Betty the All-American Cock Tease

INTRODUCTION - Pretty blonde All-American tomboy Betty already has a handsome boyfriend, but cannot resist teasing Eric, the nervous and awkward 18-year-old mama's boy next door, who has long had an unrequited crush on his neighbour and classmate. What will Betty do to tease Eric this weekend? Travel back in time to post-war America, meet Betty and find out for yourself.

Please note that this story, an entry in the Nude Day Story Contest 2022 has some scenes involving voyeurism of Betty when she is using the toilet or having her period, so if these themes aren't your thing, this story may not be for you. Otherwise, enjoy and rate and comment. All characters and situations are fictional, and similarity to real persons living or dead coincidental and unintentional. Only characters aged 18 and older are involved in any sexual situations.

*

MAINE USA 1948

From the time I emerged into the world in October 1929, I had always been an early riser. More parents have problems with getting their young children to go to bed and settle in the evening. I was never like this when I was a little girl, but I had the opposite problem. Regardless of the season, I would be awake well before dawn, pestering my twin brother Johnny to wake up too and play with me, or going downstairs to the living room to try and turn on Mom and Dad's radio.

I think my Dad's boss always wondered why he was so early for work most days. I once overheard my grandmother suggesting to my mother, "Alice, why don't you put a little whiskey into Betty's hot milk before bed? That way she will sleep through the night, and you and Harry can enjoy a good nights' sleep." I don't think Mom ever tried that trick with me, maybe Grandma did it with Mom and her sister during their formative years, I couldn't say.

Years later and I was no longer a little girl, I had turned 18 last fall, was a senior in high school and would graduate in a few months' time as part of the Class of 1948, as would my twin brother and our friends. I still had the habit of rising early, but now would use the time to study. With such a busy schedule in my final year of high school, time to hit the books among fitting everything else in was limited.

This morning I wasn't studying after I awoke at 4.30. Instead I got out of bed, smoothing down my nightdress, adjusting my panties around my bottom as they had ridden up during sleep and walking as quietly as I could on my bare feet, so as not to awaken the other members of my family, all of whom were in deep slumbers in their respective bedrooms.

My destination was the bathroom, and I carried the clothes I would be wearing this morning with me under one arm, for me to change into after I took a shower. But first I needed to sit on the toilet for a while, the call of nature upon wakening obvious.

I opened the bathroom door and turned on the light and exhaust fan, closing and locking the door behind myself, thinking that I was not the earliest riser in the area this morning. So who was up before me? Was it the milkman? Most mornings yes, but this was a Saturday. No, the person up before me was next door, and he had probably been awake for some time in the house next door, hiding behind the curtains in his own bedroom with his binoculars which he always claimed were for bird-watching, eagerly awaiting our bathroom light to illuminate in the darkness of the pre-dawn.

My first stop in the bathroom was the bench near the shower and bathtub, on which I placed my clothes. Then I made my way to the window, opening it and the cool New England early morning spring air fresh off the Atlantic Ocean flowing in.

Why would I open the bathroom window like that? Was it to assist the exhaust fan to extricate any steam when I showered? Was it to assist with removing any unpleasant smells that one associates with bathrooms but best left undiscussed? Sort of in both cases, but it was not the main reason. The reason was that the glass in the bathroom window was frosted to allow privacy. And if the window remained closed, he wouldn't be able to see me.

My vagina tingled between my legs as I walked towards the toilet, knowing he was watching me. I reached behind myself, adjusting my nightdress, giving him a quick glimpse of the white full brief panties I was wearing underneath. Soon he would see a whole lot more of me. However, there would be a slight delay to this.

I stopped short as I reached the toilet, noticing several things. One, the seat was up. Two, there was no toilet paper on the roll holder, just an empty cardboard tube. This was not a surprise. As the only daughter in the family, I shared the bathroom with three brothers, who much as I loved them, hadn't quite figured out that their sister had to do things somewhat differently in the bathroom.

There was my twin brother Johnny of course, and for our formative years our family was a four person nuclear family -- father, mother, son and daughter. Then a few years later my parents must have forgotten how much disruption two babies in the house at once can cause -- late night feeds, changing diapers, teething, crying, colic and the like -- and so in 1935 Johnny and I welcomed our younger brother Andy, and less than a year later our youngest brother Richie came into the world.

