulders back. But either Terry wasn’t that good at hooks or I wasn’t that good at flexing. Not that I’d have let him take it, of course, but it also being wet, maybe I’d let him loosen it up.
“That’s enough. I’m a girl,” my protest for naught, as he followed my straps up to my shoulders, making me think of these horror movies where the girl gets strangled. A real murderer, however, would stop at your collarbone, not slip your arms out of your shoulder straps.
“I’ll get like you, then,” his offer, to which I pointed out was different, but he went ahead.
No boy had ever seen my breasts except for Stanley Christiansen when he was my lab partner and we were dissecting corn to see if each kernel had its own tassel. Corn sex. The way he peeked was so obvious, but then maybe so was the way I hunched my shoulders to make my bra lose. People sex is much more interesting.
That’s of course not counting the boys at camp who’d spy on us. We showered in our panties in case they had a telescope.
And of course when we were little. Being older made it different, of course, but not something really new. Rubbing me was different, of course, but that was because we were cold.
So maybe I didn’t have to be so sly, myself, I decided, reaching my hand behind me.
“Geesh!” I allowed, my find unspoken. His swimsuit had somewhat held it down, but what he was now wearing allowed it more angle.
After a moment of fishing for how to reply, he selected his excuse. “It just happens.”
“Because you’re a boy,” I agreed, pleased at having him on the defensive, closing my hand around it to make my point.
“Because you’re goosing me.”
“Fair’s fair” moving to where I could better feel. Secrets are few, here in a boathouse.
Kathy’s mom caught her playing with Jeff’s and she got grounded, but you shouldn’t park in your driveway with your boyfriend. Maybe her mom sneaks around with a flashlight.
Maybe some Midwestern girls who are good at spying know where to watch from when their brother’s screwing his girlfriend — Marilee says she has — but even still, how many sisters get to feel his boner?
So what do you do after you’ve captured a boner?
Alice Jean kept her plaid skirt in the back of her closet to prove she’d done it to Ronald. Had it been, say, pink, it would have been more impressive.
Probably Sandy Lewis had masturbated Terry because she wears a black bra, but she doesn’t blab because she knows I’ll whack her. Maybe in the band room; they both play trumpet.
I probably could have done Stanley Christiansen after school, as his mom’s a librarian. He’d probably have pulled the blinds so I wouldn’t see him naked. Afterwards, I’d tell Mom I had play practice. I was a pretty good Thespian.
“We should take off our other stuff, too,” said Terry. “Let it dry out some.”
“Fat chance!” but before I could say more, he’d pushed off my shorts. “You said both of us,” my fallback, which didn’t help, as that’s how we ended up, me putting up a fight, but him being the stronger.
Us both in nothing made it pretty fair, anyway, the way I saw it. As I’d already figured out pretty much everything about him, actually seeing wasn’t a big deal. Since he’d already a pretty good idea about me, same thing. Better just to act nonchalant about it.
His hair was the color of mine, kind of Scandinavian, I suppose.
I draped our shorts on the canoe, but our underwear I just left wadded up.
“You ready,” Terry asked, once I was again in his lap, this time facing him.
Me ready for what? “We can’t,” how I phrased it.
“Nice and slow.”
Nobody wants to be a virgin, but then again, you don’t want to be like rally squad. Below your neck says yes, but above your neck is confused. Everybody gets to do it, sooner or later, except for old maids, so it’s basically a matter of when.
Terry had his plusses and minuses. The main minus, of course, was his being my brother. His main plus, same thing. As much as it can be a pain to have one around, you do love the guy and you know he won’t blab.
“Maybe when we’re older,” my compromise.
“How about now?”
This took more thought. So many things to think about, but maybe one fewer, him hopping up to fetch the tin box from the rafter.
Me being an Indian, I’d already discovered the box and counted as the contents went down and got replenished. Maybe some college kids came here at night, a boathouse being not locked. Indians know how to guard secrets, even if they don’t know whose.
“What’s that,” as I didn’t want him knowing that I knew exactly.
“We can’t make a baby.”
“And you just happened to be ready?” realizing I wasn’t objecting.
