Elsa: 3 of 3
U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station
Rockaway, New York
Summer 1953
Simultaneously, each had the same thought:
I am about to get laid, and he doesn’t have a rubber!
I’m about to get fucked and don’t have a rubber!
But it didn’t matter, because having some idea of what Elsa and Mitchell were up to, three pre-teen age boys decided to watch and, being boys, were not overly quiet, and…
Giving them a very dirty look, Little fuckers! Mitchell thought.
As, alas, Little creeps! Covering her breasts, Elsa yanked her bathing suit top down from beneath her chin
Splashing ashore, some people, thinking they knew what they had been doing, clacked their tongues and shook their heads. But many of the men sitting on their blankets with their wives and children sighed and looked lustfully at the pretty, big-busted young woman… As many of the women sitting on their blankets with their husbands and children looked at the darkly tanned, handsome young man and they, too, sighed lustfully.
***
The Schmidt’s rented cottage was on Rockaway Beach Boulevard, about one-half mile south of the Coast Guard compound. Walking Elsa home, passing the station, “That’s where I live,” Mitchell said, pointing to his room.
At the cottage, Elsa was tempted to invite Mitchell in, but she knew what would happen as soon as they were behind a closed door, besides, she had no idea when her parents would be returning home, so wisely kissed him goodbye at the front gate.
***
Taking a shower in a highly elated state of excitement, because he did not want to give Elsa a “beard burn,” anyplace, he shaved for the second time that day.
Knowing where they would, inevitably, be going after the movie and what they would—if truly there was a God in heaven—be doing, omitting underpants, he wore only well-worn Levi’s, a—what else but—yellow, polo shirt, and his old—getting very old—dirty white-buck shoes.
***
In all their hours of conversation on this day, Elsa had neglected to mention that her father was a police sergeant. So, much to her relief, her parents were still fishing when Mitchell called for her at 5:10.
They took the bus to Flatbush.
They had the C dinner for two at the China Inn.
They saw From Here to Eternity, then took the bus back to Flatbush.
Though both knew where they were going—no doubt seeing themselves as Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster rolling passionately in the surf—although he’d surely suggest it, and she’d surely agree, even if they’d just seen Bambi. Mitchell said to Elsa, “I’ve got a great idea!”
Holding hands, walking from the bus turnaround, down the incline that led to Rockaway Beach Boulevard, “Yeah?” as if she didn’t know, “What’s that, Mitchie?”
“It’s so beautiful tonight!” As if to prove this statement, he spread both arms above his head, encompassing the entire moonlit, star-studded universe. “How’s ’bout going down to the beach?” Stopping, turning Elsa in his direction, embracing her tightly, they kissed. “So, how’s about it? You want to go the beach?”
Earlier, hardly able to contain her excitement, Elsa had taken a shower, put on rayon panties, an easy-to-unhook, two-clasp brassiere, beige slacks, a matching sleeveless blouse, and black leather sandals. Then, her parents still not home, she’d left a note informing them that she’d met Mitchell—omitting the fact that he was a sailor—and that, if it’s okay with them, they’re going to dinner and to see a double feature. It was a single feature that they were going to see, and her parents were not home to say either yea or nay—so now, “Sure, Mitchie, I’d love to go to the beach!”
“Sure, Mitchie, I’d love to go to the beach!” Wanting, hoping, praying she would say this, but not sure that she would, his heart thumping, “Great!” he said. “I’ll get a blanket.”
At the station, “Come on,” he coaxed. “It’s okay.” Proud of Elsa, wanting to show her off to whomever might be on duty, “You can wait for me inside.”
But, just a little shy about going to the beach at 9:35 at night with a sailor she’d only met that day, “No,” she said, sitting on the stoop. “You go. I’ll wait for you here.”
“Okay, be right back.” Going inside, running up the stairs, through the hall into his room, grabbing the extra blanket off the shelf in his closet and back downstairs, catching his breath before opening the door, “Hi!”
They walked a quarter mile along the shore, well away from—unless they, too, were looking for a secluded spot to spread a blanket—any people that may be on the beach at this hour.
