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Mark M Lichterman

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· BK1: Becoming; 1944#5

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· BK1: Becoming; 1942#2&1944#1

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R Rated: Huh?
By Mark M Lichterman
Posted: Thursday, October 16, 2008
Last edited: Friday, October 17, 2008
This short story is rated "R" by the Author.

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Recent stories by Mark M Lichterman
· BK1: Becoming;1944#7
· BK1: Becoming: 1944 # 6
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· Sunset
· BK1:Becoming;1944#3
           >> View all 957
Now? Now! What he’d wanted, what he’d waited all his life for. Foreplay is nice… wonderful, in fact, but really, foreplay was all he’d ever had. Oh, God! Not wanting to wait. Anxious, so anxious! “Yes, baby, yes!”


"Huh?" 

December 21, 1955

 

A study of youth and beauty…

Illumination coming from the open bathroom door framed and back-lit, while the muted light from the one burning lamp, glowing through its parchment-like shade, cast Marsha in a buttery-yellow blush.

Marsha’s long, black hair was brushed straight back, revealing her sharp widow’s peak. Draped over both shoulders, thick strands of luxurious hair lay upon the upward swell of her breasts.

Cinched at the waist, the long, diaphanous gown opened into an inverted V from below the shadow of her pubic hair and widened as it fell along her long, slender legs, ending at her bare feet. The upright V of the gown widened from the waist up, leaving Marsha’s chest bare, but covered her breasts with a transparent, white sheen. Easily visible, her breasts laying slightly to the sides of her chest, the dark-pink areola of Marsha’s nipples had a soft, white cast, and….

Not sure how to proceed, Marsha stood perfectly still, as…

In this protracted moment, in this flickering point in time, the absolute beauty of his nineteen-year old bride became indelibly etched onto the mind of Mitchell Lipensky.

Taking a step towards the bed…

“Marsha, no.” Finding his voice, throwing the cover off, coming off the bed…

Not quite the reaction she’d expected. Surprised, disappointed, Marsha looked at Mitchell.

Expecting him to be aroused, his penis engorged…

It wasn’t.

But Marsha had no way of knowing that Mitchell’s reaction was far in excess of anything she could possibly imagine…

For this moment in time was the culmination of his dreams and fantasies, and for Mitchell, if the Ark of God were to suddenly be placed before his eyes, it would not—it could not—be more revered than…

“Marsha,” standing before her, this moment in time more holy than sexual. “Oh, God, Marsha,” having no way to describe how he felt, feeling his words inadequate, “you’re beautiful!” His voice husky, “So beautiful!” The heartfelt emotion bringing tears to his eyes, placing his hands on either side of her face, “I love you! Oh, God, Marcie, I love you so much!”

Whispering, “Mitchell, I love you.” Placing her arms about his waist, “I love you!” Moving her body against his…

Their lips met, and…

The electrical contact of her lips upon his lips, and her body against his body caused an immediate, non-holy reaction as blood pumped into millions of soft, sponge-like cells and Mitchell’s penis jerked upward and moved outward. His arms encircled Marsha and, feeling her flesh through the sheer, silken material, holding the small of her back in the palm of one hand, and the swell of a buttock in the other… “Marcie, I love you!”

Her body now pressed tightly against his body, the softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs against his thighs, pushing against and through….

Feeling him there, within the breach of her thighs, “Mitchie, oh, God!” Holding both buttocks, her nails making sharp indentations in the soft flesh, “I love you!”

Moving back a foot, Mitchell untied the sash.

Moving back a foot, Marsha shrugged her shoulders.

The sheer gown fluttered to the floor.

Standing two feet apart, “My, God, Marcie.” Still finding it difficult to speak, “My… God…”

Taking his hand, moving to the bed, Marsha lay upon the blanket as…

Standing above her, looking at her, unable to take his eyes from the beauty, the absolute beauty of the fully nude body of Marsha, of his wife, as…

Reaching to him, encircling him.

His eyes closed to the ecstasy of her touch, “Oh, God!”

