======== Newsgroups: alt.sex.incest Subject: Johnny's closet From: lliillii@aol.com (LlIIllII) Date: 25 Mar 1996 18:55:31 -0500 Do not read this if you are under 18 or offended by stories of a sexual and possibly incestuous nature. Looking back, I couldn’t have had a better childhood if I had written the script myself. Well, not really “childhood.” What I am going to tell you starts at about age 14 and continues up to ... up to now, actually. The purpose of my tale is not to make you jealous, but, rather, to wake you up to some delicious possibilities. My name is Johnny. I lived in a huge Victorian house in New Jersey with my mom and two sisters. My father left when I was 13 and my sisters were 11 and 15. Mom and dad had what seemed like the perfect family ... three kids spaced two years apart ... but the two of them just never got along. They decided divorce was better than all the fighting, and we kids actually agreed. We saw dad every other weekend and he never missed a child-support payment or a birthday. It could have been much worse. When they first sat us down and gave us the “divorce” talk, little Marie cried and Barbara, my older sister just got angry. I sat there cooly and listened. When dad got to the part about my being “the man of the house now,” I just shrugged. What could I do at age 13? Take out the garbage? I did that anyway. But none of us wanted to make dad or mom feel guilty, so we managed to calm Marie and that was that. He left the next morning. Now, age 13 is difficult for any boy, what with hormones and body changes and noticing girls and all that, but for me it was a bitch -- literally. That’s because there I was, starting to get erections at anything that looked like tits -- even two scoops of mashed potatoes on a plate -- and what happens? I’m left as the “man of the house” with three women. There was mom, 38 years old and absolutely beautiful; Barbara, 15 and incredibly well developed; and Marie, 13 and a real flirt. My daily life consisted of 8 hours of sleep and 16 hours of hard-ons. It was probably more of hard-ons, but I couldn’t tell about the sleeping ones. Well, about a month after dad left, I started having this fantasy that I could see through walls. Our four bedrooms were on the second floor of the house, and we all shared a huge bathroom. Mom and dad had spent plenty to make it real big and luxurious when we moved in. There was a giant shower stall with sliding glass doors, a separate antique clawfoot tub, an antique sink and this thing that dad said was for women’s cleanliness. The bathroom was decorated with fine prints and the walls were covered with a beautiful Victorian-design wallpaper. My bedroom was next to the bathroom, separated only by my walk-in closet. My two sisters had the rooms across the hall, and mom slept -- alone, now -- in the master bedroom at the end of the hall, farthest from the bathroom. The bad thing about my room was that, being next to the bathroom, I would wake up everytime someone flushed the toilet. I started sleeping with earplugs when I was about 10, and that seemed to solve the noise problem. The good thing, of course, was also that my room was next to the bathroom. It made it much more convenient to take a pee in the middle of the night, or to run back to my room after a shower on a cold morning. So, the bathroom thing was both good and bad. Soon I would forget the bad. Very soon. As I mentioned, I was working on this keen fantasy of being able to see through walls. What I did was to wait until one of the girls -- mom or Marie or Barbara -- went into the bathroom. I would go into my closet and put my ear to the wall. It was a very thin wall (a piece of paneling, actually, that dad installed when converting the original bathroom). The purpose was to even out the new room and to give me a nice-sized closet. So, I would listen through the wall and determine what the person in the bathroom was doing. I would then go back to my bed and pretend that I could see them. With my door locked, I would then jerk off -- as quietly as I could -- imagining what it looked like as, let’s say, Barbara was peeing or mom was taking a shower. I would try to picture their bodies, the actual pee coming out, the soap dripping across breasts, and so on. But my almost-14-year-old imagination was not very good, and sometimes I’d fall asleep without cuming. And then, it hit me. On the eve of my 14th birthday, I was listening to little Marie going to the bathroom, and I realized that there was only about a quarter of an inch separating my eyes from that room. What an asshole I’d been! All I had to do was figure out an undetectible way to poke a hole in the paneling and I’d be able to watch everything that went on in there. I was home alone that evening. Mom was next door arranging some sort of sales party, cookware or something, where friends would come to the house and buy plates and baking stuff. Barbara was out with a new boyfriend. And Marie was with mom. I went to the basement and opened the toolbox dad had left for mom. I got out a screwdriver and a hammer and a giant nail. And went back to the bathroom. I looked at the wall that backed to my closet. On it was the sink and the medicine cabinet. Any hole I made would certainly be seen, I thought. But then I realized that the wallpaper might provide camouflage for a tiny hole if I placed the hole in exactly the right spot. About an inch above the top of the medicine cabinet, the wallpaper image was that of a dark red-and-black flower. The black spot was in the center, about a quarter of an inch wide, maybe a little more. I climbed up on the sink and placed a nail on the black spot. WHAM! I banged it with the hammer and -- miracle of miracles! -- a perfect hole. I climbed down and looked at it from ground level. If you really REALLY stared, you might notice something, but odds were no one would ever look carefully at that particular flower. I climbed back onto the sink and, inserting the screwdriver, made the hole a littlel bigger. I cleaned up all of the tiny wood spinters that had fallen into the sink, and rand downstairs to put the tools back. Just as I got back to my room, Barbara came home from her date. “I hope you’re not in the bathroom, Johnny,” she shouted. “I really gotta pee!” “No problem,” I said. “I’m studying.” I never moved so quickly in my life. I grabbed my desk chair and practically threw it into the closet. I climed on top and looked for the hole. As soon as the light went on in the bathroom I could see its shaft coming through the paneling. My, god, with the chairm the hole was at exactly the height of my eyes. I supported myself using the clothes rod and looked in. There was Barbara ripping off her jumper and squatting on the toilet, which was on the wall to the left of the sink. I looked down as she sat and watched her rock back and forth as the pee streamed into the water below. “Whew!” she said out loud. “Holy shit” I said, to myself. “This was going to be great.” I heard mom and Marie coming in the front door. more to come. Let me know if you want to see Chapter 2