Orientation Day

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Part One of Posting (1 of 2 parts) “Orientation Day”

Copyright 2003.

As the author, I claim all rights under international copyright laws. This work is not intended for sale, but please feel free to post this story to other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis for another story) is acceptable as long as the original author is given credit and the resulting story is distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of this work is expressly forbidden without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any person living or dead, nor any known situation. This story contains themes of incest and gay sex among women. It is meant for adults only and is not to be read by person’s under the age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country in which the reader resides.

If you would like a Microsoft Word version of this story (a much better read), please contact me at the link below.

*****

Based Loosely on the Short Story:

COUSIN JENNIFER

by an unknown author

First posted to Alt.sex.stories

July, 1993

*****

I gave my cousin Jennifer her first lesbian kiss and her first lesbian orgasm. This was on a Friday night/Saturday morning in her dorm room at Maryland U., the first weekend in March. She would be attending school with me the coming fall and wanted to see the campus for herself. She stayed in a temporarily vacant room two rooms down from mine on the twelfth floor, only because my roommate–who didn’t even come home that night, insisted upon it.

We had one very important rule in our dorm: NO HITTING ON VISITING FAMILY MEMBERS OR FRIENDS! This for the all important reason that no one wanted word of our sexual exploits getting out.

There was a party Thursday night in my dorm room: small, self-contained, no drinking or sex . . .boring I know for Jen, who had heard all the stories. But for fear of breaking THE CARDINAL RULE, not a boy on the floor would touch her. I knew she was hot.

At midnight, I packed her off to bed but also posted a look-out outside her door. My friend Amy came knocking around one o’clock to say she had heard some suspicious sounds coming from Jennifer’s room. I listened at the door myself. Very disturbing.

“She’s screwing,” my friend told me.

“Obviously,” I said. The question was, what stupid was in there with her, running such a risk. No one from this dorm, I could tell you that. I intended finding out for myself.

Getting the spare room key from Frannie next door–we always lock ourselves out–I barged right in and found Jennifer fucking all right . . . but not with a guy.

After she shrieked, she shrieked my name.

“Easy! Easy,” I said, hurriedly shutting the door. I was so embarrassed.

“Rachael! What are you doing!”

“I’m sorry!” I whispered, wanting to slide right under the door. Jennifer, whipped into the covers, with her hair whipped around her head, was beyond embarrassment.

“How could you!” she cried, and I thought she’d start crying.

“I’m sorry!” I repeated. “God, I feel like such an–“

“Ass?”

“Yes,” I said, chagrined. “God!”

She sat there and fumed at me. She sat there and fumed at me and tried to deny to herself that I had just seen her doing what she was doing and in such a shocking position. Mortified knowing that the point of the long shiny vibrator, glistening with her juices and looking like the cute nose of a little mouse, poked from a fold in the sheets. It was the only noise in the room.

Grabbing it out of the covers, she clumsily twisted the vibrator into the off position. The stingy half-light sneaking in through the one dorm window showed me that her face, neck and upper chest–puffing in and out like that of a long-distance runner’s–were a violent crimson. I’m sure mine were too.

There was nothing to say, and so I blurted out: “You brought that with you?”

“Rachael!”

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, beginning to laugh. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Her face, neck and chest grew even redder.

“Would you please just leave?”

“Jen. . .”

“Go,” she said, beginning to cry. “Leave me alone.”

I nodded and slipped out the door. Outside, my girlfriend Amy stared at me, shock-faced and amazed.

“Not a word!” I hissed at her fiercely, “Not ever! Not ever to no one!”

She moved her head slowly up and down in absolute agreement. Some things, a girl doesn’t share. It could have been her.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-0-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The next day, I slept late, dreading leaving the room. Jennifer was either gone, or fixbet was glued to her bed. Either way, I was not seeing her until later . . if at all. But at a quarter to nine, a soft rapping sounded on my door and got me on my feet. I was shocked to find Jennifer outside.

“Hi,” she said, tucking hair behind one ear and slipping into my room. She looked at the floor.

