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Mark M Lichterman

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BECOMING115:Sexual Content;Chris 2
By Mark M Lichterman
Posted: Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Last edited: Wednesday, July 25, 2012
This short story is rated "R" by the Author.

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Sensing a warmth in her abdomen—Could be the Scotch?—and a twitch in her ovaries, her breath catching, “Mitchie,” she asked, her words a bit slurred, “how in the hell’d you get undressed that fast?”

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Oh, yeah! The bedroom! Pulling his shoes off, “Yeah!” he said, pulling his socks off. “Let’s go in the bedroom!”

Standing, Chris took a step, turned back, lifted her glass and handed him his. Watching each other over the rims, each drained their glass, then, wobbling a bit, she led the way as Mitchell, wobbling a whole lot, pulling his tunic and T-shirt over his head, leaving a trail of his clothing, was fully nude by the time they’d made the short journey from the living room to the bedroom.

The curtains before the picture window in the bedroom were fully open and the city lights, additionally reflecting off an oversized dresser mirror, cast a flickering kaleidoscope of light throughout the room.



 New York, N.Y.                                                                                            September 11, 1954

Chris 2 

Not realizing that he’d undressed, turning, looking at him, Chris could not tell if he truly looked as good as she thought he looked, or if it was the effect of about four, or more, ounces of quickly consumed Scotch, because—seeing Mitchell as Sally Brockman and Elsa Schmidt had seen him in approximately the same amount of light—darkly tanned except for the area between his navel and crotch, Mitchell’s chest and pubic hair appeared to be pitch black and his turgid penis stark white in the reflected, dancing light and…

Sensing a warmth in her abdomen—Could be the Scotch?—and a twitch in her ovaries, her breath catching, “Mitchie,” she asked, her words a bit slurred, “how in the hell’d you get undressed that fast?”

As always, feeling a heightened—and more so due to the Scotch—sense of eroticism at being fully nude before a girl, or, now for the first time, an adult woman, “Magic.” Putting his hands on her waist, moving firmly against her…

“Mitchie,” feeling his unrestrained penis prodding into her skirt, “uh,” momentarily forgetting what she wanted to say, forcing her nails into the flesh of his buttocks, “wait!” Pushing both hands against his chest, separating their bodies, her eyes traveled from his face downward… then back to his face “I’ve got to tell you something!”

“No!” His words very slurred, “Don’t tell me you’re not eighteen yet and your dad’s a cop!”

“No!” Flattered, looking years younger than her thirty-one, knowing that he was—setting a trend for the rest of her life—minimally ten years younger. “I’m… uh, trust me, I’m older’n eighteen. And ‘a cop’? No, my father’s a stockbroker. Why?”

Relieved, “Oh, nothing,” he said, tightening his hold.

“Mitchie,” Now seems like a pretty good time to tell him.

“Chris, get undressed, please.”

“I will, Mitchie…”

She will!

“… but I’ve got to tell you something!”

“Yeah, baby?” Rubbing his nude pelvis—penis—against her skirted pelvis.

“I’ve my period.”

“Huh?” Light-headed, not sure he’d heard right, “Your, uh, period?”

“Yeah. It’s my time’a month. Guess I should’a tol’ you before, huh?”

“Your time’a month?” In his inebriated condition not quite sure what period or time’a month meant, “Huh?”

“I’m menstruating!”

“Oh!” his erection beginning to wilt, “No!”

“Yeah. Sorry, but…”

“I should’a guessed that somethin’” he said with a drunken giggle, “was gonna happen.”

“You do know what I mean?” Her words becoming even more slurred, “Don’t’j’ya?”

There was not a girl that he’d ever known, including Susan, or maybe especially Susan, that had been uninhibited enough to discuss with, and explain her menstrual cycle to him, but yet he did have some foggy idea—although foggier now than normally.

“Uh, it means I can’t touch your,” pointing downward, “uh…? An’ we can’t, uh…?”

“Yeah. It’s only my second day, an’ I bleed like a stuck pig, an’ believe me, you wouldn’t want to…Yucky!”

Yucky? Mitchell didn’t know how to respond to yucky. “Why’d,” he asked, “you bring me home then, Chris? An’ how’s come we’re in your bedroom? An’,” looking down at his, by that time fully-retracted penis, “how’s come I’m all naked?”

