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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