That summer started out badly, with a pretty much total core meltdown. Our house was being foreclosed on; dad was under indictment (I still don’t know exactly what the crime was—some kind of financial chicanery that was shady and technical); and mom completely lost her shit and had to be hospitalized.
That would have left the three of us—Me, Tacoma, and Ryan—in the lurch in a pretty serious way. Except that Uncle John and Aunt Ellen stepped in and swept us away for the summer, all the way across the country to their immense and rambling old farmhouse in upstate New York.
It was a tough time for me. I’m sure it was hard for my older brother and sister too, but at the time I was too self-centered and wrapped up in my own problems to think about them. I was an awkward kid, introverted and perpetually self-conscious. I have Cerebral Palsy, which means my legs are twisted like pretzels and I need two canes and leg braces to walk; ugly metal braces that clunk with each step. To compound that, I was a late bloomer, compared to all the other girls in my class. I finally hit puberty, and it was like an F-16 switching on the afterburner. Paradoxically, that just made me feel like even more of an outsider. I got my period, fitfully and unpredictably, and I started growing breasts; small but sensitive speed bumps that made me feel like everyone was always staring at my chest. My sexuality suddenly made the quantum leap from occasionally having my G.I. Joes and Barbies play out unnatural acts together to furtive pornography-looking and actual masturbation. Lots and lots of actual masturbation.
I probably would have been miserable anyway, but at the time being yanked away from everything familiar was a kick in the gut.
On the other hand, I had just begun to experiment with my superpowers. Maybe it was a side effect of the CP and maybe not, but I discovered that if I sat very still and concentrated, I could go invisible. It took a fair amount of concentration, and if I stayed that way too long I got a headache, but it worked, and I clasped that knowledge close to me like a precious jewel.
I spent most of the flight from SeaTac to JFK in an aisle seat with my pants around my ankles, playing with my pussy, letting my fingers wander up, down, and sometimes inside my moist slit, idly toying with my clitoris and thinking dirty thoughts. Occasionally, depending on my level of excitement, my focus would lapse, and I’d flicker in and out of view, like interference on a TV set. This caused great consternation for the middle-aged businessman across the aisle. I think I may have given him whiplash: he’d catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye with my pants down, legs splayed into the aisle, shirt lifted up, tits hanging out, my hand busy between my legs; and by the time he’d swiveled his head around, I’d be invisible again. He must have thought he was hallucinating, or seeing some erotic ghost.
By the time we landed in New York I had a pounding migraine and a very sore pussy. I could hardly walk, never mind the canes and braces. It was hot and humid, and JFK smelled like jet fuel and Porto-potty. I was exhausted.
Uncle John and Aunt Ellen met us just on the other side of security. They were old and fat and homely, a pair of life-sized garden gnomes, complete with little red noses. Uncle John swept us up, Aunt Ellen took control of our luggage, and we all piled into their extended-cab pickup truck. It was ridiculously cramped inside the truck. I was sandwiched uncomfortably in between Tacoma and Ryan. My clit was chaffed, and inside my pants, my panties were obnoxiously damp.
It was a two-hour drive upstate to our Aunt and Uncle’s place, and mercifully, I slept most of the way. When I woke up, it was dark, and we were there, and my leg had fallen asleep. Tacoma laughed at me as I struggled up the steps onto the porch. It was not a very auspicious start to the summer.
I slept hard in a strange bed, and felt better the next morning than I had in weeks, not since all the weirdness with our parents had started going down.
The next morning Uncle John made us a big fat pancake breakfast wearing—literally—nothing but a bathrobe, and Aunt Ellen smoked a doobie and invited us to explore the place. “You guys don’t have to worry about anything,” she said. “You’re family here.” Despite my uncle’s scandalously naked pale hairy thigh and the unaccustomed sickly-sweet reek of marijuana smoke, I had the feeling that it was all going to be OK.
The place was an old apple farm, long gone fallow. It was a sort of heaven for able-bodied kids to explore: there were acres and acres of rolling hills, studded with grassy meadows and bent and gnarled old trees; there were any number of old outbuildings in various states of falling down-ness and disrepair; there was a huge and stately old red barn with an alluring and deeply-dangerous looking hayloft. Ryan and Tacoma promptly disappeared, often all day long, coming home for dinner sunburned, sweaty, scraped-up, muddy, and full of glee.