“This looks pretty good, huh?” Angling away from the water, stopping, they spread the blanked under a steep, grassy embankment where, if anyone were walking along the moonlit beach they, hopefully, would not see two, hopefully, naked bodies—if there is a God in heaven—writhing in a sexual embrace.
In the theatre, they had sat as close as the armrest would allow. Every now and then they would kiss, and the kiss, as if a prelude to what both were sure was going to happen, would send a surge of moisture to Elsa’s lower region and a surge of blood to Mitchell’s.
Now, though, that the time was here… Now, delaying the moment… Now, feeling fear for what she… Please, Jesus, let it happen! Yet, praying to Jesus, Don’t let it happen! Elsa sat on the far end of the blanket looking at the moon’s wide tail reflected upon the slightly rippling water.
Not wanting to rush her, wisely giving Elsa time to acclimate herself to the situation…
But now, the words spoken both, as a soft command, and also, a plea, “Elsa, baby, come here.”
Turning her head, Elsa looked at the shadowed, moonlit-diffused figure of Mitchell, whom, having removed his shirt, shoes and socks, was lying on his side with his head propped in the palm of his hand, looking at her, waiting for her.
Seeing him with only his jeans on, again feeling the urge in her lower abdomen, Now, Elsa thought, it would be best to talk to him, to tell him before he… Yet she did not want to tell him… Yet, now she did want to tell him that she does have her limits… Yet, Jesus! she wanted no limits! Elsa was afraid to let Mitchell touch her. Yet, Jesus! I want him to touch me! She was afraid to touch him, but, Oh, Jesus! she could not wait to touch him, again… there.
Earlier, when she had impulsively reached through the top of his bathing suit and held him—so unlike Wayne’s longer, much thinner penis—holding this strange, new penis had further—much further—excited her but now, Oh, Jesus! she rationalized. What if he doesn’t have a rubber and he puts it in and he comes? Jesus, I’m afraid! But then again, But I want him to! she thought, and, But what do I do if I get pregnant?
Waiting…
What’ll I tell mom and dad?
Waiting… “Elsa,” patting the blanket, “Come on, baby.”
Oh, Jesus… Moving closer, turning, Elsa laid on her side, facing Mitchell, beside Mitchell.
Mouths an inch apart, each felt the warm breath of the other.
Moving even nearer, lips brushed lips… Parting, tongue touches tongue.
Laying the crook of his arm on Elsa’s hip, and the palm of his hand onto her back, applying gentle pressure, now, moving his mouth hard against hers, tongues explored deeper… Now, easing Elsa onto her back, laying his bare chest onto her, each feeling the heat of the other’s body… Now, tongues darting from mouth to mouth, moving her hands to his back, Oh, Jesus! Her resolve gone, Elsa pressed the tips of her fingers into his flesh as, lifting his chest, blindly pushing buttons through button holes… Holding the sides of both breasts within the palms of his hands, Mitchell kissed the hard points of one, then the other nipple over the slick material of her brassiere, as—knowing he was doing it, arching her back upward, helping him, as—reaching behind her back, fumbling for just a moment, one after the other, he opened the two clasps that held the elastic and rayon apparatus…
“Wait, Mitchie,” using both hands, lifting his face to the level of her eyes, “Let me take it off. I don’t want to go home too wrinkled.”
“Yeah…” Good idea. Breathing heavily, moving back, “Take it off.”
Sitting up, shrugging the blouse off her shoulders, holding it by the inner tab, taking her time, giving herself time to catch her breath, and as a tease, Elsa laid her blouse neatly on the far side of the blanket. Now, pulling her arms through the hanging straps, taking her brassiere off, she laid it on top of the blouse.
If she had been stalling, Mitchell didn’t notice, because he hadn’t taken his eyes off her moonlit, iridescent white breasts.
Sitting up, free of all restraint, Elsa’s breasts hung sloppingly over her stomach and when, with his gentle urging, she laid back, her breasts fell to the sides of her chest where the small areolae showed in black relief against the snowy whiteness.
