The Tabatha Diaries – by Andy Hall

Family Incest stories: The Tabatha Diaries – by Andy Hall. Most of what I’m about to tell you actually happened. But I strongly believe that truth, diluted with even the smallest amount of fiction, is fiction. The irony is that many of you will want to doubt the truth and believe the fiction.

Family Incest stories: The Tabatha Diaries – Chapter 1

by Andy Hall

Fiction, First Time, Incest, Teen Male/Teen Female

I have a very strong memory of my first proper wet dream. I’m not sure whether all men remember their first wet dream, but I certainly do. It was significant at the time and it became even more significant as time went on.

I say “proper” wet dream because for many months before that I was having sexual dreams and waking up with wet shorts. It was very confusing at the time. My mum had avoided the “birds and bees” conversation by giving me a sex education text book. It was in the days before Google and Wikipedia. I read the book from cover to cover a few times. It said that semen was white. Mine seemed to be clear. The book didn’t mention precum. I didn’t realise that my body was producing precum in volumes that wet my pants like a load of semen. I thought I was having orgasms in my sleep when I wasn’t.

It was my Art teacher, Jenny Christie, who taught me the difference. Ms Christie had dark brown curly hair — almost black — and it always looked wet. She would have been very good looking if it weren’t for an almost permanent sneer distorting her features. I couldn’t understand why a woman who was so pretty could be so angry and unhappy. I realise now that teaching teenage boys is enough to make anyone permanently frustrated and angry. But Ms Christie had an even bigger problem. Two of them, in fact. She was blessed with two of the biggest, roundest, most beautiful breasts I had ever seen. She also had a generous hour-glass figure, with a narrow waist and a big bum, but in those days I only had eyes for those gorgeous jugs, with the yawning brown cleavage between them and the big nipples showing through the thin fabric of her stretchy tops. From the beginning, I’ve been a sucker for big nipples.

No wonder she sneered at us as we ogled and giggled. No doubt she was irritated by the older boys wolf whistling behind her back. It must have been hard to be the only woman with any sex appeal at a Catholic boys’ school. Most of the other teachers were men and the few women were older and much less attractive.

No wonder Jenny Christie featured in my dreams.

The sex ed book that Mum gave me said that masturbating was normal. But in Religion class, Father Shane told us that “touching yourself” is a sin. I asked Mum about it one night and she got all embarrassed and mumbled something about never having any problem adhering to Church doctrine in that regard.

“But I know it’s more difficult for teenage boys. If your father was here . . .” her voice trailed off as it often did when she talked about my father. He was an alcoholic who we ran away from when I was two years old. He died a few years later and I never got to know him. It was news to me now that he was an expert on masturbation.

Then she caught me off guard. “Do you have wet dreams, Andy?” I admitted, sheepishly, that I did (not knowing that I actually hadn’t had one yet). “Good!” she said, and I was a bit surprised at her reaction. “It’s okay, Andy,” she added quickly, seeing my confusion. “It’s not a sin to have a wet dream. In fact, wet dreams are God’s way of relieving boys from the temptation of masturbation.”

It all seems like Irish Catholic mumbo jumbo now. But at the time it put the fear of God in me. I’d never had a problem with any of the ten Commandments before. But this masturbation thing was really tempting. The Devil would do his dirty work in my idle hands.

Luckily, Jenny Christie was my Art teacher and not my neighbour’s wife, so I could covet her all I liked. Especially before bed time. And if I could just keep my mind focused and my hands idle until I fell asleep, I could have one of these wet dreams that God and my Mum wanted me to have.

Before the conversation with my mum, I was vaguely aware that these dreams were enjoyable, but none were particularly memorable. Then I drifted off to sleep one night and everything changed.

I was at school. I was walking along the corridor between classes with my friends. I was angry about something. My friend Russell was shouting at me and I was shouting back.

“She’s not a slut!” I yelled at him.

“He didn’t say she was a slut. He just said she looks like a slut.”

Suddenly we were at the door to the Art room and Jenny Christie was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a stretchy red top with a deep scoop neck. She had her arms folded under her magnificent boobs. Her collection of tits and cleavage and nipples spilled out of her arms as she leaned down, sneering, and said to Russell: “Who looks like a slut, Mr Lane?” My anger vanished as I gawped at her yawning cleavage. My sleeping, dreaming self became vaguely aware of a spreading warmth in my pants as if I had wet myself.

