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Mark M Lichterman

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BECOMING 57: Naked
By Mark M Lichterman
Posted: Monday, January 10, 2011
Last edited: Thursday, January 13, 2011
This short story is rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Carefuil, vividly sexual scene here.
The last time Ina went to the beach with a boy at night he’d gotten sand on the tip of his “Redi-wet” and it hurt like hell. “Nah, I don’t feel like goin’ to the beach,” she said, instantly deflating his carnally inflated bubble, “but how’s ’bout we take a ride to a place I know?”



Their mouths coming together again, her hand, his finger and their two tongues moved concordantly, till…

“Ina?” Looking into her face, feeling her warm breath on his.

“Yeah?” Looking into his face, feeling his warm breath on hers.

“Uh,” hardly daring to ask, “will you, uh, take your clothes off?”


At that moment feeling something akin to love for this boy, “Yeah,” she said without a moments hesitation, “if you take yours off, too.”

At that moment feeling something akin to love for this girl, “Yeah!” Hardly able to believe it, “You bet!” Pulling his finger from her vagina, standing, wanting her to see him naked, and, Oh, yeah! Wanting to see Ina naked, too! You bet! Pulling his shirt over his head, dropping it onto the sofa, he unbuckled his belt and as the steel Levi’s buttons had already been unbuttoned, lowered his pants along with his underpants—and because he hadn’t removed his shoes—stood with his pants and underpants bunched about his ankles… with his erection jutting inches from her face.

Fighting the urge to hold him, to put him into her mouth, “Mitchie,” she said, “you’ve got a really nice dick, you know?”

“An’ you’ve got the most beautiful t…” his breath catching, watching, he stopped speaking as Ina lifted her buttocks and, slowly, teasingly, began to wiggle out of her jagged-cut, cut-off Levi’s, as Mitchell, quivering penis jutting straight forward, stared, first at the tangle of Ina’s curly, dark-brown pubic hair, then, as she slowly, teasingly, lowered her shorts even further and… I’m going to see it! Oh, God! Here it…

Slam! A car door.

Ina and Mitchell looked to the window.

Slam! Another car door.


With the superhuman speed that God sometimes grants to those who are about to be found out, Mitchell, pushing his penis downward, pulled his pants and underpants up, jammed his shirt over his head and quickly, so quickly, buttoned the all-but-impossible to button—especially at times like these—“Fuckin’ buttons!”

As, standing, Ina pulled her jagged-cut, cut-off Levi’s, along with her panties, up around her ample waist, buttoned the steel buttons and both she and he dropped onto the sofa again, on either side of the sofa, but as the doorknob turned, “Uh-Oh!” Ina remembered that her breasts were hanging out of the bottom of her, “Thank God!” still-hooked brassiere, and quickly, so quickly, reaching under her blouse, grasping a cup in each hand pulled down, popping her breasts back into their size 38C cups, then sat back again, as was Mitchell, in wide-eyed innocence as the front door swung open and Doctor and Mrs. Liebman stepped into their warm, sexually odoriferous living room.

“Oh, hi,” Mitchell said, forcing his well-practiced, innocent smile, “you’re home early.”

The adults stood quietly a long moment, looking at them.

“Yes,” Doctor Liebman finally said, “Mrs. Liebman became ill in the theatre.”

As Mrs. Liebman went to the rear of the cottage to check on her son, Doctor Liebman moved to the easy chair opposite the sofa and, standing behind it, resting his tightly clenched fists on its high back, looked closely at Mitchell.

Outside of a long forgotten but vaguely familiar pungent odor in the room, he couldn’t say for certain that these two were doing anything more than heavy petting, but even heavy petting was more, much more, than he’d ever expected to find. “How’s Jerry,” he asked with a tinge of anger to his voice. “He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

“Nah. He’s an angel, like always. No trouble at all.”

Glancing at his wife, who’d returned to the room, hesitating, he looked from Ina to Mitchell. “It’s not your fault that Mrs. Liebman became ill, so we’re going to pay you for the entire evening.” Reaching into his pocket, Doctor Liebman removed a gold plated $-sign money clip, took a dollar from it and, stretching over the back of the chair, handed it to him.

Reaching for the dollar, “Thanks, Doc.” Standing, with Ina following, they walked to the door. Mitchell opened it and as they stepped outside, “Call me whenever you wanna go out again, okay?”

“Sure I will, Mitchell.” He looked at Ina. “Goodnight, uh…?”

“Oh, sorry; Ina.” Mitchell said.

“Yes, Ina!” the doctor repeated, and forcing a smile, closed the door.

“Whew! Well, Mitch, there goes another satisfied customer.”

“Yeah, they really like me.”

“Maybe they did, but somehow, I don’t think they’re real happy with you right now, and I doubt you’ll be hearin’ from ’em again, leastwise not for a long time.”

“You think they think we were, uh, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m sure they think ‘we were.’ Didn’t you see the looks on their faces?”

