Breaking the Duck! Ch. 01

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An occasional series of short erotic stories about having sex for the first time… some are funny, some are sad and some have strayed into the realms of the taboo or the unusual…mostly the stories are about people and relationships rather than just sex although there are explicit sexual descriptions in some if not all of the tales. So be warned!



Justin’s Story

I have always been a wimp.

Right from the time that I started school I was that skinny kid with the round National Health glasses, the buck teeth and the legs like matchsticks with huge knobbly knees, who sat in the corner of the playground just watching the other children running about and having fun. I liked reading and I liked drawing but I wasn’t very good at having fun.

I came from a nice middle class family, my parents were both doctors, but we were as broke as a joke because they both worked as volunteer refugee workers for some missionary society which itself was cash poor and paid the self-sacrificing idiots that worked for it less money than the Department of Social Security forked out in benefit, but we did get a free London house for the family to live in. Another joke. The ‘family’ consisted of me and my older sister Jennifer, Great-Aunt Dulcie my mother’s aunt, Mother and Dad…except my parents were never there… they were always off somewhere in Africa, or India, even bloody Malaya… but never seemed to be at home when we needed them as kids. I don’t remember them ever being home at Christmas after I was about seven and the six weeks home leave that they took in the summer we spent at Caister-on-Sea in Norfolk in a bungalow loaned by my father’s boss the Reverend Angus Bright.

The house we lived in was a huge run-down old former rectory in Finchley. It was cold and damp in the winter with no central heating just a gas fire in the sitting room and another in Auntie Dulcie’s downstairs bedroom, none of the upstairs bedrooms had any heating at all and the top floor attics had no electric lighting. In retrospect, I guess that it wasn’t that bad we had lots of unoccupied furnished rooms to play in and a bloody great jungle of a garden at the back with a big old oak tree and a treehouse which had been put up sometime before the war and Dad had made safe for us to play in.

I always found it difficult to make friends although my sister Jenny was continually filling the house up with chattering and giggling girls in pinafore dresses and navy blue knickers, from her school who teased me but in general treated me with less contempt than the local boys who found me a convenient target for their bullying until the penny eventually dropped that I had nothing worth stealing and I learned to keep my emotions to myself…if they couldn’t make you cry then eventually they would get bored and go away. I was one of those unfortunate kids that Auntie Dulcie described as an ’emotional fountain’, you could pinch, punch or kick me and I would just flop down and take it like a good little wimp but taunting and spitefulness was almost guaranteed to produce a bout of tears and an asthma attack even when I was nine or ten.

I liked reading and had a good clear voice and so I was the poor sod that the headmaster would make stand at the front of school assembly and read the bible lesson on Monday morning. Old Dr. ‘Wacker’ Allen, was a spiteful sadistic bastard who took pleasure in tormenting the boys in his care and was not content with sniping remarks directly to me about my not getting picked for any of the house sports teams, or the fact that Auntie Dulcie kept me in short trousers a year after most of the other boys. If that wasn’t bad enough one morning he chose to castigate another boy, David Gorham, by comparing his poor reading ability to mine in front of the whole assembly. Gorham was a popular boy, captain of the school football team and something of a school hero and the headmaster’s vicious remarks brought down a shit-storm of hate and bullying for the rest of my time in junior school.

I finally managed to escape the clutches of headmaster Dr. Allen. Both Jenny and I had won scholarships to Grammar School and the Girl’s High School respectively. As I got older things got marginally better, my buck teeth receded although I was still stuck with those awful wire spectacles and I remained skinny and wimpish to look at but by age 16 stood 5’9″ but still hadn’t started to shave on a daily basis. The consolation, I told myself, was that my poor eyesight and intermittent asthma would probably exclude me from having to do National Service. As it happened the final recruitment intake was in 1960 two years before I was due to be called up anyway. It probably saved me another period of bullying although I would have given my right arm for the opportunity to do military service under my own terms just to prove to the world that I could ‘be a man’ the same as everybody else. It became a bit of an obsession and I even went down to Etiler escort the Army Careers Office but the sergeant on duty never even bothered to put my name on a form after I told him about the asthma and showed him my ‘excused sports’ chitty from school.

