I’m suddenly curious. “Have you seen them?”
“Not for a while,” she says. “But I think she’s starting to grow a little something. I bet you’d like them.”
The speculation of one girl for the breasts of another girl and how they might please me is something I never thought possible in this world. In this universe!
“Okay,” I say, barely able to speak, “what else can we make her do?”
“Well I think she should get naked all over,” Stacy says.
“Good. Naked is good,” I say, thrilled by the extremes yet wanting to keep on pushing. “Anything missing?”
“Then we get to touch her all over,” says Stacy.
“Great! That’s it. Great!”
It was settled. We’d say her prize was to see the hard on but she had to go through initiation first. Like we did ourselves. We’d tell her only one step at a time so she didn’t freak out and blow the whole thing.
It took her several days to memorize penises and vaginas. But she took to it with remarkable gusto. She passed the test on the third day.
“What next?” she asks. This was too good to be true.
“Have to show us your breasts,” Stacy says and snuggles over to me.
She’s not wearing a bra. I know that because when she bends over I can see down her blouse to the nubbins of her brand new breasts. I can’t wait to have her show them openly.
With no fanfare she simply pulls her blouse over her head in one quick motion, looking around like she wanted to be chosen next for the next talent show.
Mostly nipple is what I see, a swollen skull cap on a little puff of cushion mounding up from below. They stick close to her and don’t move around as much as Stacy’s do. They looked timid. Curious.
We make her take off her top three days in a row while we watch. She doesn’t seem to mind. Actually she seems to groove on this. We look in the book to guess which women have the breasts she was going to get. We ask her to guess. She’s no idea and doesn’t care. She is such a focused woman. She wants to see that hard-on.
So today we tell her she has to get totally naked and lie down on the quilt spread over a little shuffle of hay. And then we would touch her all over.
In seconds she was naked and lying down, arms behind her head, legs slightly parted. She seems ready for anything.
She’s just beginning puberty. Her body in many ways is still infantile - skinny, long, very little muscle or fat so that the curves everywhere are smooth and gentle.
Something excites me about the smallness of her breasts and how they flatten to nothing when she lies down. Maybe it’s because they are so fresh, maybe because they contain such mystery, knowing they already have invisible in them the changes no one can predict.
Her crotch is hairless, almost. Just a little peach fuzz fluffing around the area like designer decoration on a store window.
Stacy takes the right side. I take the left. We begin with her hands. I like that we did that. It shows respect for her and at the same time builds tension. She knows what’s going to come but not how it will feel. She is courageous, I see that. For all her trouble-making you had to give her that. We stroked and squeezed to let her know we were honoring her body, celebrating its right of passage. She seemed content. Assured, relaxed in a state of sleepy enjoyment.
We move to her shoulders, her brown hair in ringlets at her neck, her scalp, her eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth. I put a fingertip between her lips and drag the corner of her mouth down ever so slightly as I pass.
Then her upper chest. I look at Stacy to see how she is going to take touching her sister’s breasts, but she is intent. I go first, sliding both hands along her ribs to the little mounds that seemed to rise higher in advance of my approach. They are remarkably soft, not like the firm roundness I imagined Stacy’s to be. It’s like feeling whipped cream yielding to the slightest pressure. Her nipple seems curiously out of place, as if attached there by a passing god with a quirky sense of humor.
I glance at Stacy. She is kneading Angela’s breast like she was making bread, her tongue to the side of her mouth, fingers labile and light.
I move to the dip dropping under her ribs to the deep hollow of her belly. She has an inny and I stick a finger inside and jiggle. This is the only time she moves in response to our ritual. She didn’t just move she jumped and clasped her hands over mine.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve always had a strange sensation there. I guess it’s how I’m made.”
I pass on to the mound above her privates. I paused to stroke it. The bony pubic prominence was hard underneath it and seemed to be acting like the tent pole from which all else fell away.
I move my head down to have a direct view. Her folds are smaller than Stacy’s. Very subtle. You could almost miss them if you weren’t looking directly. I lick my finger to make it slippery, ready to slid it along my side of the little ridges, stroking and pinching. But we pause here, inexplicably. The folds glisten and seem to swell in response to our looking.
We have gone far enough. Without speaking Stacy and I just stand up and announce that she had passed and was worthy of our congratulations and our admiration.
She stands up naked and says, “okay, now I get to see it.”
“Maybe she’d faint,” we tease.
“I won’t I won’t. I’m ready. I’m ready. Show me. Show me. Show me.”
I open my fly and I rise forth like a gesture of tribal greeting.
She is so jazzed she grabs hold of it. Reflexly, I draw back. But then, thinking she’s surely earned it, I just give it to her and say, “do what you want.”
She moves it side to side. Holds it up and looks underneath. She picks up my balls and rolls them side to side in her fingers like mother marbles. She spreads my cheeks and looks at my bum hole. I feel like I’m in the doctor’s office.
With Angela the barriers of touch that have been unconsciously observed till now have been broken. Touch is now club policy. The secret was that Stacy had never touched me. But now I feel like I need to give her a reward, make her feel privileged, special.