“Hi,” I answered back.

I had on my yellow and white feety pajama; she wore a baggy blue tee-shirt under a hooded, zipper sweatshirt and baggy blue workouts. Her feet were bare. Also, she was braless under the shirt, which for Jennifer was rare.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“You’re sorry!” I said.

We both laughed.

“God,” I told her, “I can’t even begin to tell you–“

“You won’t tell anyone?” she blurted. “Promise?”

“Jen, no! Are you kidding?”

“Thank God!” she gushed. Her face and my face were twin, fully-fired ovens. We began to giggle.

“God, I am so embarrassed.”

“Me too,” I said, softly. “Totally and completely.”

“Totally, totally-completely.”

“And ten times past that.”

We sat down and we talked for a while, not about anything important and certainly not about that; things slowly relaxed. I was trying not to show any interest in her pointy little nipples, making dents like fingertips in the front of her shirt. They moved beneath the shirt when she moved, leaving little trails. I had not seen Jen bare-breasted in many years, probably not since she was twelve, but I distinctly remembered how pointy she was back then. Embarrassingly so, because that turns guys on. Some girls as well.

She certainly looked pointy now.

Fighting distraction, I started to get up when she suddenly asked: “Were you disgusted? About last night, I mean?”

I choked for a moment. Her face was red and her eyes stayed mostly down, but there was curiosity there as well. I myself was no stranger to that position–not with my fingers anyway–but with a vibrator, I was. I had guessed that last night’s humming little mouse was not hers, but probably Cloe’s (you little slut!), or maybe even Jill’s, her roommate. With either of them, I could well imagine.

“Noooooo,” I said slowly. “Just disturbed. Not disturbed with you,” I added quickly, “but that I blundered in on you like that.” I let her know with a confessional shrug of my shoulders and a flip of my hand that, Hey! Who hasn’t?

“Thanks,” she murmured. Then, shocking the blink right out of my eyes, she asked: “Would you like to try it with me? Tonight, maybe? In my room?”

Eventually I shut my mouth. It was totally speechless. “Jen . . .” I somehow got out.

“I’d like to,” she said, in a hurried but very low and very self-conscious voice. “If you’d like to too. In fact,” she whispered, grinning at her own use of such ridiculous diction, “I just want be with you tonight.”

Then, as though I weren’t already rattled enough, she took my numb hand in hers and placed it solemnly over her left breast.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-0-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

I kissed my first girl, Traci, when I was fourteen years old. I still had my braces on and so did she. We joked about getting caught together in a kiss, but also knew that could very well happen. It did one night, freaking us both out.

We were in her bedroom upstairs exchanging tongues when two of the wires got caught. It took fifteen very tense, and very long seconds to get them apart. After that, we opted for lip to lip kissing until I got my braces off two months later. Then we frenched ourselves mad.

That morning, I kissed Jen with just the same hesitancy as I had first kissed Trace. We taste-tested each other, letting the peculiarities of our lips–hers were exceedingly soft and responsive–speak for themselves. Once our comfort zone was reached, our tongues came hesitantly together, and began their dance. We kissed until my tongue and jaw muscles ached, and then we stopped. It was absolutely, the best kiss I had ever had.

Having already blasted my sanity into tiny little pieces, Jen fronted the question: “Are you gay?”

I slowly nodded.

“So am I,” she said. Then, “At least I want to be.”

“God, Jen,” I said. “I had no idea.”

For a time we just stood there, her eyes holding mine, my hand holding her warm and pleasantly soft breast. So far, I hadn’t done anything with it.

“I know we’re cousins,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And that kind of makes it incest, too.”

“Yep.”

“But I got to tell you, Rach. . .”

She didn’t have to say another word.

“Me too,” I admitted.

Her eyes and the brightening of her face were something fixbet giriş you’d just have to see. “You do?” she said. “Really?”

“I do.”

We were talking in whispers now, lover-speak. Or potential lover-speak. You should have felt my heart. I did feel hers. It thumped slow and hard and magically in my right hand.