“Sorry, Ms Christie,” Russell was saying. “I know I shouldn’t use bad language. But it wasn’t me who said it. I was just telling Andy that my brother thinks Britney Spears looks like a slut. Andy’s got a poster of Britney Spears on his bedroom wall and she’s wearing this red, er, dress and . . .”

I began to feel anxious that we were going to get in a lot of trouble, because I could see now that Ms Christie’s tight fitting red top was, in fact, a slinky red cocktail dress almost exactly like the one worn by Britney in the poster over my bed. I had studied that poster and I knew every detail. I knew that the faintest shadow of a nipple protruded through the sheer fabric over her right breast, but the left nipple was not visible. I knew that the front panel of the dress didn’t completely cover the pale white side of her right breast, but where it did the dress was a lighter shade of red. In short, I knew that Britney was not wearing a bra and the details of her right breast were deliciously obvious to the male gaze.

As I now studied Jenny Christie’s right breast the same details emerged. In my dream, I felt my erection straining in my school shorts.

“Are you right there, Hall?” snapped Ms Christie as she turned her sneer loose on me instead of Russell. My heart leapt in fright. How was I going to explain why I had my face up close to my Art teacher’s big braless tits?

“I’m just trying to get the shading right in this sketch, Ms Christie.” In that strange way of dreams, the scene had morphed seamlessly into another one and I now had my sketch pad open on my lap (conveniently covering my erection) and a pencil in my hand and there was a half-completed sketch of Ms Christie reclined on a chaise-lounge. She was posed very seductively for a teacher, with her dress riding high up her bare thighs. I looked up to check the accuracy of the sketch and, sure enough, Ms Christie was there in the middle of the Art room, posing on a chaise lounge with all my classmates circled around, drawing intently.

Russell was sitting beside me and I could see, as he leaned over to whisper in my ear, that he had drawn Ms Christie’s dress riding higher on her thighs and he had a fuzz of wild pubic hair emerging from between her legs.

“I told you she was a slut,” he whispered. “Watch this.” He put down his sketch pad and pen and walked over to the teacher and ran his hand gently up the cleavage between her thighs, from just above her knees to the hemline of her red dress. His hand collected the hem and kept going, pushing it further up to the tops of her thighs. I watched with my heart pounding at his audacity. When he took his hand away there was a tuft of black pubic hair peeping out from under her dress, just like his sketch. Russell was looking back at me and smiling a wicked smile. I looked to Ms Christie’s face expecting her to be angry, but she was smiling.

That’s funny, I thought. I’ve never seen her smile before. She must like it.

I looked back at my own sketch and used an eraser to rub out the sneer on her face and the hemline which was now drawn too far down her thighs. As I leaned on the pad with the eraser, I was aware of my erection underneath. It was pressing uncomfortably against the cardboard backing of the pad.

This is where the dream started to get weird.

I realised as I sat there, on a school chair, with a sketch pad on my lap, that I wasn’t wearing any pants. I mentally kicked myself for forgetting to put pants on this morning and wondered how I had gotten this far through the school day without noticing it before.

“If I just sit here, with the sketch pad covering me,” I said to myself, “perhaps no one will notice.”

I kept drawing to pretend everything was normal. But as I drew a smile on the face of Ms Christie, it didn’t look right. In fact, it didn’t look like Ms Christie any more. It looked like my sister, Tabatha.

That’s funny, I thought. I never noticed a resemblance between Tabatha and Jenny Christie before. Tabatha’s got much smaller tits for a start. And a smaller arse.

I looked up and Russell still had that wicked grin on his face.

“You see?” he said. “I told you she was a slut.”

I looked down at his hand, and it had half disappeared under the hem of the red dress. I realised with mounting excitement that he was fingering her pussy. I’d heard stories about girls getting fingered, but I’d never done it myself. The idea of Russell fingering Ms Christie was perversely exciting. But my excitement turned to horror as I looked over to the face of the girl who my friend was fingering and realised it was Tabatha. She was not sneering or smiling, but she was looking at me with an intensity that could have been anger or something else.

“STOP IT, RUSSELL!” I shouted. I lunged at him, to grab his hand and pull his fingers out of my sister’s vagina. But Russell was quick and dodged out of the way. As if in slow motion, I saw my grasping hand slip between my sister’s creamy thighs, to the exact spot where Russell’s hand had been.