“Nah. They looked like they always look, kind’a.”

Mitchell looked upward, at a brilliant three-quarter moon and clusters of brightly shining stars, and desperate to go someplace, anyplace where he and Ina could be alone to pick up where they’d left off, “Jeeze, Ina,” he said cheerfully, “It’s great night! How’s about I get a blanket an’ you’n’me go on down to the beach.”

The last time Ina went to the beach with a boy at night he’d gotten sand on the tip of his “Redi-wet” and it hurt like hell. “Nah, I don’t feel like goin’ to the beach,” she said, instantly deflating his carnally inflated bubble, “but how’s ’bout we take a ride to a place I know?”

His father had promised to teach him how to drive after his sixteenth birthday, which was still six days away, and Mitchell did not want to admit that he couldn’t drive, or, for that matter, that he was not quite sixteen. “Uh, my dad couldn’t make it out this weekend,” he lied, “an’ the car’s not here.”

“Nah,” starting across the Old Highway, “I didn’t mean your car.” Going to a blue, two-door, 1950 Pontiac, “I got ours.” Opening the driver-side door, ‘Come on,” Ina said, “get in.”

Yeah! Opening the door, he slid into the Dorfmann family car; a car littered with fabric swatch-books that completely covered the back seat. On the dashboard was a profusion of crumpled memos, matchbooks, empty crumpled cigarette packages and a steel flashlight held onto the metal dashboard by a magnet.

Turning the key, bringing the motor to life, “My, ol’ man’s a salesman,” Ina said as she popped the clutch, shifted from neutral to first and, with a jolt, began to drive. “an’ all that crap back there’s his samples.”

The condition of this car, though, so long as it gets them to where they’re going, “Where we goin’?” was the last thing on his mind.

“Oh, I got a place.”

Looking at Ina in profile, I sure hope that her idea of a place is the same as my idea of a place. But he didn’t have to worry because, just about as anxious to pick up where they’d left off as Mitchell, her idea of a place was exactly the same as his idea of a place and after a five-minute drive…

Tires crunched on gravel as the Pontiac steered off the asphalt of the Old Highway onto a dirt road leading to a wide view-site on a high bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. The one car there was parked on the far northern end of the pad, so, driving to the far southern end, stopping, turning the motor and lights off, Ina set the handbrake.

The moon and a silvery tail of moonlight reflecting on the still water forty feet below, looking at the panoramic scene through the bug-splattered, dirty windshield, “Ina, it’s beautiful!” Mitchell said, then asked, “You’ve been here before?” And, Schmuck, he thought, feeling stupid the moment the words left his mouth. She drove here! Of course she’s been here before!

Not quite knowing how to pick up where they’d left off in the Liebman’s living room, turning towards Ina, laying his arm across her shoulders he was working up the nerve to kiss her when, turning to Mitchell, she kissed him and, his passion immediately reinflated, his free hand instantly going to beneath her blouse…

“Wait, Mitchie.” Yanking the blouse over her head, reaching behind her back, unclasping the three hooks, Ina pulled her arms through the straps and, tossing the blouse and brassiere over her head, onto the back seat, turning towards Mitchell, Ina threw her shoulders back proudly jutting her 38C—now that she was sitting upright—more than just slightly sagging breasts forward.

Moonlight streaming through the Pontiac’s windshield lightening the car’s interior…

Though Mitchell had, Oh, yeah, seen and, Oh, yeah! appreciated Ina’s breasts at the Liebman cottage, her blouse and brassiere had not actually been taken off, but now they were and he plainly, Oh, yeah! saw her totally exposed chest and, God, he thought, she’s got grrr-eat tits. But, of course, to Mitchell Lipensky, in this position, anyone’s tits would be “grrr-eat tits”—excluding his mother, of course—and hardly believing that he was truly here, in this place, with this girl, in this situation, for the moment he could only stare at…

In the defused moonlight Ina’s dark areolae appeared to be almost black in contrast to the stark white flesh of her breasts, made to appear even whiter against the darkly shadowed tan of her chest and…

Leaning forward, putting his forehead onto her chest, lifting, holding a breast in each hand, he enveloped his face within the soft, warm flesh.

Enjoying the sensation of his cool hands and warm breath, closing her eyes, Ina leaned against the car door.

With the so warm, so soft mounds of flesh pressed against either side of his face a memory resurrected, a memory he’d unknowingly played in his subconscious mind since he was seven years old: Lou Ann, on the bed, her breasts splayed across her chest, her large, dark nipples—so like Ina’s—being palpitated between the fingers of Sal Diamond, just as he himself was now doing.

The prank Dominick Diamond had played on his newly married brother in 1941, using Mitchell to bait his brother, did make a profound impression on the then-seven-year-old boy and had, throughout the years, been the catalyst for Mitchell Lipensky’s premature and near-constant preoccupation with sex and now, at that moment, Mitchell’s mind transformed Ina to Lou Ann and himself to Sal Diamond and…

No! He’d fantasized doing this for too many years to be anyone but himself, and in just a minute he was going to do what he’d fantasized, and masturbated to since he was nine years old… But no!

