So that evening I was standing outside her door with a chloroform soaked pad in a sealed plastic wallet in my jacket pocket and very clear instruction... from Harry once again not to "fuck this one up either."Amanda let me in. She was looking cute. Like I say, I hadn't seen her for a while. It looked as if she'd dropped a few pounds. She was wearing a shirt and jeans, they were tight and I liked the effect. She'd left the shirt unbuttoned enough to show a hint of cleavage. I guessed that her. “All day, every day, whenever you’re at home you’re doing favors for your brother.”Nod.“Whenever he orders you to do something, you obey immediately.”Nod.“You’re in a constant sexual haze, aren’t you?”“Yesss...”“One day, he mentions that he likes your tight blue jeans. What do you do?”There was a pause - it was so brief that if I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have thought that she’d answered immediately. But it was there.“I put on my tight blue jeans.”“Why?”“Because...”Again, that tiny. I saw the blunt head of his thing disappear over the curve of my tummy, and I caught my breath.I could see him push forward, and almost flinched at the first touch. There is nothing, and I mean nothing that feels like a man sliding into you. I've used my fingers and a hairbrush, and I've had tongues and someone's fingers down there. It isn't the same. A guy's manhood opens you up, stretching you out and filling you as he slides it in. Every nerve is on alert, and every one of them tells you. . ) have always maintained that fantasies (of any kind) are okay so long as you don't try to act them out. [Obviously, dreaming of flying like a super hero should not give you the idea that you can leap from a tall building ... duh!]But at fifteen and under control by hormones totally unfamiliar to me, and similarly to others, there's sometimes a blurred line that we accidentally cross.So at the age of fifteen and proud of myself for getting into my high school frat (the hazing was annoying), I.