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Carrie Norton had to confess that, at her advanced age, a slumber party seemed just a wee bit ridiculous.
She had attained the lofty age of eighteen a month before, and she knew that the four other girls she invited had also become “adults” in the past few months; although, if she were honest with herself, she would have had to admit that she really didn’t feel ready to take on adult responsibilities just yet, and she suspected the other girls didn’t either. But how else to celebrate her recent graduation from Roosevelt High School here in Seattle, and her imminent entry into the University of Washington? Two of the girls—Sandra Whitson and Marjorie Matson—were departing for the wilds of Bellingham, far to the north, where they would be enrolling in Western Washington University, and it was unlikely that Carrie would ever see these friends again except, at long intervals, during vacations. The other two girls—Marcia Cather and Janice Slade—would be her classmates and the U of W, but in a school that had tens of thousands of students, how on earth would they be able to remain as close as they had been at Roosevelt? Especially since, to save money, Carrie had opted to stay at home and commute the short distance to college every day.
Throughout this lazy summer, that prospect seemed far away. All the girls wanted to make sure to enjoy themselves before the rigors of college descended upon them. But now, with only a week before orientation began, reality was beginning to set in. The schoolwork would be much harder, and they would once again be the lowest members of the totem pole, descending from the lofty status of high school seniors to lowly college freshmen. So, Carrie thought, let’s have fun while the sun shines!
The girls had dutifully trooped over to Carrie’s house in the placid View Ridge neighborhood of Seattle, where she had spent her entire life. In a sense, her remaining at home during college would only prolong her non-adult status: I mean, how can I bring boys over? What would Mom say? How could I possibly have them stay the night? Not that any boys seemed to have any inclination to do that: in the midst of all the lovely creatures populating Roosevelt, many of them skilled at self-enhancement by way of daring clothes and plenty of makeup, Carrie hadn’t been out on more than a handful of dates during her entire high school career. Many of the boys made it quite clear that they regarded her as a “plain Jane,” even though she felt that her oval face, regular features, and long brown hair were pretty nice-looking. She might not have had the most flamboyant figure in the world, but her breasts and hips seemed more than adequate. So why weren’t the boys lining up to take her out? Okay, she was pretty shy with boys, but so were many of her friends—including the four girls who would be spending the night under her roof.
If only I could be more like my brother . . .
Grant Norton was two years older than Carrie and already at the U, where he was about to enter his junior year and had already distinguished himself as a star running back on the football team. But beyond his muscular physique, he was supremely self-confident, especially where the ladies were concerned. Some would have called him brash, even arrogant. At six foot two, he towered over his little sister, who had barely managed to reach a respectable five foot five. Increasingly, he seemed to regard Carrie as an annoying pest whose relationship to himself he was determined to put out of his mind.
And yet, he also stayed at home while attending college—but his situation was very different.
He now occupied what could only be called a mother-in-law unit attached to their house—a unit that had initially been built, at considerable expense, for Carrie’s paternal grandmother, who had died five years ago after living there for only a few months. In his senior year of high school, Grant had blandly appropriated the unit for his own purposes—and made the best of it. It had both an entrance into the main part of the house and an entrance that led out to the back yard, so that he could come and go as he pleased; and it became clear to Carrie, if not to her mother, Jessica, that Grant was leading a seemingly endless succession of girls into and out of the place at all times of day and night. Once he had entered college, he kept using the place, figuring it was far more convenient for his needs than a tiny dorm room would be—especially if (odious thought) he had to share it with some dweeb from Yakima or Walla Walla. The various females seemed to come and go with bewildering rapidity, and Carrie never sensed that many of them made return visits.
But Grant had at least done one nice thing: he had allowed Carrie to borrow the mother-in-law unit for the slumber party, so that the girls would have a modicum of privacy. As it had its own bathroom, there would really be no need to go into the main house at all except the morning after, when Jessica promised to make them all a big breakfast. Grant, for his part, was pendik escort spending the night in Carrie’s bedroom.
