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.

I looked up to see Russell and all the other kids running out of the classroom, leaving me alone with Tabatha in the Art room.

“Yeah, stop it, Russell!” Tabatha called after him. “Let Andy have a go.” And she looked back at me with that strange gaze I’d never seen before.

I looked down at my hand and it disappeared under the silky hem of her red dress. I felt her pubic hair tickling the tips of my fingers and it occurred to me that it felt just like mine. She parted her thighs slightly.

My heart was racing and I could hear Tabatha’s voice, although I was staring at the hand sliding between her thighs.

“You haven’t done this before, have you?” It was the taunting voice of an older sister talking to her inexperienced little brother. Tabatha was two years older than me. But there was something else in her voice. The teasing that becomes a dare. “You’ve never fingered a girl’s pussy before, have you?”

I was shaking my head and thinking, “What will it feel like?”

“You want to know what it feels like?” she taunted.

A warm wetness crept along my finger. I started moving my finger in and out of her warm wet pussy. I was finger fucking my sister’s pussy! Even in the dream I couldn’t believe I was doing it and I couldn’t believe she was letting me do it. Tabatha had her legs spread and she was raised up on her elbows to watch what I was doing, but she threw her head back and writhed with pleasure and I could feel her getting wetter as I fingered her.

So that’s what it feels like, I thought. It felt so good and my cock strained against something. I wanted to keep fingering her and to do it faster and faster. But then I felt a rush of pleasure I had never felt before.

I woke up.

It was a warm summer’s night and I was sleeping only with a sheet over me. I was lying on my back and I could feel my cock twitching. I could hear it too. There was a faint slapping sound like a dying fish in shallow water. There was a big puddle on my flat stomach and my cock was straining out of it and flopping back into it as blood seemed to pulse alternately between my cock and my pounding heart.

I was sleepy and confused and it was dark. I lay there wondering what the hell had just happened. I lifted the sheet and put my hand down to feel what was on my stomach. It was a big pool of cum, of course. I thought I knew what cum was and this felt different and there was more of it. The effort of reaching down crunched my stomach muscles and semen started running off my stomach onto the mattress. It tickled. My cock started to lose its straining hardness and it dropped back into the puddle, dropping the sheet into it at the same time. My mum was going to kill me.

Even when I guessed that I had just had my first proper wet dream, I still lay there, not knowing what to do. I lay there waiting for my heart to calm down.

Then I fell asleep again.

In the morning the sheet was stuck to me like glue. There was a crispy disc of dried cum on the sheet and a matted mess in my pubic hair. And, of course, I awoke with another raging erection.

Then I remembered the dream.

“Eww! Tabatha?” The idea of my sister as a sex fantasy was repulsive to me then – at least, to my waking self. My friends at school talked about models and celebrities and there were plenty of girls to fantasise about, day and night. But Tabatha?

The second thing that disturbed me was that I dreamt of fingering her. This struck me as a slightly disgusting act and I was a bit embarrassed that I should dream about it. Most sex acts are initially distasteful, at least to boys that age, or at least to me, but this one seemed particularly unsavoury.

But the thing that struck me most, was how good her vagina felt in the dream. I had never touched a vagina, let alone a sexually aroused one. How did I know how to imagine what one felt like in a dream? And how did I imagine one that felt so good?

I did my best to clean up the mess and had a shower. When I went down to breakfast, my mum and my sister were already there.

“Here’s my baby!” gushed Mum in her usual way. She fussed over me in a way that I used to enjoy, but now it was just embarrassing. She came up to me and kissed me and asked me what I wanted for breakfast.

Tabatha and I rarely said much to each other in the mornings, and I was embarrassed to even look at her today. She was in her blue and white check school dress and as she sat on the stool at the breakfast bar beside me I could see it was riding quite high on her creamy white thighs. I’d never paid attention to these details before, but my cock twitched in my grey school shorts and I was reminded of my dream again and I blushed.

After Tabatha finished her toast, she hopped down and grabbed her school bag.

“Gotta go, Mum. We’ve got assembly this morning.”

“Bye, love. I’ll pick you up at the usual time.”

Mum followed Tabatha to the hall door and I watched them both. From behind, they were almost identical. Tabatha was the same height as Mum, 5’4”. Each had long, straight, dark brown hair that came half way down her narrow back. Tabatha’s figure was hidden in the conservative cut of her Catholic school girl’s uniform. Only the high hemline, which Mum had helped her sew, gave anything away – showing off Tabatha’s shapely legs. They were too white for my liking. Lily white. I preferred tanned legs. Tabatha didn’t tan. She had her Polish father’s complexion.

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention. Tabatha’s technically my half-sister. We have the same Mum, but her father ran off when Tabatha was still a baby. My Mum didn’t have much luck with men when she was young and after my Dad died she gave up on men and raised us on her own. She had boyfriends from time to time, but never anything too serious.

Mum kept in shape by running. She was in her shorts and running singlet now and I noticed for the first time that morning that her figure was as slim and curvy as Tabatha’s. The same narrow waist. The same creamy . . .

“Don’t go there! Don’t go there!” a voice said in my head. It was bad enough having sexual dreams about my sister. I slipped off the stool without finishing my breakfast and grabbed my school bag too.

“Hey!” said Tabatha as I pushed past her in the hallway.

“Where’s my good-bye kiss, Baby?” called Mum, sounding hurt as I rushed out the front door.

“I’m late, Mum. Bye.” I didn’t think it was a good idea to kiss my Mum with an erection. Or to walk behind my sister on the way to school. Not today. Not with my new appreciation of creamy thighs, or that dream of what was between them.

All through that day, I remembered how good it felt to slip my finger into that warm wet place.