“Lay next to me, Mitchie. Touch me, love me.”

He lay next to her and their lips met, urgently, urgently, till…

Tasting the savory taste of Marsha’s flesh, his mouth moved from her mouth to the warmth of a soft breast, to the hardening orb of a nipple. His hand trailed down her stomach, onto the silken floss of Marsha’s hair and, Oh, God! Touching the hair, sensing the quiet, mysterious thrill he always felt at his first touch here, probing softly, his fingers found and parted the tight, fleshy folds of Marsha’s moist labia, as…

Sensing the quiet, mysterious thrill she’d felt the first two times he had touched her there, because spiritually, this time, now it was right, the sensation more intense now, widening her thighs, Marsha opened her vagina to the touch of his hand that, sending a sweet chill throughout her entire body, “Oh, God! Do it now, Mitchie!” Unable to wait. Anxious, so anxious! “Please, do it now!”

Now? Now! What he’d wanted, what he’d waited all his life for. Foreplay is nice… wonderful, in fact, but really, foreplay was all he’d ever had. Oh, God! Not wanting to wait. Anxious, so anxious! “Yes, baby, yes!”

Moving from her side to within her open thighs. In the buttery light seeing what he could see within her open thighs, kneeling within her open thighs, having the presence of mind to…

Reaching to the end table, taking the foil pack from beneath his handkerchief… His, oh-so-anxious fingers dropped it onto the silky fine, curly hair. Picking it up, looking at her face.

Her lower lip held captive between her teeth, her eyes half closed, Marsha watched Mitchell with ever mounting anticipation as…

Ripping the pack open, taking the prophylactic out, he placed it onto the head of his penis… backwards. Turning the rolled latex, replacing it, he unrolled it. Hoping he was impressing Marsha with his act of consideration, having to move out from within her thighs, leaning to the far side of the bed, groping a moment, his fingers found the small, round bottle of Vaseline. Coming back to within her thighs, opening the bottle, dipping two fingers in, he anointed his tightly clad, rubberized penis…

Her lower lip held captive between her teeth, her eyes half closed, Marsha watched Mitchell with ever mounting anticipation as…

Leaning to the side again, putting the bottle onto the end table, wiping his Vaseline-Petroleum-Jelly-covered fingers on his handkerchief, once again he positioned himself between Marsha’s thighs and her waiting, oh, so anxious vagina.

Now!

He hadn’t been drinking homemade Dago Red, and the room was not spinning.

She was not lying unconscious under the steering wheel of her father’s 1950 Pontiac.

She was not saving herself for an unknown, far-in-the-future marriage.

He was not holding back for a distant, far-in-the-future marriage.

She was not sixteen and her father was not a sergeant in the Bayside, New York, Police Department.

There was no tampon string dangling from between her thighs.

Her mother did not have to go to the toilet.

They are married, in the eyes of God.

She was no longer menstruating.

The phone did not ring! No one was knocking on the door. There was no tornado, hurricane, earthquake or volcanic eruption…

There was just Marsha… And, oh, yes, she was ready and she was waiting, oh, so anxiously!

Now! Now!

For the moment it took for him to position himself for insertion, he could not help but think of God’s carrot. And now! Now, parting her labia. Now! I’m there! he thought, as…

Huh? As…

Unbelievably, the process reversed and blood ran out of millions of hard, extended cells and, “Huh?” his penis wilting, he tried to insert it… but couldn’t because…

Waiting, when nothing happened, hearing his…

“Huh?”

“Mitchie,” sitting up on her elbows, looking at him, “where’d it go?”

“Uh…”

Huh? Uh? Thinking he might be having a heart attack, “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? Still kneeling between Marsha’s thighs, the greasy Vaseline-smeared prophylactic hanging from his fully retracted penis as an icicle from a stumpy protrusion, “Marcie, I…” What could he say?


 

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Reviewed by m j hollingshead 10/16/2008
good one


Books by
Mark M Lichterman



For Better or Worse

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The Climbing Boy

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Becoming

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