I didn’t know what to expect so I was withdrawing my hand when she grabbed hold and squeezed it, pressing it into her leg. I squeezed her, rubbed her and then, possibly haunted by past failures, withdrew.
I was disappointed the moment I did. How was I going to get back there again?
Within minutes I found a way. We were talking about success and remembering Casey’s touching story about her grandmother’s struggle with Parkinsonism when I reached back and patted her leg saying, “Well, I heard some great things about your Tuesday story too. You must be very pleased.”
This time I stayed. Slowly caressing her in little arcs up and down her thigh, mid-way up.
“Yes,” she said. “Very pleased.”
I waited a while to catch her eye in the rear view mirror and when I did she was smiling, eyes half-closed.
We continued. Conversation lulled. Road noise swelled. Samantha looked uneasy. “What’s going on?” she asked.
In another life I might have retreated, making some lame excuse. Things were different now. We were in a universe apart drifting along in the isolating shell of our automobile. I decided to go for broke.
“I’m feeling up Casey, “I said.
Casey laughed.
“No!” Samantha said.
“Sure,” I said. “See for yourself.”
Samantha hesitated. I imagined her mixed feelings. Curiosity and then a little something like her own wish to be involved in something risky, exciting, maybe together all these swirling thoughts would be strong enough to push her a little.
“Turn and look,” I said.
As she did I placed the palm of my hand on Casey’s lower abdomen and just as Samantha’s eyes fell on the two of us, I dropped my thumb into the crease between Casey’s legs and pressed.
Casey snapped her legs together, reflexly, cocked her pelvis backward, paused then pressed forward again, forward, back and forward again. The she let her legs fall open, my hand still on her.
Samantha gasped and turned to the front. She drooped her head over as if overtaken by a swoon. Her breathing rippled upward into the nodding of her head. She pressed her own hands together between her thighs and squeezed closed on them, real hard.
I had returned to Casey’s mid thigh a little unsure how she would take the recent events. I treaded water there, vamping as it were, ready to retreat if she wanted me to. I felt her hand touch mine, stroking it, stroking it toward her as if to direct me by suggestion. I began working my way back to the valley I came from. She rose to meet me.
Driving had become interesting.
I was aware I had slowed our car speed during the more intense moments, so I corrected myself periodically by speeding up, gradually, so as not to startle anyone or admit impediment. I paid attention to trucks with high cabs that could look over in to the back seat. I passed them rapidly, slowed down later.
I wanted Samantha not to feel left out. I considered various ways to keep her in. Perhaps she was a voyeur. Everybody is, to some extent.
I was stroking Casey’s short shorts when an idea occurred to me.
“Samantha, why don’t you undo Casey’s shorts a little?”
Samantha trembled. Shook her head. Then as if by victory of one will over another turned to view Casey. Casey had her eyes closed, widening the angle of her legs and slipping down in the car seat making herself more accessible. Samantha watched as I worked my thumb up and down the cleft made by her sex against her shorts. Samantha kept watching. Casey was absorbed in pleasure. Samantha was free to follow her impulses, which, eventually, moved her hand, haltingly at first, to cover mine. Then to the single button at the top of Casey’s shorts which she played with a while as if in worshipful foreplay. Then with one swift gesture, unbuttoned and unzipped her.
Casey lifted her hips. She had given orders to release her. Together we slipped her shorts to the floor.
This would have been the time to stop the car and all of us pile into the back seat and let happen what would happen. But Casey’s connection to the train station was tight. So tight we could afford no stops, not even short ones. I kept driving.
My hand returned to Casey’s thigh, again working methodically toward her sex, this time, as everyone knew, it was going to be skin on skin. Samantha watched until the moment I made contact then turned to the front again, drooping her head forward, breathing deeply. She was as much in this as we were. Just no contact. No touching. I wanted to give her some.
“Show us something,” I said to her.
She straightened up. “What?”
“Your choice.”
“No, people can look in and see me.”
“Just turn toward me. They won’t see or care.”
She thought a minute.
Casey was getting excited. She was making small noises all of us could hear. They seemed to be having an effect on Samantha.
Slowly, Samantha unbuttoned her blouse, turning as she did, letting the leaves of silk fall open as if by their own undoing. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She paused, the blouse part way open, as if waiting for something.
Casey roused and sat forward, putting greater pressure against my hand, and leaned over the seat to look. This, apparently, was all Samantha needed.
She grasped the folds of blouse tenderly and opened them wide, revealing her round, full breasts, weaving and breathing as she moved. Casey let out a little sigh and leaned back. I traced the round tightness of her opening with my thumb and then pushed the tip in. She was very wet.
Still no contact for Samantha. I glanced at her and back to the road. I read her as feeling a little left out.
“You could feel me up,” I said. Then added, “if you want to.”
Casey barked out, “yes, yes, yes. Go for it, Samantha. Go.”
She hesitated. “What do you mean?” she said.
She knew but was too shy to make the move. “This,” I said, and removed my self briefly from Casey to take Samantha’s hand and place it directly on the crotch of my pants. I squeezed her fingers around my cock swollen in its inadequate wrapping. That should get her started, I thought. Then I returned to Casey.