I told Russell that I had a dream that he fingered Ms Christie.

“Eww, that’s so gross!” I was surprised that he seemed genuinely disgusted and so I didn’t share any of the other details.

It was a shame I couldn’t talk about it with anyone. I wanted desperately to know if any of my friends had touched a vagina. If they knew what one felt like. If it really felt like the one I had dreamt about. I’d never felt a vagina. How did my brain imagine something I had never felt? It felt so real and so good. It felt so good it made me come in my sleep. Why would I have an orgasm at that feeling if it wasn’t real?

And my Mum’s words were still bouncing around in my head. Touching myself was sinful. But wet dreams were part of God’s plan. Did God want me to finger my sister?

It was very confusing.

One thing was true. The relief provided by the wet dream made it easier to resist the temptation to masturbate. At least for a day or two. Then I went through this tortuous period of going to sleep wishing for a wet dream and waking up with a very frustrating erection when I didn’t have one.

Over the next couple of months, I had more wet dreams. I didn’t remember them in the morning. I just woke up with a crusty mess in my shorts. Peeing through the eye of a penis glued shut by semen is very painful. I came to learn that God’s plan is messy and painful.

My memory of my sister’s wet pussy might have faded, were it not for a second, very memorable dream not long after the first one.

My bedroom window looked out on the back garden. We had a pool at the bottom of the garden. My Mum and Tabatha didn’t like to swim much. They didn’t want to get their hair wet. But Tabatha used to sunbake on the deck around the pool. I never thought anything of it before. But now I found the sight of my sister in her bathers endlessly fascinating. My Mum told her off for buying bikinis that were too skimpy.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Tabatha, put some clothes on!” she was always saying. Not just about the bathers, but about the short shorts, the mini skirts, the spaghetti straps, the crop tops and the tank tops.

In the second dream, I was sitting on my bed, looking out the window at Tabatha lying on a sunlounge. She was wearing a white bikini. She was lying on her stomach and she had untied the bra straps to avoid tan lines. She had bunched up the small white triangle of fabric on her bum so that most of it was gathered between her legs and in her crack and her plump butt cheeks were bared to the sun. It occurred to me for the first time that Tabatha had a really cute arse. I’d never really paid much attention to it before.

I was in my bathers and I wanted to go down for a swim, but I had an erection that was very obvious and, in my dream, I was embarrassed about Tabatha seeing the bulge in my pants. As I spied on Tabatha through the net curtains, the bulge was getting bigger, not smaller.

Suddenly she moved, tying her bikini top back on and pulling the bottoms out of her crack. I watched her walk up the garden into the house. Tabatha looked up at my window. She shouldn’t be able to see me behind the curtains, but there was something about the way she looked away abruptly and started swinging her hips that made me wonder.

“Good,” I thought. “Now I can go for a swim.”

But then my bedroom door opened and Tabatha walked in. I was startled and my heart jumped. Tabatha had that blazing look in her eyes. The look she had in the Art room in my previous dream.

“You can’t go swimming with that,” she said, and with a subtle nod of her head she indicated my erection. I looked down and realised that I wasn’t wearing any pants.

“That’s funny,” I thought, “I don’t remember taking them off. How embarrassing?”

Tabatha came over to the bed, where I was sitting up with my legs extended down the bed. She roughly pushed me back, so that I was lying down. Then she went to the foot of the bed and pulled me by the ankles until my knees were over the end of the bed and my feet dropped to the floor. She pushed my knees apart and knelt down between them, grabbing hold of my feet again.

“No, this is wrong,” I was saying. My heart was pounding and I was afraid of what she was going to do next. I couldn’t look. I looked at the ceiling above my bed.

Then I felt the warm wetness creeping over my cock. It was the same pleasurable feeling as before. But this time it was my cock that felt the wetness, not my finger. I looked down and Tabatha was sucking my cock. It felt so good. I was writhing in ecstasy but Tabatha was holding my feet to keep me in place.

“No! No, Tabatha! This is wrong!”

Suddenly I woke up. I think I woke myself by calling out in my sleep.

It was daylight. I was staring at the ceiling above my bed, just like in the dream. My heart was pounding with excitement and I had a boner ready to explode, just like in the dream. And there was someone holding my feet!

I sat bolt upright in alarm and looked to the foot of the bed, half expecting to see Tabatha in her white bikini. She wasn’t there. No one was there. The tingling in my feet from poor circulation slowly dissipated. My cock strained and my balls ached. I threw my head back against the pillow and shut my eyes. I tried to go back to sleep, back into that dream, for Tabatha to hold my feet and suck my cock and finish what she started. But it was no good.

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

While I lay there in an agony of sexual frustration, I idly put my finger in my mouth, to feel what the inside of my mouth felt like. Again, I sat bolt upright in alarm. The warm wet lining of my cheek felt exactly like Tabatha’s pussy from my previous dream. I was trying to recreate the feeling of my cock in her mouth, and instead I recreated the feeling of my finger in her pussy. It was astonishing.

It was not until some time later that I came to realise how accurate my dreams had been. When I finger a wet pussy these days, it feels no different from my dream of years ago. And when a woman suck’s my cock, I am reminded of my first unfinished blow job from my sister. At that time I had no actual sexual experience. Not even a kiss. Yet my subconscious mind knew what a pussy felt like, knew what a blow job felt like – before I ever felt them. It is the most incredible thing. Clearly sex is instinctive and we are hard wired to know what to expect. My dreams of Tabatha proved that to me.

For all my innate knowledge of sex through my dreams, my waking self was still a virgin. I had not even experienced a waking orgasm. I did not know how to bring myself to orgasm by masturbating.

But all that was about to change.

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