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  Home > Mainstream > Stories > A Jewish Girl
Mainstream Stories
1. A Virgin Girl
2. Screwed by the Skew
3. BK1: Becoming; 1944#5
4. A Novel Excerpt - Ch. 14
5. BK1:Becoming;1942 # 1 (Xrated)
6. BK1: Becoming:1940#2
7. Mountain Man
8. Enjoy a chapter from A Brownstone in Brook
9. BK1: Becoming; 1942#2&1944#1
10. From Bushwick High (Brooklyn) to National
11. Deviant 5: Reunion
12. BK1:Becoming;1944#2
13. Sufficient Unto the Day
14. 1 Old Naked Lady
15. Enjoy the PROLOGUE to Philly Style and Ph
16. BK1: Becoming; 1941#2
17. BK1Becoming: 1941 #1
18. Love me or Leave me Chapter 1
19. BK1:Becoming; 1940#3
20. BK1:Becoming;1944#3

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by Mark Lichterman

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A Jewish Girl!
By Mark M Lichterman   

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Attracted by her moderately long, honey-colored hair, he noticed the girl from across the large room and, even from that distance could see that she was extremely pretty, beautiful, in fact and… that the girl had large breasts.

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 Spring, 1953: A Jewish Girl

Strange, when he was going to high school  his dream girl had always been a “shiksa,” but now, in a world full of non-Jewish girls, he went out of his way to meet a Jewish girl.

At a temple dance in Queens.

The girl was sitting on a folding chair against the far wall.

Attracted by her moderately long, honey-colored hair, he noticed the girl from across the large room and, even from that distance, Wonder why she’s sitting alone? could see that she was extremely pretty, beautiful, in fact and… Look at those tits! that the girl had large breasts.

Watching the girl, waiting to see if she was, indeed, alone, not quite having the courage to…

Sensing his eyes on her, the girl looked across the room, to the sailor sitting alone by the far wall.

Their eyes touching, holding…

Oh, well. What can she do? Tell me to go away? Summoning the mettle, his eyes still, brazenly, on the girl’s eyes, standing, crossing the room.

Seeing the sailor rise and head in her direction, the girl lowered her eyes.

“Hi!” Offering his hand, “I’m Mitchell Lipensky.”

Looking up at him, hesitating, because in 1953 Queens, New York, men did not usually reach out to shake a girl’s hand… then, lifting hers, “Hi, Mitchell. My name’s Julie. Julie Marx.”

Close now, seeing that this girl was, indeed, beautiful, once again vaguely wondering, Why’s she alone? “Mind if I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the empty folding chair next to hers.

“No, of course not.”

Sitting, Julie Marx was beautiful; with a small nose, big, greenish-brownish eyes, and honey-colored hair that so far as Mitchell could tell looked to be natural and, Oh, God! he thought again, fighting the urge to lick his lips, Look at those tits! Still holding her hand, “Julie,” he said, “please don’t call me that.”

Biting, “That?”

“My name.”

“Why? That’s what you said your name was, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, but ‘Mitchell’ sounds so formal. Please call me Mitch, or when you get to know me better, Mitchie.”

Oh, yes, Julie Marx thought. I sure wouldn’t mind knowing you better! Looking at their hands, she made a feeble attempt to remove hers.

But, holding on tightly, tugging lightly, “I’m not such a great dancer—to say the least—but…” knowing full well the consequences, still though, he could not wait to feel those great tits pressed against his chest, so “…how’s about it?” he asked, “You want to dance?”

No longer attempting to extract her hand from his, actually liking the feel of her hand being held by this handsome, young sailor, “Sure, Mitch.”

Standing, Julie Marx still had honey-colored hair, still had huge breasts, and was still beautiful… from the waist up. From the waist down, however, Julie Marx had conspicuously wide hips, thighs and buttocks, which, of course Mitchell noticed immediately, but her face, and especially those great tits atoned for the size of Julie’s hips, thighs and buttocks. Besides, at the moment not thinking beyond the feel of those great tits, Mitchell Lipensky didn’t care, so, putting his hand into the soft, deep gorge of her waist and hip, he moved closely against her.