So there they were, having doffed their clothes and put on comfy nightgowns, placing their sleeping bags here and there wherever space permitted. Carrie, as the official hostess, was allowed to commandeer Grant’s bed—and even though it was a spacious queen-size bed (handy for whatever partner he happened to have at the time), the other girls didn’t insist on sharing it, but lounged on the thickly carpeted floor in their sleeping bags, giggling and teasing each other as if they were twelve years old instead of eighteen. It was really kind of silly.
But, as if sensing that they were being too much like girls and not enough like women, they simultaneously and instinctively decided to turn their attention to a more serious subject—sex.
“So,” Carrie said slowly, “do you think we should entertain ourselves?”
Marcia looked at her wide-eyed. “What do you mean?” she said with faux naïveté. Marcia was probably the most attractive of the five girls, her raven-black hair offset by pale blue eyes that gave her a mysterious and fragile appearance. And her bountiful curves at bust and bottom, aligned with a slim, tapered waist, seemed tailor-made for a boy’s embrace. So why hadn’t Carrie ever seen her paired up with anyone?
“I think you know what I mean,” Carrie said with a knowing smile.
“What are we going to do?” Janice said tartly. “Have a contest to see who can do it the fastest?” Janice was blonde and slender, but her smallish breasts made her feel inferior to her more well-endowed comrades.
“I think,” Marjorie said with a laugh, “we should see who can do it the slowest! That would be a much greater challenge.” She was pert redhead—there must be some Irish in her—with brilliant green eyes. But even though she sometimes talked dirty, she was painfully inhibited when it came to actually doing anything with a boy.
“That wouldn’t be any fun,” Sandra said scornfully, “whether it’s fast or slow. What we are going to use for, um, inspiration? No offense, girls, but I’d have to use a lot of imagination to make anything happen in your company.” Sandra was striking in her silver hair, but she was secretly tormented because she couldn’t decide whether she was straight or lesbian. Both prospects appealed to her, but she had not had the courage to act on them. And her words belied how much she wished she could act on them right now.
“Oh, come on, where’s your sense of fun?” Marcia said. “You know, just lie back and—” She tried to follow up her words with actions, raising her long nightgown to her thighs and tentatively placing a hand in the direction of her groin. But suddenly she became acutely embarrassed and burst out into a fit of nervous laughter.
The other girls had gaped at her; and when she failed to carry through with her daring move, they too started laughing—derisively or shyly, as the case may be.
It was Carrie who made the fatal suggestion.
“You know,” she said slyly, “there’s one way we could get some ‘inspiration.'” When the girls did nothing but stare at her, she went on: “I could call my brother.”
There was a deafening silence for a second or two. Then Marjorie said, almost in dread: “And then what?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Carrie said offhandedly. “Maybe he could pose for us, or something.”
“Pose how?” Sandra almost squeaked.
“How do you think?” Carrie said. “Naked, of course.”
A shudder of fearful delight passed through all the girls.
“You—you think he would?” Janice stammered.
“Sure,” Carrie said. “He has no problem shedding his clothes in front of a girl.”
They all contemplated the prospect for several moments.
It was Marjorie who said: “But—but what makes you so sure that he would . . . you know, stop there?”
“What do you mean?” Carrie said naively.
“What if he—he wants to do more?”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“How do you know?” Marjorie seemed pathetically insistent on the point.
Carrie was getting agitated. She had spoken on the point far more confidently than she actually felt. In fact, Grant was not exactly the most respectful person in the world where girls and women were concerned. Given his lofty status as a star athlete, he seemed to feel that all women were his to do with as he liked—and that included Carrie herself and even their mom, Jessica. There was actually no reason to think that Grant would restrain himself in the situation they were contemplating.
Nevertheless, Carrie said: “Oh, come on. He’s my brother—he wouldn’t do anything to me or any of my friends.”
There was another silence.
It was Marcia who finally addressed the subject that had been in the back of all their minds. “I—I haven’t done it before,” she said half-audibly.
“Done what?” Sandra said, although she knew exactly what Marcia was talking about.
“You know . . . be with a guy.”
It maltepe escort was a few seconds before Janice whispered: “You’re a virgin?”
All Marcia could do was nod shakily.
Her bravery in admitting the fact suddenly spurred the others.
“So am I,” Janice said.