Samantha was getting into it, gripping, pushing. She drew her upper teeth over her lower lip and sucked in her breath as if to contain the little lake of drool that had formed in the cleft of her lip.
“Take it out,” I said.
She unzipped me. She wriggled in through the gap in my boxers and grabbed hold.
She pulled but it was sideways and wouldn’t come out. The tip twisted down to one side.
“I don’t want to hurt it,” she said.
I was thumb deep into Casey by now and her hips were beginning to rock against me, sliding me in and out of her. This conversation roused her again.
“This I gotta see,” she said and leaned forward again, riding squarely on my thumb.
“Pull hard,” Casey said.
She pulled but too gently.
“No, no,” said Casey, reaching over to grasp Samantha’s hand and digging under my pants higher up the shaft, “like this.” She pulled hard, and if flipped out, and in the process, flung a small droplet of mucous from my tip directly onto Samantha’s cheek.
Samantha jumped.
“Oh,sweet,” said Casey.
Samantha laughed, lifted it off with two fingers, and to my amazement, placed the wetness on her tongue and giggled. She looked at me as she closed her lips around her fingers and then withdrew them, her lower lip following a brief distance, lower lip remaining apart, as in a moment of childlike reflection.
Casey reached over, squeezed my tip, rubbed her thumb in a circular motion over its moist precipice, then, seemingly content, leaned back again. I could feel the motions of her pelvis pumping against me. Samantha was pushing back my foreskin, leaning over me cl
oser and closer, now pulling up the foreskin, twisting it round the head, pushing it back down again. My pelvis began to rock involuntarily against her motions, exaggerating the effect. I imagined I was reaching up to her mouth with each thrust, closer, then inside the lips, the teeth, the hollow of her tongue. I could almost feel her closing around me, her saliva, her cheeks, her heat.
Casey was leaning forward again, this time wrapping her arms around mine, humping my thumb and arm as if it were my whole body. Her head was level with my shoulder, her hand drooped loosely on Samantha’s back.
Suddenly I felt, actually felt, Samantha on me. Casey had put her hand on her head and pushed her onto me. As she did Casey cooed with delight.
My driving was losing quality.
I struggled to maintain continuum.
I watched for cops.
I was having the time of my life.
Casey gradually slowed her thrusts, trembling at the tip of my thumb before deepening the thrust again. Each tremble lasted a little longer. Each poised suspension above me, more taught with tension. Her breath came in choked sighs, out-in~pause-out~in-pause, gated, like sobs at the peak of crying. The trembles became shakes became chills became rigors until she came undone, seizing against me, scissoring her legs along my hand and arm, wetting me with her come.
Samantha bit.
I yelped, then quickly whispered, “don’t stop.” The pain ramped me up three levels, instantly.
Casey grabbed my hand with both of hers, pressing me against her and into her with such force I worried it might hurt her. She contorted and then went flaccid. I smeared her mucous over her lips, her thighs, her buttock, her body swaying passively with my motions.
Samantha nibbled at my shaft, my tip, my root. I winced. Casey moved over and began to put on her shorts.
I brought my hand forward, still wet with Casey’s come and slipped it under Samantha’s flowing breasts.
She bit me hard. This charged me to the rim. She sensed my excitement, pumped me three times and plunged me deep into her throat. My body lurched forward, cranking at the waist. I grunted. My feet, by some unseen will, pressed down, accelerating the car to 85 before I could gain control and slow back down.
Samantha sucked me. Then tucked me in. She sat up and casually buttoned her blouse.
We had come to the outskirts of Denver. We were 10 min from the train station. We rode silently. The journey was over. Passengers waiting to disembark.
A minute before the station I flashed a look in the rear view at Casey.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
I was feeling obnoxious. “To see your breasts,” I said.
She whiffed a sigh of disgust and snapped open her blouse and bra like French Doors to the morning sun.
She had child’s breasts. High. Tight. Gorgeous. Pointy and firm. “There, are you satisfied?”
“No,” I said, and reached to cradle the right one, stroking it gently, memorizing its form.
She closed her bra and blouse over my hand. I drug it out, bringing her nipple over the top. She tucked it back in and straightened herself. Put on some lipstick.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t say that,” she snapped, and gathered her things.
We had stopped at the curb. Samantha was out and I popped the trunk for her.
Casey clutched her two small bags and was on the sidewalk. She had ten minutes to make her train. Samantha would walk the two blocks home, alone.
I felt the trunk close. Heard footsteps away. The women were gone.
In the dreamy moment that followed I pondered the curious, wonderful end to my week. How could I have expected this amazing gift. Gratitude. Surprise. Reward after all.
Pleasure surrounded me with a halcyon so strong I couldn’t raise myself to drive. And there was something else. It felt like... a gift. Maybe this was the best outcome of that giving of the self thing my father always preached about. Wow!
But now I worried how the women might feel about this after they had time to reflect. I laughed. Just like a writer, I thought, always hung up on understanding. Just let the story tell itself, for Christ’s sake.