“Would you like to be with me tonight?” she asked.

I let my eyes, my labored breathing and my enveloping hand on her left breast be my answer. She covered my one hand with her two.

“Thank you,” she whispered. And then she kissed my lips.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-0-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The truth was, my hand maintained its caressing hold on her breast, while the tips of her fingers touched lightly against my thighs for a reason. The first few minutes gave the word “tentativeness” new definition. I kissed the side of her neck, and then her shoulder and she shuddered deeply.

“Wow,” she muttered, then shuddered again.

I wondered if I could wait that long.

“Look,” I said, wanting–needing–to keep myself honest. “There’s something I have to tell you, Jen.”

“You’re involved,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not jealous, or envious or anything.” She touched my nose with the tip of her finger, and then my lips. “It’s just that, you know, with you and me . . .”

Her mom and my dad were born on the same day, exactly tens years apart. Jen and I were born on the exact same day, one year apart. I was the youngest of my four siblings; Jen was the oldest of three. She was two weeks past her eighteenth birthday on that Friday morning in March, and I was nineteen. We had always been close. We had always been very close.

In school, we pal’d around together all the way through seventh grade. Then, in 1995, when Jen was twelve and I was thirteen, her mom and dad moved from Maryland to Wentworth, Ohio. (Yes, that Wentworth, Ohio, where all those people were killed.) My heart nearly broke. It did break because I missed her so very much. We had shared everything together; interests: magazines, music, movies, clothing, shows on TV; make-up (what little her mom let her have); after school activities: soccer, T-ball, trips to the mall, all the latest dance steps which we had learned together; we even shared underwear sometimes and once even a boy. (No, not like that. When she let, we both were still virgins.) And though we had never kissed before, nor for that matter ever even thought about kissing, our relationship went far beyond being merely cousins. Even kissing cousins.

She moved onto Poplar Street, two blocks north of Poplar and Bear. Aunt Kim and our cousin Suzi lived at 243 Poplar, right in the midst of the killings. Suzi’s close friend Debbie Ross was gunned down on some old fart’s front step, Jen said, shot-gunned in the back, if you can believe that. Jen sent me a picture of her from the high school year book via e-mail . . . she was very pretty.

They never caught the scum.

The killings happened the summer after Jennifer moved out, so there’d been a year to make friends. Three of them died that day in July (she also knew Debbie Ross) as well as some grown-ups she had known. It made her sick. It horrified her. She says that two days after the siege there were still signs of blood on the ground where Mary Jackson (one of the grown ups) had died. She was very pretty, Jen said, and they had shot her in the head. (Per Jen, it was said they found her without any panties on, wherever that means.)

Aside from those absolutely horrible killings, other things about Wentworth were weird. One thing, Jen said, was that on Suzi’s block of Poplar street, 240 to 251, she was the only teenage girl around. (Not counting the twenty-year old that worked in the E-Z Stop convenience store on the corner.) But just two blocks to the north, on Jennifer’s street there were tons of teenage girls–forty-three of them in fact. So many, and of such a narrowly defined age-range (13-17 years old), that newscasts and magazine articles had been made about them. Jennifer got interviewed about it three different times: once by USA Today and the other two times by the magazine, Harper’s Bazaar. Bizarre, huh? (She won’t talk about interviews having to do with that other thing.)

Taken on average, that works out 3.9 girls for each of the eleven households on the street. Can you even imagine?

In school, the guys called them the Poplar Street Pussies.

We spent hours together talking on the telephone, then on AOL when I finally got my computer. But as the months went by and finally turned into years, our lives drifted their separate ways. Jen found a boy she liked and then another, and the phone calls and chat-conversations slowed. I met Traci Fulton and my initial attraction turned into a frightful obsession; then I discovered that she really liked me too and we took my first kiss behind the Gaithersburg Public Library on a cold Thursday night in December; I never looked back. Only, as I was discovering now, my feelings for Jen hadn’t died.

