Pete Doesn’t Just Tell Me Ch. 01

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This is not a story for guys with a short fuse or gals with whatever the equivalent is. That is evident, since she starts telling a few weeks before her seventeenth birthday. We here all know that nothing erotic is going to happen for a while. The story is set about 40, probably 50 years ago, to justify that the young people are a lot more innocent than they are now: no internet videos, cell phones. Some teenaged guys joked about sixty-nine, but some of them just smirked because others did. Take my word for it, I was one of them. Did the girls know more? My main character didn’t, but finds out when she is eighteen. They had to use rubbers. For those who can’t remember, rubbers back then were sold three in a little carton in dispensers that always had a sign advising that they were only for the prevention of disease. I know that we weren’t really that innocent back then, but that is the way it has to be here.

All that just to explain: there is no underage (under 18 years old) sexual relationship in the story.

When she is eighteen, she has her first experience with her friend, and then does almost everything else with her brother. Finally, they also have their first time together, better than with her friend. She also has a good lesbian experience with a classmate. That was not originally intended, by me or her, but nice things happen in the course of writing a story.

I had fun writing it, trying to imagine how it could really happen, everything she could be thinking, not just telling in a short paragraph the background build-up to getting in bed together.

Another author here has described that as the difference between erotica and porn. Writing porn gets boring. It is more interesting to see where a story line leads, and a lot of readers enjoy that. If that is not your interest, don’t bother to read further. If you do, please remember that I warned you and don’t complain. I hope everyone does enjoy the story.

When my brother Pete went off to college, I was sixteen, starting my junior year in high school. He had a sports scholarship to a well-known college. Well, it wasn’t really a sports scholarship, since colleges in that league don’t give them, but his record as high school track star was something the college interviewer found very interesting.

It had been nice having an older brother in high school, and other girls were a little envious of me, not because Pete was a BMOC, you know, like a star on the football or hockey team. Runners do their thing alone. Sure, he was proud when he won, but when he lost occasionally, he could be very despondent. As he explained to me once, even if the school’s track team won the meet, he had lost, that the team’s winning didn’t change that. I don’t know if he was good looking, just my brother. He certainly wasn’t built like those 100 meter stars at international track events, more like the slender runners of longer distances, his specialty.

School started for me, before his freshman week at college, and then he was gone. I didn’t really miss him, but thought it would be nice for him to get a letter at his new address. It was the first letter I didn’t have to write, the others being obligatory thank-you-letters to grandparents, uncles, aunts, godparents after my confirmation. What did I write? Banal stuff: what I was doing, some news about school, that I hoped he was settling in well and wondering how it was at college. I didn’t ask him about that, just “wondered.”

A week later, I was very surprised to find a letter from him after school one day. Mom was also surprised, especially since she didn’t know that I had written first. When I told her, she liked that and liked that her children kept in touch. Dad was also surprised and pleased.

His letter was longer, his being able to tell a lot more, since it all was new to me. I wrote back, telling him about that and thanking him for everything he had written and adding the latest about myself, nothing of real interest. We continued to exchange letters, not so frequently, writing after something worth mentioning had occurred.

For him, that was usually something about the freshman track team, whether he had won – sometimes – how it was to go to other colleges in the league. I tried to find something to mention in reply. When he mentioned that he had only been third in a race, but hadn’t sounded upset, I asked about the competition. He replied that he knew he wouldn’t win as many races as he had at school, but that the training was much better and that he was faster than he had been.

We had never talked about dating, since we knew if and with whom we were going out with. He hadn’t dated much in high school, and being younger, just a sophomore, my dates had been unremarkable, more just with someone to a party, a couple of movies. I had kissed a couple of guys in the dark, saying goodnight, but more because it was the done thing.

Then it looked like I had a boyfriend, at least, we went out of our way to see each other at school and ataşehir escort after school, and had a couple of movie dates. Was he as shyer than I was about kissing? We hadn’t yet, but I was thinking that was maybe good, that when we eventually did it would mean more than just lips meeting to say goodnight. I hadn’t kissed better than that, but had heard about French kissing and that it was supposed to be arousing.

