Leaning forward, kissing Marsha, his hands went to behind her back, where, feeling the two clasps, squeezing one between thumb and forefinger, feeling the release, squeezing the other he felt the release of pressure as the two sides detached. Moving back, lifting both cups… “Marcie,” his breath catching, “you’re beautiful!” he said softly, blinking his eyes as if testing to be sure that what he saw was real and, as of about forty minutes ago, “his,”—really his—to see, to touch—conditions right, with Marsha’s approval, of course—whenever he wanted. Fantasies of big tits wholly forgotten, “You’re beautiful!” he repeated, because in his eyes, Marsha’s—his wife’s—breasts were the most beautiful he’d ever seen, because, except for a few scattered freckles, the flesh was milk-white in comparison to the retained tan of her chest…
October 17, 1955: Sexual Arousal
Lying to him on Saturday night, she had not let him hold her “just like this” again, and, on the two occasions that Mitchell had been allowed to touch her bare, he now saw why—that for a few seconds or so he’d been unable to discern it by touch—because, about the size of half-dollars, the dark pink, domed areolae of Marsha’s nipples lay upon the flesh of her breasts without the slightest differentiation. But now, even as he watched—excited by just his look—tightening, the circumference wrinkling, the color magically changed from dark pink to brown and, “Oh, God” holding each from beneath, lifting, tasting, he touched his tongue to the barely seen perforation of one, of both, from where milk would one day flow. Pressing his face to her chest, though scarcely large enough to do it, Mitchell squeezed the soft flesh of Marsha’s breasts to either side of his face and, Oh, my God! Mitchell felt…? at home, as if the scent and the softness of this girl that was now his wife was where God had always intended him to be.
Now was the first time any eyes looked upon her, as his eyes did.
Now was the first time any lips kissed her breasts, as his lips did.
Now was the first time, Oh, God! any mouth had closed over a nipple and drew upon it, as his mouth did, and, “Oh, God!” The suckling, sweet prickling sensation caused Marsha to close her eyes and hug his head to her breast, and—sensing the itch of longing within the depth of her vagina, moaning softly—to tighten and loosen the internal muscle within her vagina.
His face pressed to a breast, he did not hear the soft moan, but did feel the acceleration of her breathing, and as he drew on the now-tightened projection of Marsha’s nipple, bringing his elbow into the crook of her skirt covered crotch, he began to rub.
Feeling the pressure there, not caring… Yes! Caring! Wanting the sensation to go on forever, forgetting her mother, and her vow, opening her thighs to him, “Mitchie,” she whispered, “I love you!”
Moving his mouth from her breast, “Marcie, I love you, too!”
Wanting to be touched. Wanting her to touch him. Wanting to be… desperately wanting to be held within her hand, “Marcie,” he whispered, “would you like to see me? Would you like to hold me?”
For a moment she didn’t quite understand what he’d asked. Then… Marsha had fantasized about Mitchell, and yes, in the past about other boys, too. Once, in a rather hot necking session, the boy had moved her hand onto the bulge on his thigh, and, out of curiosity she’d allowed it to be held there… for only three or four seconds. She’d seen eight-pagers and crude, pornographic drawings of male members. Having an older brother, on occasion she did think about it, but had never seen Roger nude—This is Mitchell, she thought. He’s my husband for God’s sake! Rationalizing, He is my husband! Glancing about the car, There’s no way we can do it here… go all the way. And that, after all, was all she had promised her mother: not to go all the way. I didn’t promise anything about fooling around. And, though she was afraid—knowing Mitchell would go only as far as she wanted him to go, more afraid of her desire than his, but knowing that she was going to see it eventually, wanting to see it now—after a long moment’s hesitation, “Oh, yes!” she said.
Yes! Shrugging his jacket off, moving back on the seat, he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the top button, unzipped his fly, then, glancing over his shoulder to be sure there were no approaching cars—knowing, from what he’d gathered from their conversations, that this, now, would be the first adult penis Marsha had ever seen—parting the fly of his Jockey shorts, allowing only his penis and whatever long strands of pubic hair that came along with it freedom as…
Holding her breath, Marsha’s eyes widened in sensuous disbelief as….
Taking a pinkish blush when fully erect, about six and a half inches in length, Mitchell considered himself of average size and circumference. But now, being with Marsha, seeing the heretofore only imagined beauty of her breasts, tasting the heretofore only imagined sweetness of her breasts, now, knowing she was looking at him, feeling not only the emotion of the moment but, for the first time in his life—it had never gone this far or been this open even with Susan—in a passion-filled situation such as this, the cells of his penis engorged with even more blood, causing a muscular contraction that, as usually happened when he was very aroused, but never this quickly, a thick drop of clear semen worked its way through the urethra, and…
Standing starkly upright through the slit of the white cotton material of his underpants, appearing as an entity detached from the body of her husband, though the sight of the bulk of Mitchell’s penis did send an additional surge of heat from mind to vagina. Having only seen a baby’s before, now, although, in Mitchell's opinion, of average size, to Marsha, it looked…? almost frightening.
