Hans Scherner - Sex-starved sneak

Before

Cecil was seventeen years old when he decided to become a girl. It took him six months to make all the arrangements and by then, he had graduated from high school.

As far back as he could remember, Cecil had hated being a boy. Girls with their smooth skins and soft, rounded bodies were so much prettier than boys, whose skins were rougher and bodies hard and bony. At school, Cecil found that the girls in his class were more clever than the boys, and some of them were much kinder, too.

But Cecil had never really felt like the other boys. His face was so satin – soft that it was impossible to imagine he would ever have to shave; and his figure, instead of being lean and angular, had gentle curves of flesh where other boys had muscle. His body was soft where it should have been hard.

His eldest sister, Alma, four years older than Cecil, had loved to dress him up in her old, little – girl clothes when he was very small. Then she would laugh at him, hug him, and tell him that he was as pretty as a picture. He always remembered that.

Remembered it and liked it!

Blanche, two years younger than Alma, had joined in the game, and sometimes the sisters had pretended that their young brother was a baby, and they would dress, undress, and bathe him.

Cecil had enjoyed the make – believe very much, often hating to wear his own clothes when the charade was over. Vaguely, Cecil remembered his father telling him "to be a little man," not a "sissy"… and he remembered, too, hating the man for his pains.

When Cecil was five years old, his sister Donna had been born. Alma had spent less time on Cecil then, causing him to feel the first, sharp pangs of jealousy. But Blanche had still doted on him, played with him and later, showed him the new, secret, and exciting games that only she knew how to play.

Cecil was seven years old when his father died, and he felt more relief than sorrow. It had always distressed him to see his mother, so soft, blonde, and beautiful, being kissed and pawed by a man even if the man was his father.

Sometimes, Cecil had crept to their bedroom door when his father had coaxed his mother inside, and listened with horror, hate, and revulsion to the words and sounds that reached his ears. He had not been quite sure what they were doing, but just the thought of them in bed together his father's body touching the warm, soft flesh of his mother filled him with a sense of outrage.

Once, on his return to his room, he had found his pajamas wet where his spasms of anger had caused him to urinate uncontrollably. And, at times, he would pretend to be sick, screaming loudly and hysterically until his mother rushed to his bedroom to comfort him, leaving his father to wriggle on his bed in a state of frustrated anger and confusion.

His father had been a salesman of sorts. He could not have been a very successful one because when he died there was so little money in the family that Cecil's mother had to go back to work.

It was with very mixed feelings that Cecil remembered his mother working. He had loved to see her all dressed up, looking younger and prettier than ever, going to her secretarial job in the big downtown office where her old boss was very happy to have her back. But Cecil missed her presence in the house where he could get a kiss, hug, or some demonstration of the affection he craved so constantly.

His sister Alma was too busy looking after the baby Donna to have much time for Cecil; but Blanche who seemed so much more than two years older than he took charge of the love – hungry little boy. Blanche dressed him, fed him, and helped him with his homework. On nights when their mother was working and Alma was preoccupied with Donna, she would play games with him. Some of the games were completely new to Cecil, but they were interesting games, exciting games. Games which, rousing him to a height of excitement, made him laugh and cry so loudly that Alma would hear as she nursed the baby upstairs.

Alma wondered what they were doing to make Cecil's laugh so highly pitched… and Blanche! What made Blanche pant like that? Alma would have gone down to find out, but Donna demanded all her attention; and after all, she told herself, Blanche was old enough to took after Cecil!

Blanche squirmed her curvaceous, eleven – year – old body on the damp sheet of the child – size bed in Cecil's room. The torn top and crumpled panties of her pajama – suit were strewn, unwanted, on the floor of the bedroom. She slid her nude buttocks down lower, raised chubby knees ceilingwards and mouthed, "Now, Cecil, now!"

Her fleshy thighs parted and as his head went obediently down between them, Cecil's lips touched the skin of her inner leg and he tasted the saltiness of her sweat. "Up, Cecil, move your mouth up!" the panted moans from his sister's mouth directed him. He slid his mouth up the warm, moist flesh until the sparse cluster of beginning pubic hairs tickled the tip of his nose. Cecil's lower lip thrust out and he felt the small, wet slit move beneath it. "Stick " whispered his sister, " stick your tongue in!"

Blanche would not have been in Cecil's bed that night, and the nine – year – old boy would have been spared his first confusing but exciting experience of the sexual games that his sister liked to play if baby Donna had slept like she was supposed to. But the baby's loud and angry screams had disturbed Alma until she had to lift Donna from her cot, and carry her to the double bed that she shared with Blanche. Then she rocked her in an unavailing effort to quiet her, calm her, and put her back to sleep.

Finally, Blanche had thrust back the bedclothes, sat up beside Alma, and muttered, "How can I go to sleep when that little pest is screaming?" She stared at the baby, resentfully.

Alma, who took her motherly duties with all of a thirteen-year-olds seriousness, shook her head reprovingly at her sister. "You know she can't help it," she murmured. "I've got to look after her when mother isn't here." She held the baby soothingly against her breast and rocked her gently. It was one of the many nights when their mother was working late at the office.

Blanche slid a chubby, curvy, and angry leg out of the bed. "I'm going to sleep someplace else," she muttered, quivering with anger. She moved to the bedroom door, closed it indignantly behind her, then padded across the hall to Cecil's room.

He was huddled on one side of the bed. An errant sheet had slipped to the floor and Blanche stared at the exposed body of her young brother. Poor, sweet Cecil! Blanche's anger evaporated. He never cries at night! she thought as her memory conveniently erased the sleepless nights he had given their mother.

He had kicked off his pajama – pants, drawn up his knees, and lain on his side. Blanche's eyes dropped to the nakedness of his smooth, unboylike buttocks; then she picked up the sheet, covered him, and crawled in bed beside him. His body felt soft, warm, and comforting as Blanche snuggled herself close to him. She let her small hand rest for a moment on the gentle curve of his thigh, then she twisted herself away with urgent, jerky movements, slid off her little pajama – panties, and tore the top as she dragged it off.

Blanche breathed deeply. A new, beginning emotion flickered through her developing body as she pressed her bare flesh against Cecil's.

He slept soundly, peacefully.

The small, rounded belly of the little girl squeezed against Cecil's buttocks. She felt a small pulse begin to throb with a new, strangely exciting intensity. Blanche slid her small, inquisitive hand down between her thighs, then let her fingers crawl up to the tiny slit. It was wet, warm, and slithery. She inserted a finger, teased herself with tiny, experimental probes. It was delicious! She held her breath, then squeezed her thighs tightly together with a strained, exquisite tension. Her hand crept over Cecil's hip, slipped down to his wee crotch. His penis was soft, unmoving; below, the tiny balls were flaccid.