Growing into a young man presented its own set of problems with the onslaught of puberty and the male hormone stampede. In common with most teenaged men I started to take a serious interest in the opposite sex only to discover to my dismay that the opposite sex were not particularly interested in me. In fact of the dozen or so girls that I plucked up the courage to ask out on a date not one actually accepted the offer. Several just laughed in my face.

I would sometimes try to get my sister who was a real good looker to meet me in coffee bars for a drink just so that I could be seen out with a bird. In truth, I preferred Jenny’s company to most of the brainless airheads that I knew anyway, but it didn’t solve my unrequited sexual urges.

The nearest that I came to getting into a girl’s knickers was on the same day that I received the official letter from Cambridge University to confirm that I had been accepted to read Archaeology and Anthropology. Her name was Karen Haslet and we had met a couple of times at the Brunswick Bowling Alley, where I had been working part time on the cash desk. In honesty, I think that she felt sorry for me when I asked her for a date although I had never seen her about with a guy and she wasn’t particularly good looking, but she had nice legs, neat tits and didn’t seem as obsessed with ‘Top of the Pops’ as most of the other girls who hung out at the bowl. If a sympathy shag was all that I could get then I would have been overjoyed with that or even just a bit of a fumble behind the church hall.

She agreed to wait for me when I finished my shift at eight o’clock and I took her for a milk shake at the Golden Egg diner and then said I would walk her home. As it happened she lived a couple of streets from me and as we passed my house she spied the old treehouse.

“Oh, is that a real tree house, Justin?” She asked in amazement, as though she had just spotted a full scale replica of the Taj Mahal in our back garden.

“Yeah, my sister and I played in it all the time when we were kids…” I still sat up there in the evening sometimes so that I could smoke without Auntie Dulcie catching me and it was a good covert hideaway to watch girls on the street. We were on the main route to and from the church hall youth club and so it was a good perch for ‘bird watching’.

“Hey, that is really bona…” She enthused, “Can I look inside?”

She was already making her way up the garden path to the old oak and I followed her with alacrity… if I could get her up there out of sight of the house I might be in with the chance of a bit of a feel. Who knows I could even get my hand under her jumper, maybe even into her bra? My main ambition in life at that time was to get to grips with a real live pair of tits. I was eighteen years old and I had yet to break my duck, in fact I hadn’t even got past tentatively kissing a girl on the cheek, I had yet to bring my hands into play.

Watching her climb the ladder up to the tree house was the most exiting episode of my life to date. She was wearing a tight fitting sleeveless ribbed top of bright yellow with a mini skirt of the same colour which was at least seven inches above her knees and exposed her new-fangled tights which were fuchsia pink and went all the way up into her matching yellow knickers. Her rounded firm buttocks were only a few inches from my nose as we ascended that ladder and I was sorely tempted to place a hand on each bum cheek even at the risky of buggering off of the ladder.

“This is fab…” She said, climbing onto the main deck and seating herself on one of the large beanbags that we had always used as chairs in the tree-house in the summer. Sitting down her skirt rode up almost to her waist and I could not drag my eyes away from the triangle of yellow knicker fabric at her crotch which was now fully exposed.

“Yeah, It’s dead groovy up here…” I probably sounded a real pillock but I desperately wanted to appear hip and with it… It might put me in with a chance.

“Er, Justin? It smells kind of odd in here… kind of musty and … Er… something else, something rank and dodgy!” She complained.

“It might be squirrels, or birds…” I suggested. I hoped that rats hadn’t got into the bean bags again.

“Oh bleeding hell!” She suddenly exclaimed. I looked up and realised that her eyes were fixed on the pile of discard tissues that I had failed to clear away the last few evenings. I was picking up that distinctive scent now. “Oh bugger! You come up here to… to… to wank off…don’t you… you disgusting little pervert…!”