Me, I kept mostly to the house, which was plenty interesting and challenging all by itself. The place was huge. I never counted rooms, but there must have been well over a dozen. There were three stories, plus an oppressively hot and dusty attic, and all the bedrooms were on the second and third floors. The stairs were tough, steep and winding and more than a little scary, but they were a challenge I was up for, not like the hundred-year old homemade ladder up to the hayloft. While my older brother and sister tore around the property and the surrounding countryside, I methodically explored the house, from the dank and musty basement to the hot and gabled attic. Including, not incidentally, my aunt and uncle’s bedrooms.
Aunt Ellen and Uncle John were not a conventional couple; we figured that out pretty much right away. Aside from the fact that they both smoked a lot of dope (they offered us some; Tacoma and I declined, but Ryan sometimes took them up on it); and the fact that they both had a habit of walking around half- or more than half-naked; aside from all that, they both had separate bedrooms, and from time to time there would be strange cars parked in the driveway at night, cars that would be gone by morning. I can’t have been the only one who noticed that.
They were both professors, and taught at the local community college. They both had summer classes, so they were usually gone for a large portion of the day, which facilitated my mission, because I wasn’t very good at moving quietly around the house.
Aunt Ellen had a huge—and I mean huge—collection of sex toys. It filled an entire drawer in her dresser, and ranged from small and discreet to enormous and frightening. Some of that stuff I didn’t have any clue what you were even supposed to do with. I figured she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a small, lipstick-shaped vibrator. She would probably never even notice it was missing.
I found a treasure trove of pornography in Uncle John’s room: some VHS tapes and DVDs, but mainly books and magazines. And to my glee, they mainly featured guys. Naked, muscular, well-endowed young guys, erect and flaccid, posing alone or in groups, fucking and getting fucked. I had pretty much hit the jackpot.
Well, whacking off with a stolen vibrator to glossy pictures of teenage boys fucking each other was plenty hot for a summer afternoon or two, but the truth is it mostly just made me hungry for more. I hadn’t gone invisible much yet that summer; there hadn’t really been any reason to, but I decided it was high time I put my superpower to good use.
They rolled in well after midnight. We had all had dinner together (Uncle John always did the cooking), watched some PBS, and then gone to bed. I hadn’t heard them leave, but I did hear them come back. I sat up in bed when I heard the front door slam. I set my jaw, concentrating hard, and went invisible. As quietly as possible, I got up, put on my braces, and then slowly and agonizingly, one foot in front of the other, I traversed my bedroom floor, cracked the door, and peeked out into the hallway.
I was just in time for them to breeze past me. There were four of them: My aunt and uncle, and two girls I didn’t recognize. They reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and marijuana. They were trying to be quiet, but they weren’t succeeding very well. Staying invisible, I followed them up to the third floor, where Aunt Ellen and Uncle John had their bedrooms. Climbing the stairs was terrifying and painfully slow.
Once I was up the stairs, I maneuvered along the hallway as quietly as I could with my canes and braces. The door to Aunt Ellen’s bedroom was ajar. It was almost as if they wanted to get caught. (Maybe that’s exactly what they wanted. That hypothesis didn’t occur to me until much later.)
Secure in my invisibility, I took my time, stealthily creeping into the bedroom and standing by the wall. I probably needn’t have bothered. I doubt they would have noticed me if I’d been fully visible and wearing a Day-Glo safety vest.
The two girls were fairly pretty, a little older than my sister Tacoma. One girl had a mop of curly, chestnut-brown hair. She was a skinny thing, with small, bouncy breasts, not much bigger than my own. The other one was a little chunkier, almost Rubenesque. She was a redhead. They were both dwarfed by the bulk of my aunt and uncle. Uncle John was completely nude. He was splayed out in an easy chair by the bed, jerking off. He had salt-and-pepper pubes, and enormous hairy balls that jiggled and shifted as he masturbated.
Aunt Ellen was flat on her back on the bed. She was naked as well. She was fat, and she had truly immense breasts, and she had her face buried in the skinny girl’s hairless crotch. I could see the wetness, hear the squelching as she licked. The other girl was lying on her stomach, between Aunt Ellen’s monstrous thighs. She was still wearing her lilac panties, and she was busy licking my aunt’s pussy.