So I wrote Pete about him, not about the kissing, and ventured to ask if he was dating. He wrote back immediately and wrote that he got on well with a couple of girls on the women’s track team, but hadn’t yet had a real date. I thought I would wait for something more to happen with my friend before replying, but then he remembered to write for my seventeenth birthday, congratulating me, and asking how it was going with my friend.

Oh, I liked that, both ways, because I could tell him that we had kissed, that we were going steady. I didn’t tell him that we had just kissed a little better than with the other guys, and not that I was hoping we would. I wanted to, but did he, would he? Pete wrote back with just a short note, saying that he liked that I had told him that, also that he had dated one of the girls from the team, “but not like that.”

He also wrote to our parents, of course. After that one to me, I was apprehensive that they could ask me about his letters, but they didn’t, thank goodness. I thanked him for it and wrote that I hoped it would be “like that” for him with the girl. Of course, I wrote some other stuff, and he did too, stuff I could mention to my parents, but after that our letters were more about out private lives.

It was kind of funny; we were being more open in our letters than we had been when he was home. Really kind of funny; I would never have told him about my first real kiss, but I wrote him about it. He must have understood, however, writing me that he could imagine how good that was, “just speaking from his own experience as a male.” Did he mean what I thought, like how I thought my friend was aroused?

In his next letter, he told more about the girl, “slender like you.” A couple of more letters followed before Christmas, his telling that he and the girl had kissed, “like you do.” Then he was home for Christmas. We just smiled and returned to our old sibling relationship. For a couple of weeks, I forgot about what we had been writing each other. Well, I remembered when I was kissing my friend, and maybe Pete did too, when I returned that night, but we didn’t mention it.

When he returned to college, we resumed our correspondence where we had left off. I was surprised that he wanted to tell me so much about what he and the girl did, not in detail, of course, but I got an inkling that they didn’t just kiss. I didn’t have much to tell, worse, after a several weeks, I had to tell him that we had broken up. He consoled me, writing that it happens, that I would find someone else, that someone else would find me. He was right, eventually I started dating a senior. Did we kiss that good on our first date? We did, the first time we kissed. Pete liked that.

I was surprised when before Easter he wrote me that he had slept with her, but I was a lot more surprised that he wrote: “I wasn’t a virgin, but this was so much better.” He had already slept with a girl in high school?! Well, I had heard that the first time probably wouldn’t be so good, and that in college everyone slept with someone. If my brother did, it must be true. If he had wanted to tell me that, I thought I should show my interest. Of course, I was very curious.

His next letter was different, a handwritten page about every else, and a trimmed down typed page folded in the other one. When I read it, I understood that he was worried that our parents might find what he had typed. Jeez! He and she really had, a couple of times more since his previous letter. Of course, he didn’t go into details, just that it was so good, that she hadn’t minded that he didn’t have much experience. I understood that she must have had more than he did, immediately liking her for her liking my brother that way, and liking him even more for his wanting to tell his little sister. I had never thought about him that way, kissing a girl, sleeping with one. He explained that senior year in high school, after he turned eighteen, he had just done it because they could, like “everyone else” did.

I didn’t have much to offer in reply. I was being a good girl. After Pete’s letter about not having been a virgin, I was a little worried that my friend could be thinking that we had to do it, go all the way. Would I have, if he had wanted too? I liked him even more, when he made a disparaging remark about the kind of girls who do everything.

Pete liked that, when I wrote him, replying that he sounded like a very nice guy. We kept corresponding, but Pete slowed down on telling about his girlfriend. He spent Easter vacation at college, training for the spring season. kadıköy escort bayan He did mention that the coach had remarked: “no girls, at least, not before a meet.” Alcohol was, of course, absolutely forbidden. “But after the meet?” I asked in my letter. “Usually, when she can, not at meets away, unless we return here the same day,” he replied.