“You’re a nice guy an’… Now don’t let this go to your head, Mitch, but you’re like, uh, one’a the best lookin’ guys I ever been with. An’ you’re such’a… like a kind’a innocent guy.”

“Innocent’?” As though he’d been insulted, “I ain’t so innocent!”

“Yeah, you are! Come on, Mitchie! Ain’t too many guys I know that get a boner just by dancin’ with me. Specially since,” looking down, cupping what breasts she did have, “I don’t have any tits for you to feel when we were dancin’. An’ that’s kind’a why I was so surprised when, bam, I saw you all undressed just now.” Looking at him, fighting the temptation to take hold of his shriveled penis. “An’, to tell the truth, I didn’t think it would go this far— yes she did— the first time we’re together.”

“How’s ’bout the guys you work with?”

“Huh? What guys? What’d’ya mean?”

“Actors you work with. They’re good lookin’, too, ain’t they?”

“Yeah, some’a them. But most’a ’em’s either married or queer.”

Even though he was drunk, Mitchell began to feel downright foolish standing fully naked with a completely deflated penis just talking to a fully dressed woman, so, sitting on the edge of the bed, crossing his thighs, holding his hand in his lap, hiding as much as he could hide—which, in his present condition, was just about everything, “So, if we ain’t gonna do anything,” he asked again,” how’s come we’re in your bedroom?”

Her eyes moving from his face to his crotch…

Feeling thoroughly exposed and really dumb, Mitchell considered grabbing the pillow from under the comforter to cover himself with.

“I’ll tell you why!” Completely contradicting her earlier statement regarding not thinking it would go this far the first time they were together, “There’s more ways to skin a snake, uh, cat,” said as a statement of fact, “an’ there’s other things we can do, you know.”

“Yeah,” remembering Elsa, he knew there were other things they could do, but, Yucky, he thought, that sure ain’t one of ’em! “What?”

“I’ll tell you what. Hold on a second.”

Rushing into the living room, refilling both glasses, returning, “Here,” handing one to Mitchell, taking a long drink, putting her glass onto the dresser, she hesitated a second, then, pulling it over her head, Chris placed her sweater next to the glass. Hooking her thumbs into the waistbands of her skirt and slip, she pushed them off her slight hips, small buttocks, diminutive thighs and stalky calves.

Watching her. Oh, yeah, watching the woman before him, he took a sip and—the ice having melted, finding the taste of warm Scotch repulsive, putting the glass onto the nightstand—bringing his full attention back to Chris, sensing a rebirth in the juncture of his crotch, Mitchell raptly watched, as…

Thinking herself an actress playing a part—which in fact she was—and also, as a woman in the throes of passion… a drunk woman in the throes of passion—which in fact she most certainly was… Chris took another drink, and because she was ashamed of her body, and in particular her breasts, waiting another moment, taking another drink to ratchet up her courage, reaching behind her back, unhooking the two hooks of her brassiere, crossing her arms to hide her breasts, taking a deep breath she let the brassiere drop to the floor then, dropping her arms, she quickly pushed her panties off and stood, actress or not, drunk or not, self-consciously nude.

Thin? Christine Sanbourne’s breasts looked to be little more than slight mounds of protruding flesh, the dark nipples appearing to be as large as the breasts themselves. Her chest narrow, the sharp ridges of her ribs easily seen. Chris’s stomach was deeply concave and due to this, unhidden by the excessive mass of black pubic hair, the mound of her vulva projected sharply from the juncture of her crotch. But…

To Mitchell Lipensky—especially in his inebriated condition—all breasts were beautiful and, yeah, more than a handful may be nice, but, hey, little tits, after all, are still tits, and, to Mitchell Lipensky, all naked ladies were beautiful and Chris—especially in his inebriated condition—was no exception, so, uncrossing his legs, his penis snapping to attention, “Chris,” he said as sincerely as he could say in his inebriated condition, “you’re Be-U-ituful!”

Put at ease, warmed by his words, and about six ounces of Chevas Regal, coming to the edge of the bed, taking his head in her hands, Chris moved her chest, rubbing her breasts… really, her by-then turgid nipples across his, oh, yeah, open mouth, as…

Reaching to her rear, holding a small, hard, but very smooth, very warm buttock in each hand, as, savoring the taste and texture of her nipples and the feel of her buttocks, “Chris?” he asked.