Watching her face as she stared at him… at it, “Marcie,” he asked quietly, “touch me, hold me.”
Hold him? Touch it? Yes! Reaching to him, careful not to touch the shiny streak left by the drop of semen, tentatively touching the ring of the glans with the tip of one finger, jerking her hand away as though she’d received an electric shock, bringing it back, her fingers gently grasping the shaft of his penis, Oh, God! Touching it, holding it… Holding her husband, there, for the first time, Marsha was unable to comprehend how anything that looked so hard, could, at the same time, feel so soft and so warm, as…
My God! Mitchell more than felt Marsha’s hand encircle him. More than skin deep, Marsha’s touch reached from his penis, up his spine, into the furthermost recess of his mind, and…
“I love you!” The words coming concurrently from each, their lips once again came together in an open-mouthed, tongue-filled kiss.
As they kissed, Mitchell’s hand moved under her skirt and up along the inside of her long legs and silky smooth thighs, as…
Powerless, unwilling to stop him, Marsha parted her thighs.
Touching, his fingers caressed the moisture-slicked crotch of her panties, as…
Feeling him touch her there, taking a sharp intake of breath, Marsha unwittingly moaned, as… Finding the way beneath the elastic, the first feel of damp hair and, a moment later, the soft, fleshy folds of Marsha’s labia caused a low moan to break from his throat also. Moving his mouth from her mouth, bringing his lips to a breast, he drew hard, taking the nipple, along with much of the flesh of her breast, into his mouth, as, turning his wrist outward, Mitchell’s finger slipped through the crease of her labia, deeply into the well of, “Oh, my God!” Marsha’s tight and oh-so-wet vagina…
“Oh, my God!” Now, this was the first time that any hand, other than her own hand, had ever found and touched her secret, innermost place, as Mitchell was doing, and now, holding his head to her breast with one hand, and his penis with the other—not caring that the thin stream of clear semen now flowed onto her fingers—now opening her thighs even wider… now moving her pelvis in motion with the movement of his finger, the angle of his hand causing his thumb to rub against the—still unknown to Mitchell—engorged bud at the upper cleft of her vagina. “Oh, my God!” Quickly, much more quickly than Marsha had ever brought onto herself, closing her eyes, clenching her teeth, Marsha felt the intensity of the sharp, much sharper, sweet, much sweeter release… And knowing by the movement within her hand that there was great urgency there, instinctively aware of how she was able to release it, now, her own urgency subsiding—or was it—watching over the top of his head, catching his rhythm, moving her hand up and down, along the hard, soft, warm shaft, as…
Pulling his lips from Marsha’s breast with a loud, vacuum breaking sound, “Oh, my God, baby, I’m…” Looking at her naked breasts and transformed nipples, feeling the slick overflow of her secretion upon his entire hand… “Mmmm, GOD!” The dam burst, and…
Feeling the sharp penile contractions, Marsha watched the arching jets of spurting, creamy semen in pure wonder, then, when no more came, “Oh, God, Mitchie,” she said seriously, “this is it!” Holding her hand up, looking at it, apparently not caring that it was wet with his semen, “This is it!” she repeated in awe. “The stuff that makes babies!”
As always—thinking of it as a premature ejaculation—embarrassed when this happened, “Marcie,” drawing his hand from between her thighs, “Here,” reaching into his pocket, with his dry hand, removing his clean handkerchief, “wipe your hand.”
Taking the handkerchief, “Wait,” she said. “Don’t move!”
“What do mean, don’t move?”
“Please, Mitchie, sit still a minute, I want to watch it.”
“You want to watch… what?”
Thrilled that she had been able to get that kind of a response from Mitchell just by using her hand, to say nothing of the kind of response he’d been able to get from her just by using his hand. Thrilled also with the knowledge and experience that she’d gained in the last ten minutes—more than she’d had in her entire lifetime of nineteen years—Marsha watched in rapt attention as the blood reversed and the hard, erect tissue was magically replaced with soft, spongy tissue, and as it shrunk, it slipped, unaided, through the slit, into the confines of Mitchell’s white, cotton Jockey shorts.
Trying to bring herself and Mitchell back to some sort of normalcy, “Know what I think?” she asked jokingly. “I think you’re some kind of’a miracle of modern engineering.”
Miracle of modern engineering? Still feeling somewhat embarrassed, laughing, “Shucks, Marsha,” he said in mock modesty, “almost any guy can get a boner!”
“Yeah, maybe,” she said, “but you’re my guy!”