“Me too,” Marjorie followed.
“Same here,” Sandra said.
Carrie didn’t address the point. Instead, she said more loudly than she needed to: “Oh, so what, girls? I tell you he’s not going to do anything.” And with that, she defiantly picked up her cellphone and began punching the number of Grant’s phone.
“Carrie,” Marcia said in alarm, “maybe you shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t what?” Carrie spat back as she waited for Grant to pick up.
Janice tried to intervene. “Well, as long as he just—you know, takes his clothes off, it should be fine.” She looked around the room, hoping to get the other girls’ agreement.
Somehow the tactic worked. Agitated as all the girls were, they seemed prepared to put aside their fears for the luscious prospect of seeing a well-built guy in the nude. If they had been forced to do so, they would have admitted with shame and embarrassment that none of them had seen a naked man before.
Anyway, their fate was sealed, for they heard Grant answer, “Yeah?” and Carrie say, “Hey, Grant, what’s up?”
“Not much. Aren’t you girls asleep yet?”
“Hell, no! It’s way too early for that. In fact, we thought . . .” She trailed off.
“Thought what?” He couldn’t have sounded more bored.
“Well, we just thought . . . you could put in an appearance here.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said, now sounding interested. “And do what?”
“I think you know.”
“I’ll be over in a flash.”
Carrie disconnected, then looked at the others with anticipation.
Marcia was not happy. Frowning at her friend, she said, “Carrie, you really didn’t explain what we wanted.”
“Oh, don’t worry—it’ll be all right,” Carrie said, although she herself was far from sure about the matter.
A kind of ominous and brooding silence descended upon the group. It was as if they were all prisoners, each waiting for her imminent execution.
When the door that led from the unit into the main house—through the kitchen—opened, all the girls let out little screams of terror.
Grant was standing in the doorway. He was naked—and fully erect.
He was indeed a striking specimen of masculinity. Well muscled, especially in his chest, arms, and thighs, he had a washboard stomach that seemed to mesmerize any girl who saw it, causing her to stroke it delicately with her hand and giggle at its firmness. His face was squarish, with even, regular features and capped with a shock of unruly dark hair. His slender nose, full lips, and dark brown eyes had proven to be seductive enough for more than one girl in the past.
At the moment, however, all the girls in the room were gazing steadfastly and a bit fearfully at his member, quivering at his groin.
He smiled slightly, thinking with a certain smug satisfaction that it was right and proper for a girl to be a little afraid of a cock. And his cock—a full eight inches when hard—was more frightening than most.
Carrie was doing her best not to join in the other girls’ stares. It wasn’t that she was mortified at seeing her brother naked: she had never admitted it to him, but she had caught sight of his nude body about three years before, after he had emerged from the shower and had carelessly failed to close his bedroom door all the way. (This was when he was still using one of the three bedrooms in the main part of the house.) At that time, she had been hypnotized by his muscular back and bottom, which had quite literally made her salivate as she peeked through the door from the hallway. She had only caught a faint glimpse of his member, and of course it wasn’t hard—but even then it had seemed impressively large.
Grant looked around the room, cynically amused at the girls’ continuing silence. He said, “So here I am. What now?”
“We—we just wanted to see you,” Carrie mumbled, still looking away.
“You’re not getting much of a look, sis,” he said teasingly.
“That’s okay,” she said.
Surveying the area, he focused on Marcia. He had seen her—and the other girls—several times before as they had hung out with his sister, and had felt that she was definitely the prettiest of Carrie’s friends. So he marched right up to her as she sat up in her sleeping bag. She gave a little cry as he approached her and all but pushed his cock into her face.
“Care for a touch—or a taste?” he taunted.
“No!” she almost shrieked, covering her face with her hands. “Get away from me!”
“Oh, come on,” he said, “don’t be shy.” He pried her hands away from her face and began stroking her face with his member. At times he tried to get her to open her mouth, but she had closed it tight. So he resorted to the age-old trick in such a situation: he pinched kartal escort her nostrils with his fingers.
It was only seconds before her mouth popped open, and in the next moment she had a mouthful of cock.