They’d only been asleep.

I released her breast and took her face in my hands. “I love you,” I said. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“Since we were this big,” I said, indicating about two feet tall.

She giggled.

“Well . . .” I raised my hand up a foot. “Maybe this big.”

She put her hands on my face and we touched our noses and foreheads together. We said nothing for a good long time, only breathing each others fragrances and breathing each other’s air; when the moment was right, we kissed again.

“God,” I said. “I am so afraid to touch you, Jen.”

“Why?” she said, although I think she knew.

“Because,” I sighed, “You would never leave this room alive.”

Just then we heard a rustle outside the door, and some murmured voices, and I knew my roommate was back. We stepped quickly apart.

“Hi, Marie,” I said, as Marie staggered in.

“Jesus!” She dropped her bag on the floor and her blow dryer and see-through cosmetics case tumbled out. She whipped off her jacket and threw that on the floor as well. Her hair was a mess and so were her clothes and I knew the kind of night she’d just had. She grunted at Jen and Jen smiled back.

I got sudden idea. “How ’bout a soak?” I said.

“A soak?”

“Downstairs in the sauna.”

You have a sauna? her expression said.

“Uh-huh. You up?”

She hesitated, but only for a second. “What do I wear?” she asked.

“Your skin.”

“Rach!” she said, laughing, as we went out the door.

“There’s a locker room and a place to shower,” I said. “The place is clean and always well lit. You don’t have to worry about the boys, either, because someone is always down there guarding the place.” I grinned, poking the down button for the elevator. “Not that the boys don’t try.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “A hot soak could be nice. Thanks.”

We rode down alone and I thought I’d better tell her. “Anna’s probably there,” I said, “and I know Cindy is for sure. Maybe Patty, too.”

“Oh,” she said, and then: “Which one? Is with you, I mean?”

“Patty,” I said. “For now.”

“How much do you like her?”

“Nothing like how I feel for you.”

If the camera in the cab weren’t pointed straight at my face, I would have kissed her then. As it was, I snuck-held her hand and rubbed my toes along her foot. I loved her touch. I tried not to let her rear end in the air the night before with the dildo firmly implanted jump-start my hormones, but I was not exactly successful. I tried not to let my mind conjure up images of our coming night together, if it really came off, and had no more success with that. Most of all, I tried not to imagine her nicely shaped and prettily-tipped breasts in my mouth. I looked over and she was grinning.

“Stop it,” I whispered.

“What?”

In the first sub-basement, I lead her down the hall and through the first open doorway on the right. The sauna, as well as the showers and locker rooms were in the back. We passed the Stairmaster machines and the Bowflex machines, and half-a-dozen girls working on them. There were no guys.

At the back desk, we got a key for Jen, a plastic bag, a pair of cheapo blue thongs (not the kind you wear on your fanny, thank you) and a pair of fluffy white towels for us both. We thanked the woman whose name was Muriel Wentz–she grinned at my Tweety-bird feety-pajama’s, odd apparel I guess, even for the dorm–and went on back to our lockers.. Mine was No. 26, in the middle of the third row.

“Share,” I said, drawing a tell-tale grin.

I grabbed two scrunchies from the top shelf and began gathering her hair. “Unless you want to wash it,” I suggested.

“I do,” she said, and so did I.

She removed her sweater as I unbuttoned my top.

“You still bigger than me?” she teased.

I had always been bigger . . . but not nearly as nice.

Boys stared at my breasts when I wore something tight or had on my bikini, but with Jessica, they gaped. Which was confounding since she was a 34-B. But then she peeled off her tee-shirt and my breath froze solid.

Was I dreaming? I must be dreaming, I thought. I had to be dreaming.

What a strange, oh-so wonderful world.

The smile of wonder and pleasure spreading across my lips would have been just too embarrassing to endure, so I said, “Excuse me,” and headed for the girl’s bathroom. She laughed after me as I went.

Little brat, she had seen.

End of Part One of Posting (1 of 2 parts) “Orientation Day”

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