Savoring the touch of his hands and the feel of his lips, “Yes?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Huh?” Leaning back so she might see his face, “What don’t you understand, Mitchie?”

“I don’t see any, uh, Kotex or anything.” Though passionate, though drunk, “And if you’re bleeding so hard that you’re, uh, yucky, how do you keep the, uh, stuff from coming out?” Mitchell was also inquisitive because, after all, this, too, could be a learning experience, couldn’t it?

“A plug, Mitchie.”

“A plug?”

“Yeah.” Taking a step back, reaching between her thighs, arching her pelvis forward so he might better see it in the flickering light, “See?’ Chris lifted the end of a piece of string that had been dangling unseen.

Looking, squinting, he saw it. And even if he were sober, which he sure wasn’t, not understanding—though appreciating the invitation to look very closely at a vagina—Mitchell, drunkenly, thought the little piece of string was somehow a hanging stitch from some kind of female surgery so, “Jesus,” he said, “that’s not from a, uh, operation?”

Operation? “No, Mitchie,”

Giggling, “A teabag?”

Smiling, “No, Mitchie, it’s a tampon.”

“Tampon?” His less than agile mind taking a second or two to process the word tampon, “Oh,” he said, “It’s a tampon!”

“Yeah, Mitchie.”

Coming closer again, straddling his thighs, pushing against his shoulders, “Lay back, Mitchie…”

Laying back, “Oh, God! That’s nice, Chris.”

Taking hold of his penis, feeling its heat, holding it, parting her labia with one hand, holding him upward with the other, bending her knees, moving up and down on her toes… rubbing the underside of the glans, and the length of his penis against the silky moist inner lips of her labia… and clitoris, “Mmmm! See,” she whispered, “the are other things we can do.”

With Elsa there was always the material of her underpants that came between them… But this? This, physically, was the closest he had ever come to actually being in a female, and feeling the warm, wet friction as she rubbed herself against him, “Yeah,” he said through clenched teeth. “That does feel good!” Lifting his head, grasping her shoulders, he urged Chris downward until the hanging bits of flesh that were her breasts, and blood-engorged nipples were within reach of his lips, and he drew one, then the flesh of the other minuscule breast fully into his mouth as, holding her steady, scooting backwards, his feet leaving the floor, the woman above him now lay fully upon him. With this change of position, rather than being held vertically within the furrow, now, with Chris’ body flat against his body, the length of his penis was still held between the fleshy, silken lips, but also now by her gluteus, and having relatively no fat there, being all muscle, held tightly, it was the base of his penis that made contact with, and rubbed against the nodule of her swollen clitoris, and, clasping her buttocks with all ten fingers, Mitchell began to pump his pelvis… upward, downward, as…

Lying with her chest to his face, now, putting the palms of both hands to either side of his head, her breast pulling from his mouth, locking her elbows, pumping her pelvis… downward, upward, counter-matching his rhythm, as…

Feeling himself nearing ejaculation, going up as she came down…

Feeling the direct, hard friction upon her clitoris, going down as he came up….

Feeling the sweet, pulsing sensation within his testicles, closing his eyes, hearing a low, carnal moan as Chris stopped the pumping motion and, slowly, began to rotate her hips… slowly… until all movement stopped and each felt the spreading—hers about as much as his—wet warmth that saturated their closely entwined pubic hair, and, her arms folding under her, dropping onto Mitchell’s chest, she lay atop him until their breathing slowed.

“Whew,” rolling off, laying alongside him. “See?” Giggling, “Tol’ you we’d find something to do.”

“Yeah,” His head somewhat cleared, laughing dryly, “you sure did.”

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come on!” Poking him in the side with her elbow, “What’s so funny?”

“It’s nothing! It’s just… Nothing!”

“What’s, nothing?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Coming back onto him, straddling his stomach, tickling him, “Come on, you!” She insisted, “What’s so funny?”

Feeling a queasiness in his stomach from drinking too much too fast, along with a cold stickiness on his stomach, thinking it only his fluid, easily shaking Chris off, lying on his side next to her with his head propped in his hand, “I think,” he said hesitantly, “that God, and every girl I’ve ever met, or will meet,” now, seriously, “has had or will have some kind of a conspiracy going against me.”