I wink at her, accessing her status as I did. “Now you get a treat,” I said to Angela. “You get to watch Stacy do me.”
Stacy could have walked but I had a suspicion she wouldn’t. I lay down. Stacy straddled my thigh. She grabs me and starts massaging and twisting like she’d seen me do, slowly adding a rolling and a pumping motion, acting as if she had done this all along. I can feel her meat pressing against the bone of my leg. And as she moves me, the recoil moves her. She is getting more and more excited as we go along and is pressing harder against my leg, adding some rubbing and pelvic kicks of her own.
I watch her screw up her mouth in serious concentration, as if she were struggling to write the final paragraph of an essay on Modern American Freedom, the jiggle of her labor rippling through the muscles of her arm and chest.
I am about half-way there when Stacy swoons, drooping her head down, the piston-like action of her hand slowing way down like a locomotive in deep snow.
I look over at Angela. “Help her out,” I say.
She jumps in, straddling the other leg and grabbing hold, taking over where Stacy left off. She pumps with such gusto I get an extra charge, her little breasts dancing out of control like chipmunks laughing.
As I am about to come Stacy revives and gets back into action.
Two hands, two girls. I hold back... and hold back... and just finally slipping over the edge, explode. Both girls were holding on. They jump back as I shoot off then grab hold again to feel me pump... and pump..... and pump.
We are a threesome. The initiation is complete.
Days pass now we don’t take off anything but we are free to touch each other through our clothes as we want. We use the magazines. How we react to the pictures
any particular day determines what we do.
Some days we just look at our profiles and compared them to the models. Others I stroke their bottoms while we speculate what the girls pussies will look like ten years later. One day we make Angela do the Marilyn Monroe poses just like the ones on the calendar, even the nude one for Oct-Nov-Dec.
The penis always gets the most attention. He is our unifying concept. He is the curiosity that stimulated the imagination of the girls and ramped their curiosity. They ask millions of questions: How does it work? What does it feel like? How could I tell if I was going to pee or come? Did anybody ever make a mistake and pee inside a woman? What do I do if I get a hard-on at school?
Stacy hated to say goodbye each day, I could tell. She was the originator of all this and I think the most deeply connected. So we develop a ceremonious goodbye touch. She is beginning to get weepy when we part so we arrange it so they would kneel down and press first one breast and then the other to my groin, and then stand, and taking me in one hand, press me against their sex - just a few sweet seconds. It is the ritual kiss that saves us from words.
As Stacy touches my penis today to bring it to her breast it is not hard. “It’s so soft,” she says. “It feels like the muzzle of my puppy dog.” So they begin to call it “Puppy” and we decide to name ourselves “The Puppy Club.” I find key chains at the dime store with a cocker spaniel’s head on them which we keep in our pockets as a sign of our secret alliance.
Stacy says we are too young to be fucking and we all agree on that. It gives a wisp of virtue to all our mischief. But occasionally, for goodbyes, we do what we call “tipping,” which means my tip could rest just at the girl’s openings for 5 seconds. This has become our “French Kiss.”
Today Stacy comes alone. It’s clear to me she’s been crying. I know better than to ask. She seems distant. We do our thing but with an unexplained sense of wistfulness, as if she were there and not there all at the same time. When she’s about to leave and she and I were tipping she puts her hand on my shoulder and looks straight into my eyes. I could feel her opening give a little in the same moment her eyes went glazy and half closed. She seems more reluctant than ever to break away.
“Just for today,” she says in a voice that’s a little shaky, “I’m going to let you push in to me - just a little. But you have to promise you’ll be careful.”
I put my hands under her bottom and push slowly in. I can feel her parting for me in ripples of resistances and gives, the tightness submitting to the power of our will. My bulb wedges then slips with a little pop then squeezes its way slowly up her channel. Her breathing gets hard and fast. She closes her eyes all the way and tilts her head back a little, as her mouth opens slightly around her hot, strictured breath.
Half way in she jerks a hand up in front of me, placing her fingertips against my chest. I stop. I can tell it hurt her but she shows no outward signs of that, instead she summons the strength to keep herself there a moment, holding on to what ever it is that despite the pain make her do it. Then with a little side twist of her head she pushes me out.
Nothing is spoken as we dress and make ready to go. At the very last moment she puts her arms around me and hugs me, tight, kissing my neck. There is an element of sweetness here I’ve never felt before. I thought of honey. Gardenias.
Now I sit for a long time thinking how it felt to be inside Stacy, trying again and again to recreate that feeling in my mind. I decide not to wash myself for a week leaving the essence of her, drying on me.
What a great gift it was, I thought, to be able to give that much to someone.
I sit long in daydream, startled to hear my mother’s car pulling into the drive. I scurry to get the milk in the fridge and my shoes changed before she comes in the door.
The girls never come back.
They’d missed days before so when Monday and Tuesday go by I don’t think much about it. But by Thursday, I decide to go by their house on my way home from school. What I found was curtainless windows and a sign in front that said “Sold” on it.