“Karen… Er…I…” I mumbled, “Don’t go…”

She was on her feet, down the ladder and out of the front Beşiktaş escort gate before I could stop her. By the time that I had got to the end of the garden path she was already turning the corner at the end of the road. My best ever chance of getting my end away had just fled the scene and there was a fair chance that by tomorrow everybody in Finchley would know that Justin Faraday beats the meat in his treehouse.

In fairness to Karen she stopped short of getting it broadcast on Radio Caroline but there was a fair amount of sniggering and weird glances at the bowling alley the next evening as my ill-fated date headlined on the Petticoat Mafia Chinese-whispers network. I just kept my head down and lived with it but the frustration of desperately wanting proper sex, not just a five-fingered-fanny jerk off, and knowing that everybody knew I had never had a girl was making me really depressed.


Added to my own sexual frustrations was the knowledge that my sister Jenny now had a regular boyfriend. I was the strangest feeling wondering if my sister was having sex with Ronald. I had watched them snogging in his car, a duck-egg blue Austin Morris 1100, a couple of times from my perch in the treehouse and once I thought I could see the whiteness of his hand near her breast. The idea of Jenny fucking became the biggest turn-on ever, and accounted for most of the used tissues in my treetop den. I didn’t imagine for a minute that my sister would give suck-offs but most girls would wank you off even if they didn’t put out and go all the way.

My sister was what they called a real looker. She was shorter than me about 5′ 7″ and slim but had a good figure with nicely rounded firm breasts, a slim waist and decent shapely legs that were shown off well by the fashion in mini-skirts that year. Her hair was the same colour as mine a sort of mousey light brown colour and was usually worn twisted up into a bun at the back of her head for work in the bank but was worn loose and flowing around her face when she was at home or went out in the evening held back with a hairband matching her outfit. She was bright and popular and got lots of offers for dates from young men but until recently had not taken to walking out with anybody on a regular basis. She wasn’t Sophia Loren but I thought that she was bloody good looking better than most of the dogs from the youth club.

Naturally I daydreamed about the sexual activities of other girls that I knew and even some of the older women. Mrs. Blore, the book-keeper at the Brunswick Bowl was about forty and quite attractive with big tits and a firm round arse. I had heard her talking dirty on the telephone to her married boyfriend sometimes and one of the other cashiers had told me that she slipped off home at lunchtime to give her husband a fuck to keep him happy when he was on night-shift so he wouldn’t ask about her evening activities. I had this ongoing fantasy that she would trap me in the stationery cupboard and shag me to mutton.

I had never thought of my sister sexually before, she was just Jenny, my sister. Now that she had a boyfriend I started to notice what a good figure she had, how round her tits were and how good her legs looked in a mini skirt. She became one of the main focuses for my sexual fantasies. I spent an extraordinary amount of time trying for little up-skirt moments sitting at the breakfast table or when watching television in the evening. I even lurked about outside her room or the bathroom trying to catch sight of her in her underwear or nightdress. I would spend hours laid out on the staircase waiting, and occasionally I was rewarded with a view of her in bra, knickers, suspender belt and stockings as she went from her room to the bathroom and back without a dressing gown.

The highlight of my new found perversion was to borrow her worn knickers from the laundry basket and use them to wank with until one afternoon I lost control and shot my load all over a pair of pink cotton briefs and had to hide them in my secret place in the old oak tree when I couldn’t get them clean. They are probably still there. Jenny never mentioned that they had gone missing but I guess that she probably wouldn’t have noticed. She had dozens of pairs in her knicker drawer and I probably knew what she had better than she did.

Jenny was a bit over two years older than me and with Mother and Dad away so much we had always been really close. Auntie Dulcie was nearly ninety now and had been over seventy when she came to look after us and so from about nine years old Jenny had not only been my big sister but had replaced Mother in the parental role. It was Jenny who made sure that I was given breakfast and was ready for school each day, it was she who helped me with my homework, got me through my 11-plus exams and coached me through my GCE O and A levels.

