Going on #3: ‘50 Pontiac  

August 18, 1950

Union Pier, Michigan

“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.

  (A "Becoming" Excerpt)