To Mitchell Lipensky, though, regardless of how they truly looked, all breasts were beautiful. To him, the saying “More than a handful is a waste,” must have been thought of by a small-busted woman, because, to Mitchell, the larger they were the more beautiful the were, and, “Oh, God, Elsa,” he said once again, “you are so beautiful!” As lifting one from beneath, feeling the silky, soft texture and cool weight, kissing it, rubbing the hardened circle of flesh over his lips, closing his mouth over it… Feeling her moving against his thigh, putting his hand into the juncture of her crotch, rubbing the rise of her mound with a sensual, circular motion…
“Oh, Jesus!” Opening her thighs, Elsa arched her hips upward.
Her thighs spread, he felt the fissure of, and the heat generated by her vulva… Now, moving two fingers onto the moist depression, rubbing a moment, before she had a chance to object—if she would object—Mitchell moved his hand from outside Elsa’s slacks to inside Elsa’s slacks, to beneath her panties, and… Mmmm! his finger immediately sliding through the minute, slithery lips…
Never before feeling a boy’s finger actually enter her vagina, Elsa tensed a moment then, “Mmmm!” enjoying, truly enjoying the sensation, relaxing, spreading her thighs even wider, Yeah, I want to hold him, she thought. But also, still having a diminishing modicum of fear, remembering how easily it had always been to cause Wayne to ejaculate, quite often almost immediately, rationalizing, If I make him come, he’ll stop! Also rationalizing, Elsa also thought, Then I won’t have to make the—impossible—decision to stop. Taking hold of him, feeling the heat, she massaged the hardness over his jeans…
But knowing just how fast he could ejaculate, determined that this time he was going to only one way, only in one place, “Elsa,” he whispered, “take your slacks off!”
Wanting to… Oh, Jesus, Lord! Wanting to!
Waiting… Waiting for her to move, when she didn’t—remembering that night on his father’s boat with Sally—“Should I take mine off first?”
Without thinking, without hesitation, “Yes!” But Elsa wasn’t sure if this was meant as a stall, or if she wanted to see Mitchell nude but, really, rather she thought, Oh, yeah, she did want to see Mitchell nude.
Recalling the thrill, once he’d overcome his shyness and stood fully nude in front of Sally, and the look on her face, the word “Yes” now caused Mitchell to stand, and standing between her outstretched thighs…. Watching Elsa, seeing her face as best he could in the moonlight, unhurriedly pushing the steel buttons through the buttonholes from the top down…
As each button was pushed through its hole, the level of Elsa’s expectancy—and his excitement—jumped another notch, and…
When the bottom button was pushed through, he hesitated, then, still watching her face, allowed the jeans to slip off his hips, and…
As his jeans dropped, his black pubic hair, scrotum, and the, also, seemingly iridescent flesh of his penis clearly visible, Jesus Christ! Unaware that he was not wearing underpants, his extended penis springing into view startled Elsa, then, seeing a completely nude boy—man!—for the first time in her life, Elsa’s excitement level jumped to the end of her circuitry as…
Yes, of course she had seen Wayne’s penis, but only through his open fly. She’d touched it, and even held his scrotum in the palm of her hand, but always in the semi-darkness of his father’s Mercury. But not like this! No! Never like this.
…Looking at, actually studying Mitchell’s—in her very limited, erroneous estimation—huge, jutting penis, Elsa haltingly reached forward, touched, and closed her cool hand around the warm shaft, as, with her other hand, lifting it from beneath the scrota, holding it, feeling its weight within the palm of her hand, her fingers finding and gently kneading the ovals of his testicles…
Staring, unaware that she was nervously blinking her eyes, nor that her tongue was darting between and around her lips and, He’s—meaning the entire picture—so beautiful, she thought, Christ, holding Mitchell, I want him in me! Lost in her desire, squeezing the shaft, hard, so hard that…
“Ummm!”
Squeezing so deliciously hard that a drop of glistening semen forced its way through the urethra.
“Ummm!” When Elsa’s nervously cool hand had taken hold of Mitchell’s penis, her touch had sent a jolt of heat through him and… Arching his pelvis forward, he had watched her face as she had studied him, and held his breath as she’d kneaded his testicles, and when she had squeezed his penis he’d tightened his groin and sphincter against ejaculation. Now, not at all sure how much longer he’ll be able to hold off, “Elsa, Baby,” his voice thick with passion, “please take your slacks off.”