I stuck my hand inside my own pajamas, and ran my fingers up and down my slit. I was already sopping wet, and my clit was humming. I began to masturbate in earnest. It was difficult to whack off and stay invisible at the same time, and I may have flickered in and out a little, but like I said before, I don’t think it mattered. They certainly didn’t notice me. They had other things on their minds.
Aunt Ellen licked her fingers, and inserted two of them into the skinny brunette’s asshole. The girl grunted and grimaced, using her hands to spread her ass cheeks wider to give Aunt Ellen better access. Aunt Ellen craned her head, the veins in her neck sticking out, keeping her extended tongue on the girl’s juicy slit, while she finger-fucked her asshole. The girl who had been eating her out scrambled up, straddled her thick leg, and started dragging her pantied crotch back and forth along Aunt Ellen’s thigh. The two girls began kissing each other and playing with each other’s breasts.
Uncle John stood up (his back mostly to me, unfortunately), and started frantically jerking off. He made a sound like a tractor-trailer downshifting, and splattered his come all over the females on the bed. This seemed to set Aunt Ellen off, and she came, screeching like poorly-oiled machinery. I wondered why I’d never heard them before. The reason, I think, was the old house: thick plaster walls and timbers.
Aunt Ellen went to work on the two girl in a serious way, keeping her fingers crammed up inside the skinny one’s ass, she licked up the semen that had splashed across them; and then with both girls lying on their backs on the bed, she alternated licking their pussies, the skinny girls shaved and puffy vulva and lapping the bigger girl through the wet crotch of her panties. She licked and finger-fucked them until they both came.
That was just too much for me. I wanted to come like an overinflated balloon wants to pop. But one thing I couldn’t do was orgasm and stay invisible. It may be that they were too wrapped up in their own orgy to have even noticed me, but I wasn’t about to put that to the test. Pulling up my pajama bottoms (that had somehow crumbled down around my ankles), I gathered my canes and began the long, arduous journey back to my own bed, where I could finish the job properly. And that I did, masturbating until I was sore and silly.
I didn’t get another opportunity for a while, but when I did I jumped on it. I was in the kitchen one hot August afternoon, and looking back, I may have been invisible without realizing it. I had started doing that from time to time. Uncle John and Aunt Ellen walked through the room on their way out to the garden. Uncle John was wearing cut-off shorts that were cut off distressingly high and nothing else; Aunt Ellen was wearing a hideous floral summer dress that violated every known law of aesthetics and barely contained her huge breasts. As they passed, I heard Aunt Ellen say “…going to pick up your sweet little boy toy tonight…”
That was all I needed to hear.
I heard them leave this time. They were actually really quiet and discreet about it, tiptoeing out of the house after we had all gone to bed and not turning on their headlights until they had pulled out of the driveway, but I was listening for them, and I heard the front door click as it closed. I made my painfully slow way upstairs, let myself into Uncle John’s room, sat down on the easy chair, and settled down to wait.
As it happened, I barely had to wait at all.
They pulled into the driveway, and I hastily went invisible. I stood in a corner with my braces leaning up against the wall; the last thing I needed was for somebody to bump into me or accidentally sit on my lap.
The boy looked like a dark-hair Tintin with glasses. He was that cute! He looked like he was about my age, but I’m sure he was older than he appeared: my Aunt and Uncle may have been perverts, but I don’t think they were pedophiles; and he had a big Soviet sickle-and-hammer emblem tattooed across his hairless chest.
The scene this time was much slower and more languid than before. They all three got naked (Tintin had a nice, big, delicious-looking dick that was already hard and waggled as he moved), and smoked something sweet and sickly out of a funky glass pipe that made me a little light-headed. The three of them kissed a lot, sharing the smoke, which smelled like marijuana only more so, and touched each other. Tintin’s penis never flagged; Uncle John and Aunt Ellen seemed to make a point of not touching it, which only seemed to make it harder and more eagerly erect. Uncle John produced a big syringe full of yellow liquid; I hate needles and I flinched as I watched, but I couldn’t make myself look away. First he injected about half the syringe into his own arm, and then he changed needles and gave Tintin a shot in the inner thigh.
The boy looked disoriented, and Uncle John grinned and tweaked both his nipples, hard. Then Aunt Ellen fetched a vibrator that looked more like an industrial kitchen utensil than a sex toy, plugged it in, and turned down the lights. She sprawled out on the bed next to the guys, with the huge white vibrator humming between her thighs. Uncle John lay on his back, and Tintin lay on top of him, in a 69.