Well knowing from past experience what all boys want, arching her upper body backwards, Julie attempted to keep from being pulled fully into his arms, but, truly, would have had to stand a foot away in order for him not to feel the soft prod of her breasts against the blue wool of his dress tunic, and…

Oh, yeah! No doubt about it! He did feel the prod of Julie’s breasts against the blue wool of his dress tunic… And, Oh, yeah! he certainly did…

Julie Marx knew that she was pretty—beautiful, in fact.

Julie also knew that every boy she had known since the age of nine had attempted to feel, and see, her breasts, and now, approaching eighteen, she knew, her pretty face aside, at least as far as boys were concerned, it was the size of her breasts that compensated for the size of her… Julie’s mother, a lovely woman, and her father, a handsome man, the body structure and weight of both well within the norm, Julie had no idea what genetic unbalance may have caused her to have—“thunder thighs.” For this reason Julie Marx truly thought of her breasts as gold, and knowing that she had more gold than any other girl she knew, Julie had, through the years, become what the boys in her senior class in high school referred to as a PT—a “prick tease”—and now…

Feeling this handsome sailor’s immediate response to her—poking, in fact, into her well-endowed thigh—she did… Julie Marx did feel flattered, and more than just a little excited herself.

After the first dance, and her first moments of pretend modesty, she moved closer when they danced a second time.

In a short while all of Julie’s prick-teasing talents came into play.

This being the first time since leaving home that Mitchell had been with a Jewish girl, Julie’s mannerisms—most of Julie’s mannerisms—were warmly familiar to him; this, and her beautiful face, and, Oh, yeah her great tits compelled him to spend the entire evening with her.

And with each ensuing dance—of which there were more than he, in the past, would ever have considered dancing with any one girl—Julie allowed herself to be held tighter and closer, and before the evening and the dance was through, Mitchell, feeling the push of her breasts, and Julie, the prod of his penis, each were breathing warmly in the other’s ear as both felt the new-found excitement.

The dance finished, they walked to a coffee shop where he had a hot fudge sundae and she a cup of tea with one lump of sugar.

Living nearby, holding hands, walking Julie home, Mitchell made a date for next Saturday.

 Mitchell Lipensky and Julie Marx saw each other five times over the next four weeks.

When not deluged by spring rains, they went to a park bench, that Julie well knew, where, able to be alone, they would spend an hour kissing passionately, as Mitchell, in a continuous state of arousal, continuously attempted to fondle Julie’s breasts, as Julie continually moved one, or the other, or both of his hands.

Julie was well aware of how badly he wanted to fondle her, and actually wouldn’t have minded because when they were “schnoogling” she, too, was in a constant state of arousal. But, thinking herself falling in love with Mitchell, by the end of their second date, having a plan in mind… Julie thought that if she did not let him touch her, if he wanted to badly enough… Well, who knows, because Julie Marx was beginning to think… engagement.

About this time, though, he was beginning to think that Julie’s great tits, that he’d dreamt of seeing, touching, burying his face in, and quite possibly his whole head between, and/or under, that he had—outside of his fantasies… a whole lot of fantasies—not been allowed to touch, let alone see, might not be worth his time so long as he must spend the time with her buttocks, too, which, by the way, he had not been allowed to touch either—not that he’d really wanted to. But, he’d thought, if I don’t at least try to touch her ass, she’ll think I think her ass is ugly—which, truly, he did—and that all I’m interested in—which, truly, they were—are her tits. And not wanting to hurt Julie’s feelings, and also, not wanting to appear that shallow, occasionally he would attempt to fondle a buttock, but, truly embarrassed to have him touch her there, she always moved his hand from there, too.

A month after their first meeting, Julie Marx and Mitchell Lipensky had their last date.


A "Becoming" Excerpt

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