The three boys -- who had brown hair like Dad while I was blonde like Mom - seemed to take a 'Betty will fix it' attitude to the bathroom. The toilet seat left up? Betty will put it down next time she goes to the bathroom. No toilet paper? Betty will get some more when she needs to use the toilet, regardless of how much of a hurry Betty might be in or if she has girls' problems. Splashing water out of the shower or bath onto the floor? Betty will mop it up. Spill toothpaste or soap around the sink? Betty will clean it up. A wet towel is left on the floor? Betty will pick it up and hang it on the rail to dry.

With Mom's sister and her husband, they had their kids the other way around to us -- three girls and one boy. And Dad's brother and his wife also had four kids -- two boys and two girls. I don't think my out-numbered male maternal cousin would have dared upset his three sisters by committing the sins of leaving the toilet seat up or no toilet paper for the girls to use.

Sighing and rolling my eyes, I went into the small storage closet and retrieved a roll of toilet paper. As I removed the empty cardboard tube from the roll holder and replaced it with the new toilet roll, I knew he was watching me in eager anticipation, a growing bulge not caused by a hernia at the front of his pants and his trembling fingers on his binoculars trying to focus on me.

I put down the toilet seat, then turned around with my back to it, lifting up my nightdress to expose my white cotton full brief panties I was wearing underneath, knowing my secret voyeur was watching me. Hooking my thumbs into my panty waistband, I pulled them down to my ankles, my triangle of pubic hair growing all over my feminine mound proving I was a natural blonde. I sat down on the toilet, getting my bare bottom nice and comfortable on the somewhat cold toilet seat, sitting with my knees open knowing full well that he was focusing his binoculars upon my crotch.

My vagina was getting very wet knowing he was spying on my genitals, and it wasn't only because I began to pee, the yellow stream emerging from my urethra and tinkling against the porcelain of the toilet bowl and into the water itself, the sound of me urinating filling the bathroom. I knew he was looking at me through the small gap in the drapes, not sure where to look.

Was it at my face that showed my relief as my bladder emptied into the toilet? Was it at my pubic hair and my vagina, visible between my legs? Or was it at my lowered panties and my bare feet? Even when we talked and I happened to be barefoot, he would always be looking down at my bare feet. Perhaps it was to do with his shyness around me having had a crush on me for years, or maybe he liked my feet?

I looked down at my panties as I finished peeing, seeing my creamy colored feminine stains all over the soft double cotton panty saddle, courtesy of my vagina self-cleansing during sleep. Could my voyeur see my private pussy stains on my panties? I hoped so.

Reaching out for the toilet roll, I unwound some toilet paper and applied it to my vagina, wiping away my pee. I let the toilet tissue fall into the bowl, and remained sitting on the toilet to empty my bowels. As I did just this, I knew I was being watched by him, and that he was seeing me do the most personal and private things on the toilet. My vagina tingled, and as I advanced the toilet roll to get more toilet paper to wipe my bottom I felt the tissue sticking to my aroused vulva, before I pulled it backwards to my anus.

Knowing I was being watched while I was sitting on the toilet was so exciting, sort of like a carnival ride at a fair ground, and I relished every moment of it as I sat pooing, intermittently getting toilet paper to wipe my anus. I wouldn't have been so happy had he been in the bathroom with me, it would have been a bit embarrassing to me for him to hear and smell what I was doing on the toilet, but being watched from this distance was very arousing.

Again, I looked down at my lowered panties and bare feet as I moved my bowels, and thought about how last week he saw a lot more when he watched me on the toilet. Lots of guys -- my brothers among them -- seemed to think that the notion that non-pregnant women shed the linings of their uterus every 28 days, the blood flowing down their birth canals and out of their vaginas, a process known as menstruation or having a period was all a myth, probably more wishful thinking on their part. But thanks to his spying on me, my voyeur would have seen that it was all 100 percent true.