I had an absolutely gorgeous view of Uncle John with his head between Tintin’s thighs, licking and kissing and nibbling on that beautiful engorged cock. Every now and then he would divert himself by playing with the boy’s wrinkled ball sac or asshole, but mostly he just slurped at his cock like it was a particularly tasty gobstopper. I wished I could see what Tintin was doing to him, but all I could see was his unruly dark hair bobbing up and down between Uncle John’s thighs. I didn’t want to move around much to get a better view; I was afraid of getting caught.
They went at it for ages! I watched two hours tick by on the clock while they suckled each other and Aunt Ellen lazily masturbated next to them. My pussy was drenched: my juices were literally running down my thighs, and my clit hurt. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, Tintin squealed and came, squirting what I swear looked like several gallons of semen all over Uncle John’s red, chubby face.
Aunt Ellen laughed out loud. Uncle John, viscous white come still streaming down his cheeks, lips, nose, and forehead in sticky little rivulets, squirmed out from under young Tintin, got up on his knees, and vigorously jerked off into the boy’s open mouth.
Uncle John stood up, his fat balls swinging halfway down to his knees, went to the bathroom and washed his face and pissed, all with the door wide open. Aunt Ellen watched Tintin get dressed (I discovered that I adore watching a cute naked guy get dressed), got dressed herself, and took the rather dazed-looking fellow down to the truck. Presumably she gave him a ride home. Uncle John, meanwhile, went to bed.
It was torture getting out of that bedroom. Uncle John snored. The floorboards wanted to squeak under me. My cunt ached. Aunt Ellen had closed the door tight behind her. It took me half a century to gingerly tiptoe out into the hallway. Once I was finally safe, I couldn’t even wait to make it back to my own bedroom. I sat down at the top of the stairwell, spread my legs, and rubbed out a massive orgasm right there. I don’t know if I had ever come so powerfully before. It was the kind of orgasm that seemed to go on and on, like the perfect wave, curling my toes and making my nipples tingle. It made me wish I had a video camera so I could make a recording of myself coming, just so I could whack off to it again later on. Anyone who says girls don’t get off on visual imagery is insane in my book.
I didn’t spend all my time that summer indoors. Sometimes we went to the park, and we all went swimming a couple times, which was fun, and I did a little exploring of my own around the yard. It was just hard because of my mobility.
One night, when it was too hot and humid to sleep, I watched (invisible and from a safe distance) as Uncle John and Aunt Ellen strung a boy up from a twisted and gnarled old apple tree. They stripped him naked, bound his wrists, and hoisted him up until his feet kicked wildly a few inches above the grass. I don’t think it was the same boy as before; this one seemed a little fatter, and I didn’t see the communist sickle and hammer tattoo on his chest. Aunt Ellen and Uncle John took turns sucking his dick and whipping his backside with a willow branch. He howled like a coyote!
Finally, Aunt Ellen cut him down with a scary-looking rigger’s knife. He collapsed, and Uncle John pissed all over his face while Aunt Ellen cackled with laughter, jagged and uproarious. Then they watched while he jerked off, and I felt compelled to join him, curled up in the tall grass, one finger jammed up my asshole while I strummed my clit underneath ten thousand bright and merciless stars.
One hot and sultry day toward the end of August, they took me to the country fair. Ryan and Tacoma declined to go, so it was just the three of us. I had never been to anything like it, and I had a blast! It was a redneck freak show, a raucous anarchy of the senses. We ate sickly-sweet cotton candy and rode the Ferris wheel, and my whole body clenched with the thrill of it. I’ve never been comfortable with heights, and the construction seemed rickety at best. I thought there was a good chance I might die up there, but I didn’t.
The whole time, I felt like Uncle John and Aunt Ellen were on the verge of propositioning me, asking me to join them for some crazy kinky sex. The prospect set me on edge, twisted my stomach, made my pussy salivate and my clit swell and throb, and made me all jumpy and nervous. But there was no innuendo, neither one of them said anything in the least bit inappropriate or suggestive, and when they dropped me off at the farm late that afternoon (they both had faculty meetings at the college to attend, the new semester was getting ready to begin), I couldn’t decide if I was more disappointed or relieved.
