A VIVID DREAM
Hailey worshipped her brother, Martin, and with good reason. He was tall, six feet four in his socks, with broad shoulders, strong arms and powerful legs, and he was super fit because of a rigid training regime. While still at school, he had regularly won gold medals at the annual South African gymnastic competitions, and had played Craven Week rugby during his final two years at school. He had now completed his degree, majoring in Sports Science and Physical Education, regularly played flank forward for the Maties' (Stellenbosch University's) first team, and had been selected for the provincial team to play six games in Europe during the rugby season in the northern hemisphere. His coach was sure he would be playing for the Springboks soon - he was that good. And, what was more, he was a hit with the girls: there was never a shortage of bed partners for him, sometimes more than one!, but only
after
games, so as not to sap his stamina during a match! That was the value of doing Sport Science: he knew his Human Anatomy, Physiology and Psychology back to front, and had early on realized that even a jet cannot fly without the proper fuel.
His beautiful, dark-haired sister was no mean athlete either. Her tallness - five feet ten inches - made her a formidable sprinter and tennis player. She broke all the school records for the 100, 200 and 400 metres from under-12 right up to under-19, was a freestyle swimming champ, and now, in her matric year, she was the school hockey captain and chief goal scorer; she had recently been selected to play in a national tournament in Johannesburg during the short spring break in the first week of October. There was not much fat on her body, hence her breasts were small, which explains why she did not really have boyfriends: they suffered from the usual male preoccupation with big boobs, as though only girls with melon-sized tits could be passionate - and they also liked their girls a little shorter than themselves. Hailey, however, had no shortage of oestrogen and her desire for a male was like a fire in her loins, but it was mostly her own hand which had to quench that fire.
It was the weekend before the start of the spring break and, for once, brother and sister were at home together. It was a summery, windless day in the Cape, the sort of day when Capetonians would flock to the beaches to soak up the sun after the long winter with its drizzly weather, and feast their eyes on human flesh, because 'man' (which includes 'woman') is essentially a glutton for such a display, going for the slim and trim even when they were floppy and flabby themselves.
'What are your plans for the day, kids,' their dad enquired at breakfast. 'Do you want to go and display your shape at Clifton, or perhaps in the somewhat warmer waters of Muizenberg today, or what?'
'Oh, hell, no, dad,' Martin replied. 'I would prefer a quiet day at our own pool, sipping a Savannah Dry while dipping into a thriller. I get too little time to read nowadays.'
'What about you, Hailey?'
'I think I'd also rather stay at home, too, dad. I'm sure it will be a nice day at the beach, but we are currently in the middle of writing our end-of-term tests and I plan to rather study in order to qualify for a scholarship.'
'Okay, your mother and I plan to spend the day at the Waterfront, take in a movie on the big screen, and enjoy a dinner of freshly caught kingklip afterwards. There are steaks in the freezer, so help yourselves, and enjoy the day.'
They left at ten o'clock in pursuit of their agenda.
Hailey put on her new red tanga, picked up the bottle of suntan lotion and her Geography textbook, and went to the pool. Martin was already there, dressed in tight-fitting swim trunks, and lounging on a deck chair with a paperback in hand. He looked up when he caught the movement, gave an admiring glance at his sister, and said, 'You look good enough to eat, sis!'
She grimaced. 'I wish!' She sat down next to him, put her book down and opened the bottle of suntan oil.
'You don't sound too happy for a hockey champ! What is the problem?'
'The problem is boys, Martin. They're all bloody wimps! I'm eighteen years old and have not had a really warm cuddle yet.'
'Upstairs or downstairs?'
'Both! Just a bit of fingering in my pussy in the cinema a couple of times. I guess it is because I don't have big tits.'
'Yes, big boobs are a good landing spot for male hands, whence they can wander elsewhere. But your tanga certainly shows off your tits quite well: they may be small, but they look good, and the discerning male will notice that. For me, it's the difference between a bus and a Lamborghini: the bus may be big, but the Lamborghini has much more attractive lines - and it is pleasure to drive! It depends on the type of ride you want!'
'I wish the boys would realise that, Martin. God's truth, man, I want those hands on my body. I'm tired of frigging myself!'
Martin put his book down and looked intently at his sister. 'I think your pitch is wrong, Hailey.'
'What do you mean?'
'You come across as a strong woman, almost mannish, because you are tall and a good athlete. The boys feel intimidated by you.'
'So, what is the solution? Should I stop playing tennis, or maybe have an op to make me six inches shorter? It would be easier to have a breast implant! Cheaper too!'