It was Jennifer who had taken on the duty of giving me the news that our parents had been killed in a Taksim escort CT terrorist attack at their mission hospital compound in Malaya. It was her who stood by my side and held my twelve year old hand at the funeral service and it was she who had taken me into her bed at night and cuddled me like a small child for a week as I cried myself to sleep and had put her own grief on hold for my sake.

To everybody’s surprise we had been well provided for financially. Dad had taken out an assurance policy to cover our welfare until Jenny left school which then delivered sufficient on going funding for me to attend university. The charity, in the person of Reverend Angus Bright had contacted Auntie Dulcie who was now our legal guardian, after the funeral and had agreed that we should stay in the London house rent free indefinitely or until we both left home and I think that his influence was behind my getting a bursary to attend university.

Whilst I was swatting to get to university and achieve my ambition of becoming a anthropologist, my sister had left school and got a job at a bank. I knew that she badly wanted the chance for a university education and a career in teaching science but like most girls in those days had settled for a decent job with good prospects for low level advancement and an immediate pay packet. She was bright and clever and had more than sufficient good A-level grades to be accepted to Girton or one of the other better women’s colleges but the trust fund was only set up for my education and we did not have sufficient capital to pay for her fees as well. It was wrong and sad but girls lost out on a lot in those days.

It all came to a head one evening in late August.

I had been up to Cambridge by train to have a look round the college, attend the induction talk and sort out my digs for the first year and got back to the house about nine o’clock. In about a month I would be leaving this house, possibly for ever. I knew from my contemporaries how few students ever returned to their family homes after finishing university; you took employment wherever you could find it and visits home became just that…visits. I had little to hold me there. My sister now had a regular boyfriend, we didn’t really talk about her intentions but I was assuming that eventually they would get married and find a house of their own. In fact Jenny and I didn’t talk a lot anymore at all since Ronald came onto the stage, somehow his being there had come between us. Auntie Dulcie was getting old and a bit senile and would probably need to be found more suitable accommodation after Jenny and I left home for ever, or my poor sister would be stuck with looking after her forever.

I had just been into Auntie Dulcie’s downstairs bedroom to wish her goodnight and make sure that her gas fire was turned off before she went to bed. She was still our legal guardian until we were both twenty-one but just recently it was Jenny and I who were looking after her. Returning back across the hall I heard the crunch of a car pulling into the drive and guessed that it would be Ronald bring Jenny home from wherever they had been for the evening. I didn’t want to see him and so I slipped up the stairs and crouched at the first landing waiting to see if she would bring him in for a cup of tea or coffee.

Ronald Biggins and I had never really got on, I didn’t have the remotest idea what it was that my sister saw in him, I thought he was a stuck-up prig and a phoney. Yes, he was handsome, tall and quite muscular, always clean shaven except for that little pencil line moustache with neatly Brylcreamed dark hair and always smartly dressed in a business suit or flannels and a blazer with his RAF badge on the pocket. Ronald never tired of relating vague stories of his service in the Royal Air Force but always carefully avoided specific details of his actual service record. He told everybody that he had served with Wessex helicopters implying that he had been a pilot but I wasn’t sure that was possible for a state schooled, National Service inductee, my guess was ground crew at best. He now worked at the Prudential and despite his smart suit my guess was that he was no more than a collection agent going door to door picking up premiums for cheap life insurance. He certainly wasn’t as clean cut as he made out. Several times I had seen him going into the ‘Red Lion’ pub opposite my bus stop home from work, a real dive with a bad reputation and the one time I had accepted a lift home in his car I had noticed screwed up betting slips in the open ashtray.

Ronald was all show. He smoked Players No.6 cigarettes, one of the cheaper brands, but carried them around in a swanky red and gold Du Maurier Filter flip lid box to impress onlookers but never offered them around.

Ronald followed Jenny in through the front door and I could tell immediately that something was wrong as they were arguing loudly although I couldn’t catch the words. It was unlikely that they would waken Auntie Dulcie as she was as deaf as a post and once she went to bed would sleep though another war if the Russians ever decided to invade.

I crept a couple of stairs down and sat on a stair tread peering through the bannisters like an errant kid.

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