He was really getting it, just not when she had a period. My brother having sex regularly! What did his … look like?

My friend invited me to the senior prom. Wow, I had a real evening gown, strapless. When I wrote Pete about it, he replied: “kept it up with scotch tape?” I sent him a photo, showing that I didn’t need tape to hold up a strapless top, but wrote that I almost lost it when we were jitterbugging. Pete wrote back that he wished he had been there to see. I liked that, better than his having told me that his girlfriend was slender like me. Did he want to see my boobs? If I had liked his remark, did I want him to?

He didn’t when he was home in June for week, before he went to a training camp for most of the summer. He did see me in bra and panties, since we shared a bathroom, but my bras were not like some, so he didn’t get to see more than he would have with my bikini, which had received Mom’s approval. Did she know that we saw each other in just our underwear? I looked: boxer shorts. What were they concealing?

Then he was gone. My bikini got a lot of use and some nice glances, but guys were also looking at all the other girls’. My friend had a summer job in another town, something to do with what he wanted to study. No one got in my bikini, only because I didn’t let them, kind of difficult, when kissing a little out of sight behind bushes on the grounds around the public swimming pool in the late afternoon. I was wondering if I was saving myself for senior year, but with whom, and why?

Pete returned home for a week before college started again. He was looking fitter than before, at least, I thought so. During the summer, I had bought a bra that Mom wouldn’t have approved of. Whom was I expecting to see it, just see it? I didn’t know. Pete liked it, just a little surprised, grinning. I knew why, and like that he had.

I liked even more that in his first letter from college he wrote that the bra had convinced him that I had what it took to keep up a strapless dress and that it really would have been interesting to have been at the prom to see me almost lose it. When he had been home, I had reassured him that Mom didn’t ask to see his letters, but I was still a little surprised that he had written that. Even with the bra, he had gotten to see about as much as he would have without it. He also wrote that he was still with his girlfriend from the spring, adding that maybe I wasn’t as slender as she was.

I liked that too, a subtle compliment about my figure, also an implication that they had been naked with each other again. What did they do? Well, that was obvious, but how? What very little I knew about it, the obvious way was the missionary position, but if it had a name, there must be other ones. Did they do that too? Well, I imagined, she could be on top. Questions, questions.

We exchanged letters a couple of times without any references to his or my friends. I didn’t have one, but was dating, saving that bra for the right occasion. What would be the right occasion, and with whom? More questions. If my quiet brother had slept with a girl his senior year in high school, why shouldn’t I? I knew that other girls had and were. Of course, I wanted to! And from a couple of second dates with guys – two different ones – it seemed that finding a partner wouldn’t be difficult, but which one, or another one, a real friend, going steady for a while first. That was the way it should be.

Or was I thinking about it too much, too much to waiting for it to be like that? Either way, I didn’t want it to be not good, like I had heard from a couple of girls, like Pete had also written. From what little I knew, guys always had an orgasm, but what was one like for a girl? Questions with a capital Q! Could I ask Pete?

I started a couple of letters, then tearing them up – in small pieces, so that no one could piece them together and discover what I was wanting to ask him. On the weekend, when I should have been working on paper, I finally got it on paper. I wanted it to be better, but gave up on trying to improve it:

“I’m going to be eighteen in a few weeks. You did it; you have a nice girlfriend. I want to. I don’t have the right friend yet, but if and when I do, I want it to be good. Whom else can I ask for advice? Anything, everything you can tell me. Please.”

That was a lot more subtle than what I had written before, but I still had butterflies in my stomach when I sealed the letter. He replied, writing about everything else, but then added “PS: Wait till your eighteenth birthday.”

Was he just telling me to wait till I was old enough, or was he escort maltepe implying that he would answer my questions then? I waited, had a better date, and waited, longer than I usually had to for a letter from him. Did that suggest that he was going to answer my questions? If he wasn’t going to, he could have written sooner.