Grant had thrust at least four inches into her mouth, and she gagged inarticulately. Taking some pity on her, he withdrew a bit, but not entirely. Then he began casually pumping her mouth, his hips and buttocks working in ways that caused the other girls to gaze slack-jawed at him.
Marcia’s eyes were squeezed shut, but when Grant abruptly withdrew his cock from her mouth her eyes opened wide. To her surprise, he bent down and gave her a gentle kiss on the mouth—but then, in a single swift motion, pulled her nightgown over her head.
She was naked beneath it.
“I think I need something more,” Grant said, almost to himself.
As the other girls continued to gape open-mouthed at him, he forced Marcia onto her back on the thick sleeping bag. Flinging himself down next to her, he gave her pussy a quick examination with his hand to ensure it was properly wet. The gesture caused Marcia to squeal, and she tried to close up her legs; but Grant was too quick, sliding on top of her and forcing his body between her legs.
When it became obvious what Grant was to do, Carrie cried out, “Grant, no! She hasn’t done it before!”
At that, Grant stopped abruptly and looked up at his sister. “She’s a virgin?” he said in wonderment. “Man, I haven’t had one of those in a while.”
And he entered her.
The whimpers that Marcia had been intermittently uttering ever since Grant stuffed his cock into her mouth turned into a wide-eyed moan—not so much of pain (although there was a little of that), but just of the novel experience of having a man’s member in her most sensitive spot. But Grant wasn’t totally devoid of decency and sympathy: his entry was tolerably soft and gentle, and he probed only the first few inches of her vagina as he massaged her breasts and bottom.
The funny thing was that, in spite of the sense of violation she thought she needed to feel at such a moment, she all but instinctively raised her legs and bent her knees to allow him easier entry into herself. Her arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders, for lack of anything better to do. She did her best to feel outrage, but the sensations coursing through her body made that supremely difficult.
Then the moment of truth came, and he burst through the obstacle of her maidenhead.
Now she did let out a sharp scream, for the act of destroying that membrane really did hurt quite a bit. And yet, she found that enfolding his hips with her legs lessened the ache, and she got a thrill out of rubbing her calves against his strong, dimpled bottom. For his part, Grant plastered kisses on Marcia’s mouth, cheeks, eyes, neck, and even ears as he churned relentlessly into her.
But this was not to be the culmination.
After several minutes of pummeling her, he pulled out without warning. Marcia gasped at the sudden sense of vacancy in her pussy and seemed reluctant to let him off her supine body, clinging desperately to his arms. But it was no use, and he rose up to a standing position, looking down at her spread-eagled form with a sort of avuncular benevolence.
He turned his attention to Janice.
She had not much appealed to him on the few times he had seen her before—he frankly admitted that he liked big-breasted girls—but now he saw there was a certain delicacy and fragility to her face and figure that was not at all displeasing. She had watched his deflowering of Marcia with speechless horror, and now as he stalked over to her she tried to withdraw into herself, wrapping her arms around her midsection as if that was some kind of prelude to her magical disappearance from the scene.
But Grant wasn’t having any of it, and he knelt down and peeled her nightgown off of her in a trice. She was still wearing panties, but he disposed of those in a single swift motion, then buried his face in her delta—covered with fine strands of blond pubic hair—just to make sure she was wet enough for the operation to come. He needn’t have worried: watching what he had done to Marcia had, for all her indignant empathy toward her friend, made her sopping wet.
After a few moments he slid up Janice’s now recumbent body, pinned her protesting arms to the floor with his own, and thrust himself into her. She too screamed shrilly, although again it was not so much from actual pain as that she felt she ought to, to protest this unauthorized invasion of her body. This time Grant didn’t pause very long before puncturing her hymen, and when he did so she—like Marcia—felt some pain and let out a gasp, then a shriek.
Grant extended his arms, so that he could look down on her—and catch a glimpse of his member going in and out of her—with the deadpan expression of a cat. She was crying now, wailing histrionically in a way that struck Grant as very much in line with that old saying, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” But that wasn’t his major concern right now; having been primed by Marcia (and, really, by the whole scenario of displaying his splendid nude body to a bevy of girls), he was ready to ring the bell.
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