Yeah! But lifting her buttocks, she somehow had enough presence of mind to know that this was her last line of resistance… So did not take hold of the elastic band of her panties, and pulled only her slacks off.
Looking forward, Oh, yes, to seeing Elsa fully nude, too, but not, in the least, discouraged because she had left her panties on, dropping to his knees, “Lay back,” he said softly, and…
As if in a trance—or maybe resigned to do what she no longer had the power to stop—lying back, she closed her eyes.
Widening her knees, positioning himself between, and leaning forward, putting his weight on his outstretched arms, sensuously, slowly, Mitchell kissed Elsa’s closed eyes, her mouth, her chin, her neck… He trailed his tongue slowly over, and between her breasts… He licked one, then the other nipple… He kissed the depression of her “inny” navel… And lowered her panties to beneath her hips, below her knees and off one foot…
Salvatore Diamond! Louise Ann! He hadn’t thought about them in years, and the scene in the air well, when he was seven, vividly coming to mind reminded Mitchell that he was in the exact same position that Salvatore and Louis Ann were those, oh, so many years ago, and powerless to stop, not that he wanted to stop…
Lying flat on her back with her eyes closed, Elsa felt the balmy air upon her nude body, and the soft touch of his kisses, and the sensual feel of his tongue as it traced down… down, and…
Lowering his head further, pausing a moment at the not unpleasant salt-tang odor, and the surprisingly soft, damp mat of Elsa’s pubic hair, parting the small, puffy folds of her labia…
“Oh, Jesus!” she said aloud as she felt, and realized what he was doing, for this was mystical stuff, spoken only in whispers, only between the absolute very best of friends, girlfriend to girlfriend, and, “Ummmm!” Elsa kicked her panties off to somewhere in the sand, and grabbing Mitchell by the hair, pushing his mouth harder onto her, gyrating her pelvis in urgent rhythm with her hands, and Mitchell’s head…
Ecstatically lost within the literal sea of Elsa’s vagina, knowing where his mouth was, and his tongue was, feeling Elsa’s passion, becoming a part of, not only his, but Elsa’s passion, also allowing the motion of his head to go with the urging of her hands—and the pulling of his hair—his chin sliding into and out of her capaciously open, thoroughly saturated portal, the bridge of his nose rubbing up and down, over and around Elsa’s now hypertrophied clitoris, her fluid flooding his mouth and nostrils, finding it becoming near impossible to breathe, but—not wanting to move from the sight and smell and taste of this place that he’d dreamt of being, all of his life, so it seemed, and—not wanting to pull from Elsa’s hands and possibly keep her from orgasm, but, at that moment not sure if he was going to drown or ejaculate, turning his head minutely to the left, drawing air through the corner of his mouth, he turned back to the task—task? Ah, yes, it’s a hard job but someone has to do it—he turned back to the task at hand, as…
Drawing air harshly through her nostrils, Elsa’s movement, and her clasp upon his head turned even more frenzied and, as her pelvis began to pulsate, “Ohhhh!” groaning as though in pain—actually frightening Mitchell for a long moment—stretching her legs straight outward and her toes straight upward, “Ummmm! Oh, Jesus! Ummmm! Ummmm!” Her, “Ummm!” breathing, “Umm!” began to slow and—having her very first “man-made” orgasm—“Um!” toes wilting, her legs, and her clasp on his head, and hold of his hair relaxed.
Still positioned between Elsa’s thighs, lifting his head, swiping the palm of his hand over his mouth and chin, Mitchell looked up.
Still flat upon her back, and spread-eagled, Elsa’s eyes were closed… And there was a very satisfied look on her face…
Looking at her, happy, ecstatic over the fact that that he—to his knowledge, for the first time in his life—had actually caused a girl to orgasm… And yet tasting her taste and smelling her smell and, Oh, God, ready, more than ready, to do what he had waited for and wanted to do all of his life—so it seemed—now! Moving from the harbor of Elsa’s thighs, and the sight of her flooded vagina, moving onto his knees, now…
Now it was his turn.