But then! The day before my birthday, I got a larger envelope with “Happy Birthday” in red marker on it, obviously the envelope that came with a birthday card. Was his birthday present going to be the answers to my questions? If it was, I couldn’t just open the envelope in the presence of my parents at breakfast and have something other than the card slip out, and I couldn’t open it before my birthday. Mom had already seen it, of course, and said how sweet it was of Pete to have remembered my birthday.

As usual, my parents went to bed when I did, the master bedroom not next to mine and Pete’s. I sat up, waiting for a few minutes and sneaked back and got the envelope. Under my desk lamp, I discovered that only the lower half the the flap was sticking. Had he anticipated that I should open the envelope? With my penknife it was easy to open it without trimming the edge of the flap. The card was nice, of course, with his brotherly greetings, but in it was a typed sheet of onionskin. I had been right! And he had written – all the answers to my questions? My birthday present, not to be read till I was eighteen, so I put it under my pillow. I replaced the card and glued the flap down and returned it to where it had been.

In the morning, a school day, at breakfast my parents congratulated me with their presents and were both pleased with his card. At school, classmates congratulated me, my boyfriend – well not yet – also and with a present. My party was going to be on the weekend. Really, truly, I forgot about Pete’s letter until I was in my room going to bed.

“Dear Sister,

“Congratulations again on your birthday! I think you’re going to like this. We did. Yes, I asked her to help me answer your questions. She was very surprised that you asked me to answer them, but then liked that you had dared to, agreeing that it was good that a girl had someone she could ask. It’s been good for us too! Thank you! We never really talked about it, but now we have, and she knew things to tell that I didn’t. Of course, she knows how it is for a girl.

“First, she says, you should know all about yourself. She thinks you probably already do, but if you don’t, she says you should try to have an orgasm, telling that lots of girls play with themselves, just making it feel arousing, but don’t. She says you’ll know when you do. She showed me last weekend. You will know! She told me that she didn’t mind that it hadn’t been that good the couple of times I had just used my fingers, and also the first couple of times really doing. That was nice, since when I saw how good she did it to herself, I was a little chagrined.

“And she said, you should pop your cherry before you let your friend do it, if you want it to be good, at least, not have to worry about that. What else? I just asked her. She congratulates you too for your birthday. Says you have a very nice brother. And if you don’t know already, it’s going to be handful. It will fit, but bigger than just one of your fingers. She had three in hers, just two of mine.

“And about that, his, you’ll probably hold it before you really do it. She says that most of them aren’t like mine. When I typed that she frowned and said: ‘just two others, yours is more fun, being able to slide the skin up and down.’ If you don’t know, I’m not circumcised. Guys that are, you can’t slide the skin up and down like she can. She says to be careful, to ask him what feels good.

“Ask him and tell him. We should have done that before, but we are now. She’s grinning, telling me to add that you’re probably going to be surprised how much it is, not to stop after his first ejaculation – her word. If it’s in his pants, he shouldn’t be wearing chinos. If it isn’t, it could be up all over the place. ‘But he will know,’ she added with another grin. I do too. He’ll get his shirt out of the way if he’s lying down.

“And now about you: she says that it’s important that you know how your orgasm is, that it should make it easier to have one with him, and that you may have to tell him that it won’t happen if he just sticks his finger in you. You’ll know what else he should do, like I do now. She nodded with a grin.

“This is being fun. And, OF COURSE, don’t let him even think about sticking anything other than his fingers in you without a rubber, not even a little. I can tell you, young guys their first time come before they know it. I was lucky, we were lucky. Stories about it not being able to happen the first time are fairy tales. She says, a very old myth, that there is an old German song about ‘from just once, nothing can happen,’ but it does in the song. She’s majoring in German.

“I’ll give you some at Christmas, but not as an Xmas present! If it happens before then, either he or you have to have a couple. If he doesn’t, you’d better, or stay in control and ‘help him with your hand;’ her expression, telling me that the H’s are alliteration, rhyming the first letters of the words.

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