When I could not sleep I would beg my mother to fetch Cherry so she could sleep with me.
At the age of five, and with my mother pregnant with Francis, my passion for girls became more intense. I was not only romantic but deeply sexual. My physical desire had no idea how to satisfy itself, but knew the secret lay in the flesh of girls. There were three girls of my age whom I desired. One was called Nicola, a pretty, respectable girl whose father was a successful farmer. I went to visit once, and was shown a plethora of hogs and cows and horses and dogs. The horses and the dogs were kissed repeatedly by Nicola, but when I suggested it was now my turn, all I got was a smack in the chops. The other two girls were village girls, cross-eyed, adenoidal, and willing.
I’d ask Mrs. Marshall to be excused and then signal one of these girls to follow. The designated girl would then make a similar request. To get to the outdoor toilets you had to pass through a kitchen where a crone named Lucy—who wore black lace-up boots and had a circulatory disorder which swelled her fingers shiny blue—recooked the already overcooked lunches brought in by van. Once past this gorgon, a door admitted you to a small courtyard and the toilets off it. I would wait out there and soon
one of the girls would step shyly out. On the first of these occasions, both girls saw my signal and both followed me outside. Undaunted, I stood them next to each other in the chilly courtyard and asked them to drop their underpants and lift their skirts; then, pulling down my own grubby little shorts, I suggested we all touch our bottoms together.
A gong rang inside my body, and this was my first religious experience. To this day I remember the luminous twinge of concord rising in my lower abdomen.
In the absence of breasts, my primary focus was buttocks. I would ask the girls to lie down on their stomachs on the large cold step and then stare in wonder at their smooth, plump, different bottoms. A little stroke, a little slap. What beauty. How soft the skin, how sweet the motion.
The other object of my desire was Mrs. Marshall’s daughter, Pru, who was probably fifteen or so, an erotic colossus whose naked body I imagined daily. When I was six, there was a snowstorm that blew in so fast my mother couldn’t fetch us before the roads were blocked. Mrs. Marshall (there was no Mr. Marshall, nor was he ever mentioned) lived with her old mother and the aforementioned Pru in a small ivy-covered cottage adjoining the school. This is where Sarah and I would now have to sleep.
Sometimes in life, things just fall into your lap and sometimes in life you just fall into someone else’s lap. This latter was now the case. To my astonishment and joy, I was told I’d be sleeping with Pru.
When we got into bed, I lay as close to her as I could without actually touching and allowed myself to be swamped by the rich pungency of her smell. She was lying on her back, her arms above her head. She already had breasts. I loved her with all my heart. After a while, she said good night, turned away, and soon fell asleep. The thick snow silenced the already quiet land. Feigning sleep—a light snore tossed in among regular breaths—I moved closer and pressed myself ‘inadvertently’ against her back. If the ratio between me and her remained the same and she was lying
beside me today, she’d be eleven feet tall and weigh 400 pounds and her buttocks would be … well, they’d be fantastic.
They were fantastic. Beneath the slippery material of her nightdress I could feel the vast, hot swell of them, the resilience and the sloping cleft. I moved lower in the bed and sealed myself under the sheets so I could inhale pure, unadulterated Pru. And, oh, the smell of her! Why did I have to be only six? Why? What a cruel accident of chronology! If only I could grow up now and marry her and have this every night.
I was in a swoon of longing and despair and halfway down the bed when she turned
At the age of five, and with my mother pregnant with Francis, my passion for girls became more intense. I was not only romantic but deeply sexual. My physical desire had no idea how to satisfy itself, but knew the secret lay in the flesh of girls. There were three girls of my age whom I desired. One was called Nicola, a pretty, respectable girl whose father was a successful farmer. I went to visit once, and was shown a plethora of hogs and cows and horses and dogs. The horses and the dogs were kissed repeatedly by Nicola, but when I suggested it was now my turn, all I got was a smack in the chops. The other two girls were village girls, cross-eyed, adenoidal, and willing.
I’d ask Mrs. Marshall to be excused and then signal one of these girls to follow. The designated girl would then make a similar request. To get to the outdoor toilets you had to pass through a kitchen where a crone named Lucy—who wore black lace-up boots and had a circulatory disorder which swelled her fingers shiny blue—recooked the already overcooked lunches brought in by van. Once past this gorgon, a door admitted you to a small courtyard and the toilets off it. I would wait out there and soon
one of the girls would step shyly out. On the first of these occasions, both girls saw my signal and both followed me outside. Undaunted, I stood them next to each other in the chilly courtyard and asked them to drop their underpants and lift their skirts; then, pulling down my own grubby little shorts, I suggested we all touch our bottoms together.
A gong rang inside my body, and this was my first religious experience. To this day I remember the luminous twinge of concord rising in my lower abdomen.
In the absence of breasts, my primary focus was buttocks. I would ask the girls to lie down on their stomachs on the large cold step and then stare in wonder at their smooth, plump, different bottoms. A little stroke, a little slap. What beauty. How soft the skin, how sweet the motion.
The other object of my desire was Mrs. Marshall’s daughter, Pru, who was probably fifteen or so, an erotic colossus whose naked body I imagined daily. When I was six, there was a snowstorm that blew in so fast my mother couldn’t fetch us before the roads were blocked. Mrs. Marshall (there was no Mr. Marshall, nor was he ever mentioned) lived with her old mother and the aforementioned Pru in a small ivy-covered cottage adjoining the school. This is where Sarah and I would now have to sleep.
Sometimes in life, things just fall into your lap and sometimes in life you just fall into someone else’s lap. This latter was now the case. To my astonishment and joy, I was told I’d be sleeping with Pru.
When we got into bed, I lay as close to her as I could without actually touching and allowed myself to be swamped by the rich pungency of her smell. She was lying on her back, her arms above her head. She already had breasts. I loved her with all my heart. After a while, she said good night, turned away, and soon fell asleep. The thick snow silenced the already quiet land. Feigning sleep—a light snore tossed in among regular breaths—I moved closer and pressed myself ‘inadvertently’ against her back. If the ratio between me and her remained the same and she was lying
beside me today, she’d be eleven feet tall and weigh 400 pounds and her buttocks would be … well, they’d be fantastic.
They were fantastic. Beneath the slippery material of her nightdress I could feel the vast, hot swell of them, the resilience and the sloping cleft. I moved lower in the bed and sealed myself under the sheets so I could inhale pure, unadulterated Pru. And, oh, the smell of her! Why did I have to be only six? Why? What a cruel accident of chronology! If only I could grow up now and marry her and have this every night.
I was in a swoon of longing and despair and halfway down the bed when she turned
Similar Books