I never hear from them again.
The cow dies. Dad tears down the barn. I knew he was going to do that, but somehow I’m in a mood to let happen whatever was meant to happen.
“Found your magazines under the barn,” he said one day. “Threw them away.”
I nodded.
And that was all that was ever said about it.
A Local For Eddie
Eddie counted holes in the acoustic tiles left to right. Then right to left. Then across the diagonal.
He did computations in his head to see if his geometry matched the reality of the tiles. He grouped the points of blackness into small gatherings, created new groupings in his imagination, made shapes of them, constellations with their own dark mythology.
His sky was amenable to creative modification. With his unassisted eye he could blot out some and accentuate others. So he made points dim or brighten according to the choices of his imagination. Why not change reality when you have the time?
He was grateful for imperfections. He gave names to them: chink tile, moon crater, pock, bowl, long scratch - blemishes that broke the monotony of perfection. He gave them personalities, imagined conversations between them, territorial squabbles. There was a gouge that could have been a canyon on mars, or maybe a desperate signature from the last poor bastard who occupied this chamber.
Every now and then a head leaned over. “How are we today?” it said.
Choose a response to that one, he thought.
Didn’t much matter. Long ago he’d discovered that regardless what he said, the response was always, “Fine, fine. That’s just fine.” Eventually he just said whatever came off the volcano top.
It was, in its own strange way, a form of amusement. And a challenge to see just to see how much he could get away with. Let’s see now, over the last three days he’d said: 1) I’m ready for the serum, doc. 2) I’ve been organizing a jail-break. And, 3) I’m much better since the construction of that giant pussy on my ceiling.
“Fine, fine. That’s just fine... ”
The attendant went on with his routine as if nothing had been said. Time for your bath, it said, and began the rough handling the body in a way that reminded Eddie of meat handlers in a Chinese market.
There was no defense. No place to find one. The terror was to let yourself think about that. Maybe he deserved all this. Shit! Look what he’d gotten himself into. Wasn’t his sister always telling him he was going to be an organ donor if he kept riding that fucking motorcycle? Ok, Ok, a little Thule fog, a little oil slick and seconds later two vertebrae, one leg and a broken neck.
He’d never been good at doing the expected thing. He played blues piano down at the Stuck Pig on Saturday and Sunday nights, leastways when he showed up. When he wasn’t out herding cattle or building barns. He drank a little too much, smoked a little too much, ran around enough to have had by this time in his mid forties, three wives, two sons, and nobody anywhere in the vicinity.
So here he was, torqued out like a bug on a mounting board, pinned and scraped and hung out to dry in this goddamned Stryker Frame - more like being impaled on a giant Tinkertoy with nowhere to roll - and nobody around to give a damn.
He got used to the idea of feeling trapped. It surprised him he didn’t freak out. There was a time, he didn’t want to remember just now, when, while fending off all that special breed of hostility a spurned lover can spew, he developed a little fear of bridges and elevators. Not swell, since he had to cross the river to get to the Stuck Pig every weekend.
Any phobias he might have had about tight spaces, restricted body movement and powerlessness all had to be suppressed before they awakened. Funny how that works. Not even in this indescribable helplessness which no one could rescue him from, no one stood to protect him, and none of those who came to administe
r seemed really to be on his side, even in this most extreme circumstance there was simply no time for the luxury of fear. He simply couldn’t afford it.
“How are you doing today?”
“I’m training for the Olympics.”
It was a different voice. Usually this at this three-fifteen needle-drop in the middle of the long vinyl afternoon it was the husky rumble of “Mother Superior” with hands of steel - the massage nurse who loosened his tight body not by any delicacy of persuasion but by the old-fashioned righteousness of pain. No sense of humor that one. Eddie told her she must have trained with Attila the Hun.
Eddie couldn’t move anything but he could feel everything. Others seemed to forget that. He concluded that being trapped on this rack made people think he had no sensory nerves at all.
Now his receptors were going to work on this last sensory input.
It was a softer voice. Melodic. There was a range to it, a few ups and downs. He wouldn’t go so far as to use the word singing but whatever was there in the delicate inflections suggested that its maker had a little more behind her than the usual government-issue robotics.
Damnit, he thought to himself. Move somewhere I can see you.
“Time for your massage,” she said, still invisible. For once in his life he was quiet.
She moved front-on and looked him in the eyes. He was shocked to see a face of a youngish woman. Long hair. Classic Southern deep eyes, a strong American Indian nose, high forehead. A no-nonsense look of determination. And what was it? ... An inexplicable flash of life in her face like that some rare Italian beauties have.
“Ok if I begin?” Her hair swung gracefully to the side as she turned away.
Nobody ever asked him that. He waited a few beats just for the surge of power it gave him.
She waited.
“Sure,” he said with more joy than he dared confess.
This time it was... how was it? Well, you know how they say you can feel the personality behind the handshake. Eddie was quite sure he could feel the soul, or lack thereof, behind the massage hands, this soul was complex and deep and respectful and capable... capable of, ummmm... oh my god, compassion.
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