On impulse, as their pickup truck pulled out of the driveway, I made my slow and jerky way out to the barn. I had the place to myself; Tacoma and Ryan were out and about. I didn’t have anything particular in mind other than some exploring, and possibly some out-of-doors masturbation. I had slipped my little ‘borrowed’ vibrator into my pants pocket that morning just in case I felt like having a little ‘quiet moment’, and now I thought might be the perfect time to indulge myself, in the quiet musty shade of the old barn.
I slipped in through the enormous barn door that didn’t close all the way, into the cavernous dark and shadowy interior.
As soon as I realized I wasn’t alone, I went invisible.
She was down on all fours on the dusty wooden floor, and he was behind her. They were fucking.
It was my sister Tacoma and my brother Ryan. I could hear them grunting, breathing hard. I could hear his cock squish-squelching in and out of her pussy. She was naked; he was wearing sandals and a white t-shirt.
Tacoma had bigger boobs than I had ever really realized. They hung down like a pair of fat, ripe cantaloupes. I watched, transfixed, as they fucked. My cunt was squishy and wet. I remember thinking ‘They should really be using a condom.’
Ryan pulled his dick out of Tacoma, and she mewed like a kitten. He had a nice-looking cock, not too big, with a well-defined head and a pronounced upward curve. His penis was shiny with Tacoma’s juices, and the crown was bright red and eager. They stood up and kissed, not like a brother and sister kiss, not at all.
Ryan put his hands above his head, Superman-style, and jumped. He did it casually, with no apparent effort. He jumped higher than should have been possible for anyone except maybe an Olympic high-jumper or an NBA star. He caught a rafter with both hands, and hung there, swinging slightly, his crotch right at Tacoma’s face level. I felt a powerful rush of jealousy as I watched, fingering my pussy; not just jealousy for the sex they were having, but jealousy for their able bodies and their agility.
While Ryan dangled from the beam, Tacoma popped the crown of his penis into her mouth, and clasped her hands together as if she was praying. Ryan kicked his legs as she ran her hands quickly up and down the shaft of his cock.
“I’m coming!” he wailed out. Tacoma let his cock pop out of her mouth, but her hands never stopped moving. His stomach tensed, and he squirted pearly-white come all over her tits. I wished I had breasts like that.
When he was all done, he dropped to the floor with a thunk. They kissed a little more, and he rubbed his semen like lotion all over Tacoma’s breasts. Then he pulled on his pants, and left.
She tossed her hair and stared searchingly all around the empty barn, making me flinch.
“I know you’re in here!”
I froze, hand crammed guiltily inside my panties. I concentrated as hard as I could on staying invisible, and tried not to breathe.
“You think you’re so sly, you invisible little skank! If you ever tell anyone—anyone—I’ll fucking kill you. You slimy little cunt, I swear to God, I’ll fucking murder you.” She bundled up her clothes, and stalked out of the barn.
A couple of miserable days went by. I avoided Tacoma as much as possible, and didn’t go invisible at all. Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any more, I pulled her aside and apologized.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I shouldn’t have watched. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
“You shouldn’t use your powers to spy on people,” Tacoma said. “It’s really lame.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I won’t do it again.”
“It’s OK,” Tacoma said, squeezing my hand. “Tell me though, did we look hot together?”
“You two looked really hot together.”
Tacoma smiled. “Good. Come out to the barn with me, I want to show you something.”
We walked together out to the barn. She was patient with my snail’s pace, which just made me feel all the more frustrated for being slow.
Once inside, she pointed to the rickety old ladder that led up to the hay loft. “Climb it,” she said. “Go ahead, don’t be scared. I’ll help.”
Climbing that horrible old ladder was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life. Tacoma helped me though, guiding my legs and holding my feet and talking soothingly to me the whole time. It felt like it took hours, but we finally made it up into the loft. I was covered in sweat, and I felt like puking.
Tacoma wasn’t even out of breath. She stepped lightly over to the edge. Just watching her do that made me dizzy. “Stop it,” I said. “Come back!”
“Watch this,” Tacoma said, and she stepped casually off the edge of the hayloft, out into space.
I started to scream, but instead of plunging the twenty feet down to the floor and shattering her femur or breaking her back, Tacoma just hovered there, like a graceful, long-legged dragonfly.
“I can fly,” she said with a secret little smile. “You can too. Go ahead, try it!”
I shuffled hesitantly closer to the edge. Tacoma took my hand in hers. I swallowed hard, mouth dry as dust, and stepped out into the abyss.