Thinking, Fucking and seeing a cunt might not be all I want to do! He was surprised when the rest of the mental picture from that day in 1941 came to mind: the picture of Sal’s head between Lou Ann’s thighs.

Moving his face from between Ina’s breasts, holding both forward, kissing one then the other with rapidly accelerating passion, he drew one, then the other now-elongated nipple into his mouth and, holding the underside of the breast in one hand and the cone of hardened flesh between his suckling lips, his other hand dropped to Ina’s thighs.

In the unflattering light of day Ina Dorfmann’s thighs were thick, dimpled and heavy. But in romantic moonlight, even in bug-splattered romantic moonlight, Ina Dorfmann’s thighs were soft, smooth, inviting, and most importantly, available.

“Mitchie,” holding a restraining hand against his chest, “wait. I’ll help you.”

Ina Dofmann was normally of a, to say the least, lustful nature, and the thought of actually being with Mitchell Lipensky, along with his contagious, accelerated passion, carried Ina to an even higher degree of urgency than normal and, sitting up, lifting her lower body, she popped the buttons and pushed her shorts, along with her panties, down her legs where they fell off, alongside the brake peddle.

Oh, God! She’s here! Mitchell thought. She’s here! Naked! A real, live, naked girl is here and we’re going to fuck! Really going to fuck! Now was as if, and indeed, a sexual fantasy had come to life from out his dreams and to be sure that this was not yet another fantasy—not that he wouldn’t have done it if this were a fantasy—he brought his hand to the tri-section of Ina’s thighs and twined his fingers through the coarse hair there.

Sixteen months ago, when he and Gina had been naked together, he’d been in a drunken fog and when he tried to visualize what Gina had looked like nude—although, in the pitch-black room and later, in the dark hallway, he’d never really seen what she looked like nude—he could not remember. He could not even remember what she’d felt like, or, for that matter, what “it” felt like when she did what she did to him with her mouth. All he clearly remembered about Gina was that she was ugly and skinny and had green teeth, and Mitchell had all but erased the experience from his mind and considered this, now, as the first time that he was with a girl, this way.

Mitchell looked at Ina through the light of the bug-splattered windshield: at her sloping, milk-white breasts; at the areolae of her large, dark nipples; at the, albeit shadowed, triangle of her pubic hair…

And in the excess of his passion thought Ina Dorfmann was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and, in a way, being the only girl he had ever seen fully nude, she was, so… “Ina,” he said hoarsely, “you are so beautiful!”

Ina Dorfmann rarely, if ever, heard the words “you are so beautiful,” but Mitchell had said them! Twice, in fact! Once in the Liebman cottage—actually, he was also about to tell her that she had beautiful breasts when they’d heard the slamming of a car door outside—and then here… And, sensing her vagina saturating, becoming even, if possible, wetter, and wondering if she was leaking onto the front seat of her father’s 1950 Pontiac, she squeezed her thighs together, as…

Seeing Ina naked, wanting to be naked with her, having an urge to feel as much of her naked body against his naked body as possible—within the confines of the front seat of a 1950 Pontiac—pulling his shirt off, he tossed it onto the clutch, unbuttoning his jeans, pushing his underpants off at the same time, he wiggled out of both.

Watching him undress, “Mitchie,” taking hold of his stiffly-standing penis, in an excess of passion, “you’re beautiful, too.” Ina said. “All over!”

He saw a hand—not his hand—holding his penis, and the hand was cold and, Oh, God! “That feels so good!”

Sitting with her back angled against the driver-side door with her feet under the driver-side console, his penis still held within Ina’s cold hand, Mitchell angled his body to hers.

Knowing from past experience that in this position, in times such as this, most boys abandoned any thought of foreplay, fully expecting him to place himself into position for insertion and intercourse, “Hold it a second.” turning to the right, straightening her back, giving herself enough room to lift her right leg, stretching it to the side, Ina placed Mitchell between her thighs and in position to insert his penis into her, Oh, yeah, more-than-ready vagina, but instead…

Not altogether ambivalent over the fact that Ina had just opened her thighs to his sight, two things had happened: First, a large cloud, the forerunner of a summer squall, had darkened the moon darkening the interior of the car and secondly, intently watching the jiggling of Ina’s breasts rather than the opening and stretching of her thighs, feeling he’d, at least temporarily, lost the opportunity, Ina’s crotch was now flush against his hip and he couldn’t see “it,” so instead, putting his arms around her waist, pulling their bare chests together, feeling the warm push of her breasts, “Oh, God!” he said aloud as the pliable flesh bore through the layers of Mitchell’s sexually starved psyche. “Oh, my God!”

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Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 1/13/2011
Well written, Mark!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Texas, Karen Lynn. :D

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