To that I didn’t reply, but gave some thought to him being also aware of the box. Was he the one who’d been using them? I thought not, there being no neighboring vacation families with a girl his age. I’d have thought some more, but got interrupted.
“Tell you what. We’ll just pretend we’re going to, is all, why I should wear one.”
How dumb did he think I was?
Me again on his lap, we both giggled at how his poke got in the way, and maybe we hesitated a little, but we both could see his tip disappear.
“Just not too far,” as I watched it make it halfway.
When at last all the way, he knew what to do. It was probably Sandy Lewis who taught him. Maybe on the sofa in the church basement.
It wasn’t that comfortable, but as I’d figured that Susan and Pam had lied, neither was it unexpected. On the other hand, it didn’t really hurt, what other girls said. Maybe the rubber made it smoother; I wasn’t sure. We Midwestern girls are quick learners.
Our swish swishing sounded so loud, but I figured the rain covered it up.
They say a girl can’t get there, her first try, but I know I did. Maybe not that much, but definitely there.
As for Terry, through the rubber I could feel his squirts.
“Geesh!” when I got my breath. We’d done it! Terry and me!
“I said you’d like it,” Terry reflected, equally pleased.
I rested my head on his stomach for a better look downward. I’d tell my friends, just not who.
“Terry?”
“Huh?”
“You did it before, right?” me already our self-appointed family historian. Midwestern kids take the time to figure things out, maybe the Junior Prom. Some of us, though, don’t date that early.
He weighed his response. “Maybe.”
“Sandy Lewis?”
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“Not her.”
“Terry?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t care.” Actually I did, but being an Indian, I’d find out.
As nobody wants to put on still-wet underwear, I stuffed ours in my pack.
Mom was mixing dough at her post when we returned, and when I opened my pack, I’d not anticipated what would roll out.
“You’re both soaked,” she told us, as if returning sans underwear was the commonest of things. “Cookies will be out by the time you get in your PJs,” spreading our underwear on the chair to finish drying. “Good you made it to the boathouse before the worst of it.”
“Yeah,” I allowed, but how’d she know that?
After Terry disappeared, Mom looked my way. “Doing OK, Indian?”
You don’t have to be an Indian to know that Indian girls have Indian mothers.
Next afternoon, Mom being off somewhere, Terry left my room in his underpants and there she was in the hall. Maybe she’d only said “be gone an hour” and we’d misunderstood. He mumbled something about going to the bathroom, but wasn’t even heading that direction.
Once I was with Terry when Uncle Robert’s family arrived and Mom fed them cookies long enough for us to get dressed. When we came down, she was warning them about a bear sighting. We’d already heard that actually, it was just a dog, but that would have made the warning shorter.
Once when we cousins wanted to stay out to watch for shooting stars, but as we were shy a sleeping bag, Mom told Terry and me to share. She was no fool, our mother.
The trickiest part was getting our pants down without our cousins knowing. Him getting in me just took some sideways positioning. As he hadn’t brought a rubber, he shot all over my leg, but that was his problem, it being his sleeping bag.
The fact is, Mom knew about us from the very start.
LINK 2, THE BOATHOUSE, 1977 (Mom and Terry)I was reading a novel about a Sioux princess when the thunderstorm hit. The coincidence of storms and suppertime is very Midwestern. We studied the hydrologic cycle with Mrs. Gilmore.
Having the cottage to myself that afternoon, I got a lot more read than the Sioux princess book. I’d found Terry’s magazine. Girls know about the topic, of course, but here were the illustrations.
Mom died of cancer in her 50s. She never even smoked. I was 27. Steve was traveling more. Jeremy and Rochelle were a handful. The times Terry and I were together weren’t often, but by now part of who we were.
I’d guessed that he was also sleeping with Mom not much after the boathouse, the count in the tin box being a clue an Indian wouldn’t miss.
Did I like them doing it? Of course not, but who was I to intervene? Dad would have had issues, but he never caught the clues.
After Mom was gone, though, I could at least ask.
Steve was in Des Moines for the day, the kids were at school and I’d phoned Terry about my computer, as it being in the bedroom would explain things if a kid came home early.
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