“What do you mean?” Thinking she knew. “Every girl you’ve ever been with has had her period?”

Chuckling, “No! Every girl I’ve ever been with has not had her period!” Getting off the bed, “Never mind, Chris. I’m not going to t…”

“You’re still virgin, aren’t you?”

“Forget it, Chris! I’m not…”

“That’s it! Isn’t it? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mitch, to still be a virgin.”

“Says you! Mind if I hop in the shower?”

“No, of course not. I’d join you,” Knowing a shower would sober her, not really wanting to be sober, “but don’t want to get my hair wet this late at night. Go on, I’ll get you a towel.”

Waiting for him, having used the sink to clean herself, she’d put a nightgown on.

The shower sobering him, his stomach where it belonged, standing just inside the shower stall drying himself, looking at Chris he saw the shadowy V of her pubic hair, and the sharp points of, and the dark, roughly rounded projections of the impressions of the areolae of her nipples through and upon the slick, sheer material, as…

Looking at him, too. Seeing the beginnings of the resurrection of his penis, “Mitch, if you’d like… I have no objections to your spending the night here.”

Tempted! Oh, yeah! Tempted beyond belief, thinking, Damn it! He remembered the only other time he had been invited to spend the night with a woman—Connie, in Wildwood—and he’d chastised himself at least a million times for saying no then. And now, the sight of Chris in a sheer nightgown and the thought that he could be sleeping next to her tonight… Sleeping? And the fact that he could be having more of what he had just had, and even now wanted again, was causing blood to pump upward, from the soles of his feet, and drain downward, from the tip of his head, that was witnessed by the upward jerking of his penis, but, looking for his underwear, “Shit!” he said.

Seeing, watching the rebirth, not expecting this answer, “Excuse me?”

Walking from the bathroom to the living room, “Damn it, Chris!” Stepping into his shorts, “Believe me,” then his pants, “I’d like nothing better than to spend the night here.” Pulling the tunic over his head, “And normally I’d have tomorrow off, too.” Pulling his socks on, “But we’re sailing on Monday,” then his shoes, “and I promised this pal of mine, that’s married and has duty this weekend, that I’d standby for him on Sunday so he can go ashore and spend the day with his family. Damn! I didn’t know I’d be meeting you and told him I’d be back before twelve.” Glancing at his watch, “Christ, it’s almost that now.”

Fitting the neckerchief beneath the wide flap of the tunic, tying the knot, “I’ve got to get going, Chris. I’m really sorry! I’d love to stay, more than you’ll ever know. Invite me again, will you?”

Following him from the bathroom to the living room, watching as he hurriedly dressed, “Sure. Well, like they say, if you gotta go you gotta go.”

Walking him to the door, kissing each other quickly, “So long, Mitch.”

“So long, Chris,” he said, rushing to the elevator. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

Closing the door, Sure you will, Mitchie, she thought sadly, if you cared enough to get my number.

Shit! On the ferry, crossing from Manhattan to Staten Island, mentally kicking himself he realized that he didn’t know her last name, and that, Again I didn’t get a girl’s phone number! Okay, he thought, when I get back I’ll go to her building… If I can find her building, and I’ll talk to the doorman… If, because he hadn’t been paying attention as Chris led the way, I can find the fucking building! And next time she won’t have her fucking period!

Mitchell Lipensky spent a good part of the next forty-three days thinking about Chris, and his bad luck—the will of God?—at being with a woman who was ready to, and wanted to have intercourse, but couldn’t because of a bit of dangling string… And also about the very possible possibility that he would not be able to find her building… And also, and mostly about his stupidity at forgetting to, God damn it! Why didn’t I ask for her fucking phone number?


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Reviewed by Rose Rideout 4/10/2011
Fantastic Markie.

Your #1 Newfie Friend Hugs XOXOXO, Rose
Reviewed by Laura Fall 3/31/2011
Bravo dear friend another great write and wonderful read indeed and wonder will he get her phone number and a bit more? Laura
Reviewed by Annabel Sheila 3/31/2011
giggle....foiled again!!!

Cheers my friend,
Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 3/30/2011
Great write, Mark; well done!

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

Books by
Mark M Lichterman

For Better or Worse

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The Climbing Boy

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