For one week each month he got to see me using the toilet while I was on my period -- a process that always took longer due to all the blood that flowed out of me and the rather unfortunate effects menstruation had upon my bowels - my sanitary belt pulled down with my panties, a white rectangular blood-stained napkin attached to it. And when I finished using the toilet he would watch me changing my dirty blood-filled period pad, removing it from the belt and taking a new one and attaching it to the hoops. I would then pull up my sanitary belt, adjusting my new napkin so it would be comfortable between my legs and the right position for me to bleed into, before pulling up my panties to cover my feminine protection.

Being watched during my ladies days doing such private and personal female things was so arousing, and I knew he liked it too. I would place my used period pads in brown paper bags to dispose of in the outside trash, and I would see him hanging around, trying to make it obvious that he wasn't watching me dispose of my napkins and liking what he saw, failing dismally but me never calling him out on it. And another time he was in the pharmacy waiting for a prescription when I walked in and asked the female clerk for sanitary towels. As I paid for the feminine hygiene products, of course sold in plain brown packaging for maximum discretion, I could see that he was trying not to eavesdrop, but that he was very much interested in what I was buying.

Normally having a period was not something I relished -- I had a heavy flow, menstrual cramps and didn't feel my best -- things my female cousins and friends had also complained about when they had their monthlies. No wonder we sometimes called it the curse. And I could not have started my first period on a more significant day when I was aged 12 -- 7 December 1941, the day Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Japanese, bringing America into the war. I sure wasn't going to forget it. So knowing he eagerly anticipated my period each month, I did too.

But just who was 'he'? Was he my boyfriend? No, far from it, I already had a boyfriend named Bobby, one of my brother's best friends and very handsome, we had grown up together, went to high school together and we had been going steady for some time. And there was no way I wanted Bobby to see me using the toilet or having my periods, and there was no way he would want to see this either. My secret voyeur was named Eric, and we had also grown up together and were now seniors in the same high school. Like me, he was born in October 1929, but despite being next door neighbors since our formative years, he wasn't anything like me or any of the other kids in the Maine town we grew up in.

I kept thinking about my neighbor/classmate as I continued to sit on the toilet, my mind taking me back years. I had grown up a typical All-American girl, and something of a tomboy due to my love of sports. During childhood I would more frequently be found outdoors climbing trees, building forts and playing Cowboys and Indians or playing football, baseball and basketball with my brother, male cousins and male friends than indoors playing quietly with the other girls. However, during the cold snowy winters and wet fall and spring days of New England I would be only too happy to stay indoors in the warm with the other girls and play quietly.

Despite my tomboyish ways as a kid, I always had a feminine appearance and wore my blonde hair long, and had no qualms about wearing skirts and dresses. As I grew older and my body changed into that of a young lady, I knew that I was pretty (but of course I was always too modest to say it aloud) and boys found me desirable. Not least Eric, who had had a crush on me for as long as I could remember.

Reaching for some more toilet paper, my memory took me back into the past again, thinking about how different Eric was from all the other kids in the town and surrounding towns in this region of New England. All of us were sports mad, and most of us played a variety of sports. I ran track at school and played for a girls' softball team.

With his tall skinny frame devoid of any muscle tone and his poor eyesight that lead to him wearing glasses that lenses as thick as the bottom of bottles, Eric was not into sports at all, always the last picked and a hindrance rather than a help to the boys in gym class. He was most uncoordinated, and even at age 18 could not throw or catch a ball properly, or run a lap of the oval at school without getting puffed. Most significantly, he was unable to drive an automobile or even ride a bicycle. Seeing Eric setting off on his tricycle to run errands made me feel embarrassed, and I wasn't the one riding the darn tricycle, I had been able to ride a two-wheeler since I was about four.

Eric's life was not helped by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins. The only reason I knew that their first names were Cecily and Fred was because one day the mailman delivered one of their letters to our house by mistake. At first I thought that Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were Eric's grandparents, and that he had been orphaned when younger and raised by his grandmother and grandfather, but no they were his parents. I also speculated that perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were unable to have children, and had adopted Eric from a children's home. But that wasn't the case either, Eric and his father both wore the same thick glasses and looked similar facially so they were biological father and son. However, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins must have been aged at least in their mid-40s when their son was born.