My trance was broken by a tapping at the passenger side window and I turned to see Casey and Samantha, bending over cheek to cheek, pressing their lips against the windowglass. They withdrew, laughed, waved goodbye, and bubbled like schoolgirls as they walked to the waiting train.
I put my car in gear and drove, heart lifted, breath easy, two ruby kisses on my window.
The Puppy Club
I’m 13 years old and I can already jack-off.
Lyndon taught me. He never touched me. He just told me what to do and it was easy.
By that time I’d already had a few wet dreams - there was this curvy blond who looked a lot like Marilyn Monroe in a bikini turning backward somersaults under water. Her legs were apart and her puffy crotch was bulging out at me - That was when I had to get up and change my pajamas.
Weird.
I was ready. Some of the other guys weren’t. I knew that from the time we showed each other our hard-ons on a Boy Scout Campout and mine was the biggest.
Dad never talked to me about the subject of sex. He grew up on a farm. A fundamentalist Christian Baptist. So I bought sex magazines.
That meant Playboy centerfolds and the Marilyn Monroe Calendar for the most part. And then there were these figure study magazines designed for artists that had pictures of naked men and women in all sorts of crazy poses with their sex organs brushed out.
Really Weird.
Since we live in a small town in Nebraska that’s about as wild as it gets around here. Dad works for the newspaper but because he had farming in his blood we lived on the city limits where he could have a few animals. My responsibility is the cow. I do the milking, the feeding, the cleaning out the barn. Every day under the sun.
Next to the milking stall there is a feed storage shed - hay, sorghum, salt lick - closed off by a door to the outside to keep the cow from getting in. The floorboards are loose and broken in places which makes for plenty of places to hide my secret picture books.
Judy actually taught me how to buy them. Yeah, that surprised me. She showed me how to go into Bamberg’s News Stand down on the square. Mr. Bamberg always sits in the front smoking his pipe all day looking out the window at the passers-by. He could speak English but mostly just grunts. He seems like a fierce man and just looking at him I was scared shitless. Judy didn’t give a damn. She just walked right on by him to the place in the back of the store, behind a counter you had to walk around to get to. The deal was, as Judy instructed me, you’d walk right in and without loitering around back there, or making yourself too obvious, pick out something real quick and take it along with the right change to the counter. I chose a Playboy. He just grunted and took the money. I was bolting out the door when he said “Hey, wait a minute.” I petrified. “Don’t you want a bag for that?” Good thinking. Easier to get home safely. The old hack saw might actually be on our side.
Every day after school I milked that goddamned cow. Mother would be still at the grammar school being a secretary and she wouldn’t get home till about 4:30. Dad was away till five. After I finished milking I dug up my magazines and jacked-off, staring at these bodies I knew nothing about but loved to look at. The gism shot onto the wall or I flung it onto the ceiling or into the haystack. That crazy cow would never know the difference.
One day I was back there whacking-off when through the wall where board had fallen off I saw Stacy coming my way. Shit. She’s a nosey frip who lives three blocks down, always coming around to pester me. She’s also thirteen but I always think of her as being a lot younger, even though in the past year her goods sure got better.
She’s blond, dirty-blond I guess, hair cut short against her neck. It makes her eyes
look keener than they did before, watching me like they always do, anytime, anywhere.
Shit again! She’s seen me so I know damn well she’s coming in. I jam my penis, fully hard, half-whacked and upright back into my jeans and am about to return the figure studies magazine to its vault when she’s already in the door.
“What’s that,” she says. Then she takes it from me and studies it real hard.
I’m in no position to lie. “Well, it’s a goddamned Sex magazine,” I sez, casually as I could being a little out of breath.
She smiles and starts looking at the statuesque figures in all their various poses, fully nude and all, with their genitals air-brushed out. “They look uncomfortable she said.”
“Why?”
“Because the poor things have had their sex taken off.”
We laughed. The tension eased a whole lot.
She wanted a tour of the book so what the hell, I gave her one. Now she asks why I have it.
“It’s fun.”
“No, I mean what do you do with it?”
I don’t answer. Already she feels more like a partner in crime than a nosey little girl from down the street but I’m not quite ready to tell any more secrets.
We finish the book. She wants to take it home and she can be persistent but I say no, she was going to have to come here if she was going to look at it. So now she comes every day. And we’ve decided to give the models names. And genitalia. Some of them we give long hairy penises, some little stubby guys. It’s a lot of fun to give the muscular guys itty bitty ones that don’t get hard. We decide which of the girls have lots of hair and which ones were virgins and which ones had done it a whole lot of times. Some got large holes, some got small tight ones.
Now I’ve started making comparisons to Stacy’s body. Here are your breasts I will say. She hit me the first time but afterwards shed bring it up herself. “These look like mine,” she’ll say, “but they’re not as round.”
I hold the book up to her and she will push out her chest and I will say yes these are yours or no, you’re bigger... much to my surprise the step limiting our rate of progress is not her unwillingness but the level of my courage to ask. Once I realized that I started getting better at it.
Secret in the Open Page 9