But…
“Mitchie,” sitting up, “are you going to…” pointing first at his willing, able, and very ready penis, “uh,” then to her crotch.
Breathing heavily, “Yeah!” looking at his target. “Sure!”
If he had stopped doing what he’d been doing—though possibly he would have lost a double handful of hair—within the heat of that moment Elsa would have welcomed… Hell, she’d have urged his penis into her vagina…
But now, now that the bulk of her passion had been spent, thinking of her mother and her father, and Jesus Christ… Elsa began to cry.
“Elsa?” His penis wilting, “What’s wrong?”
“Mitchie, believe me,” she said through her sobs, “I do”—actually, to be exact, she did, a minute or so ago—“want to do it with you so bad, but I’m afraid. What if I get pregnant? And”—okay, now’s the time to tell him—“I think you ought to know…”
“Elsa, I wouldn’t do that to you! I’ve got a rubber!” Reaching for his pants, groping through a pocket, removing a Trojan, “See?”
Looking at the small, foil wrapped pac in his hand, then at his face, “I can’t,” she said softly.
“Huh?” Not sure he’d heard right. “What do you mean?”
“I said I can’t do it!” Said softly, “that way.”
“Elsa,” he said in near panic, “how can you tell me now that you can’t do it?”
“Mitchie, my dad’s a police sergeant!” Not sure if she had issued this as a warning or a statement of fact. “And, uh, I’m only sixteen. But…” she added quickly, “only for another few months.”
He remembered a lecture accompanied by a film that he had seen in boot camp. The film was on venereal disease and the lecture concluded with the stern warning: “The age of consent in most northern states is eighteen, and you…” In his mind’s eye, the Chief Petty Officer giving the lecture had looked directly at him. “…will go to jail for statutory rape!”
“Sixteen! Elsa, you’re only sixteen?” as if that wasn’t bad enough, “And your father’s a cop!?”
“Yeah.” On her knees, Elsa searched the sand at the foot of the blanket for her panties. Finding them, shaking the sand out, sitting on the blanket again, pulling them on, “Mitchie, I’m sorry I lied to you. Come here!” Spreading her legs, she patted the blanket in front of her.
Still on his knees, he moved closer. But, the thought that, It’s God, came to mind. The ridiculous thought that, God does not want me to ever get fucked! came to mind.
Putting her arms around his neck, pulling his face to hers, Elsa kissed Mitchell, ardently. And as she kissed Mitchell she reached to his by-then fully flaccid penis, and—thinking that Wayne’s, in a state flaccidity, was much longer than Mitchell’s—massaged it till, breaking the kiss, “Baby…” she said, after having resurrected his penis… And also, feeling it grow, feeling it harden and become erect in her hand, Elsa had sensed the flow, again, of her own heat. “…there’s other ways to do things, you know.”
Lying back, Elsa inserted the tip of the head of his penis in the shallow depression made by her, once-again secretion-slicked panties.
“Mmmm! That’s not so bad, is it?” she asked as, holding the shaft of his penis, Elsa began to move her hand up and down. And, as Elsa masturbated Mitchell she also rubbed his glans into, and put hard penile pressure onto, her clitoris… “Ohhh!” And soon, Elsa orgasmed again. While…
Held in the hand of a real live girl. Looking at big, real live breasts. Pressed against, but, alas, not actually in, a real live vagina soon, very soon, Mitchell orgasmed, too.
***
Whenever he had liberty, Elsa and Mitchell spent the evening on the beach, at “their spot.”
But no matter how careful he was, and no matter how romantic it had looked when Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr did it, sand is sand, and by the time Labor Day rolled around and the Schmidt’s two-week vacation was through, the skin on the head of his penis, and tongue, had been painfully rubbed raw. Besides, although he hadn’t actually penetrated her, Mitchell had the nagging thought that, technically, what he and Elsa were doing could be construe d as statutory rape. So, with a promise to call her—Yeah, I’ll call you—in two years when you’re eighteen—Mitchell was just as glad to say goodbye and see Elsa, and her police sergeant father, leave Rockaway and go home to Bayside.