Having such older parents was definitely a hindrance to Eric's social development, as was the fact that he had no brothers and sisters. He was the only true only child I knew. Nor did he have any cousins. His grandparents were all long dead, and the only relative we had ever seen visit the Higgins house in all the time we had been neighbors was his Aunt Edna his mother's sister.

Aunt Edna was very similar to her sister -- I think the two sisters were quite close in age -- but was a lifelong spinster. Both women who sported grey curly hair and glasses constantly looked like they drank juice from unripe lemons and limes, and seemingly disapproved of everything fun in life. Just how Eric was born at all was a bigger mystery than Flight 19. Maybe storks really did deliver infants to families?

While I more rarely encountered Eric's Aunt Edna, I knew Mrs. Higgins had absolutely no time for me. Well not just me, but my brothers and parents too, and the same was true of Eric's father, although Mr. Higgins seldom spoke at all, just mumbled and let his wife do the talking for both of them. Dad had once invited Mr. Higgins and his family over for a barbeque, and the man just stared at him before turning and walking inside and of course they did not come over. Likewise, Mom's invitations to Mrs. Higgins to come over for coffee were always refused.

In our younger years, Johnny and I tried to make friends with Eric, feeling bad for him living all alone with his much older parents. But his mother was having none of it, thinking my brother and I were bad influences upon her son. We invited him to play basketball with us one day in our driveway, an invitation Eric shyly accepted and just when he was coming out of his shell and starting to enjoy himself, his mother came storming across and marched her son back to our house, admonishing Johnny and I for 'introducing her son to contact sports where he could get hurt.

Mrs. Higgins' fears that we were a bad influence only stepped up from late 1941, when America joined the war and our father enlisted in the Navy and our mother had to go back to work. This meant that Johnny and I had to collect our younger brothers from their school, walk them home and babysit them and do chores until our mother returned in the early evening. It taught us responsibility that was for sure, but Mrs. Higgins and her sister were horrified by the situation, referring to us as 'Latchkey Kids' and taking even more steps to protect Eric from us corrupting him.

And it seemed that anything that I did was corrupting upon Eric. Once when I was 13 I accidentally hit a baseball into the Higgins' garden, and Mrs. Higgins was outraged that I asked Eric to throw it back, thinking that I was again trying to get him into sports without her permission. Then in 1943 my grandparents bought me a new Andrews Sisters record for my 14th birthday, and when Eric was passing by with rain starting to fall I invited him in to listen to it.

Eric seemed to like the Andrews Sisters' catchy tunes, shyly saying that his parents only had a wireless to listen to the news and a gramophone on which they would play old records from before 1920, but unfortunately what we didn't know was that Eric's mother had seen him come to our house and followed her son across. Eric was marched home and promised a grounding, while I was afforded a lecture, some glaring and my mother received a letter of complaint about my behavior, this time by encouraging her son to listen to corrupting and hedonistic music.

Five years on, it seemed Mrs. Higgins' attitude to modern music hadn't changed and I was still as bad an influence as ever, Mrs. Higgins clearly having identified me as a floozy in the making. Just several weeks ago I got on Mrs. Higgins wrong side again in town, when I got talking to Eric outside the diner where inside other teenagers were playing the jukebox, listening to Dinah Shore, Jo Stafford and Doris Day. Soon we heard not one but two women clearing their throats in disapproval, and tuned to see not only Eric's mother but his aunt as well. I was glared at like I was a cockroach, rodent or some other type of vermin, while Eric was led away to his aunt's car while getting a lecture from both women.

I think his Aunt Edna's car was the only car that Eric had been in in his life. That he didn't drive wasn't a surprise given his parents did not drive. His mother took the bus everywhere, and his father caught a bus to the office each day and returned every evening the same way. He had done this every day for years, leaving the house at the exact same moment and returning always at the same time, even during the war. Admittedly Mr. Higgins was probably was too old to enlist by 1941, but still, it was odd that his routine never changed during the war, not once. Perhaps he had served in the Great War, but I never asked him, like his wife he didn't like me and I think I had probably exchanged three words with the man in all the time I had known him.