Going on #4: ‘50 Flashlight
August 18, 1950
Union Pier, Michigan
“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!”
Wanting foreplay rather than just a quickie, as most guys do, further impressed Ina and she began to manipulate the sheath of skin that covers the hard core…
As he, in turn, rubbing the palm of his hand over the coarse, damp hair at the V of her crotch, Mitchell searched for a moment or two until, even in this awkward position, finding the orifice, his finger slid between Ina’s thick lips into her ultra-slick wetness and…
Feeling his hand there and his finger there, widening her thighs even further, her encircling hand going up and down, squeezing and loosening, expecting it, looking for it, Ina’s thumb played over the tip of Mitchell’s penis till soon she felt the droplet of semen that, with her help, had worked its way up and through his urethra, and the feel of the slippery semen that then covered his glans made her even hotter and…
Whispering, “Oh-my-God, Ina!”
Looking as Mitchell looked, Ina would have taken bets that he’d have had plenty of experience with girls and she had been surprised early in the evening when she’d learned of his complete inexperience. Ina well knew what was about to happen, but thought, If he comes now it’ll be a snap to get it up again—especially knowing what she planned on doing because she especially loved the feeling of a limp penis growing less limp within her mouth—an’ then, maybe—not that the feeling a limp penis becoming less limp within her mouth didn’t always cause her to orgasm, too—he’ll last long enough for me to come, too—again—So…
“Oh-my-God, Ina!”
He wanted to savor this long-awaited, long-desired experience for as long as possible, and as much as, Oh, yeah! he sure did love the feeling of her fondling, he knew that if she didn’t stop now, right now, he would climax, so, somehow, finding some hidden source of self control, “Please, Ina, stop!” Mitchell took hold of her hand and shoved it, along with his near unbending penis, between his thighs and clamped both in an unmovable grip and, screwing his eyes shut, thinking for the second time tonight: Don’t come! Don’t come! Do not come! And only when the all-but-uncontrollable urge passed, did he open his eyes.
“Almost came, huh?”
Breathing heavily, “Yeah,” he admitted. “Almost.”
The scene of Sal Diamond’s head between Lou Ann’s thighs still pictured within his mind, knowing there was something else he wanted to do, feeling he then had his ejaculatory problem under control, loosening his thighs he freed Ina’s hand, along with his penis.
“Lay back some, can you?” Kissing her mouth, “I want to kiss you,” his lips grazing her neck, “here…” lowering his head, lingering, kissing, a number of times, first one, then the other breast, “and here,” stretching his finger even deeper into Ina’s vaginal canal, speaking hoarsely, passionately, “…and here.”
Thinking she knew what he meant, He’s gonna eat me! “Yeah, Mitchie!” Her voice no less passionate, “Do it!”
The night was suddenly splintered by a ragged bolt of lightening, and seconds later the sky opened.
Feeling rain on her head and face and he on his back, relinquishing their positions as slightly as possible, trying to move no more than the needed hand, each rolled a window closed.
Bringing his attention—and hand—back to where they had been seconds ago, wanting to do it again, hell, finding the kissing of Ina’s breasts to be about as enjoyable a task as he’d ever preformed, returning to her breasts, once again kissing each a number of times, his lips trailed past her chest, onto her soft, actually rather mushy, stomach, over her navel and onto the outer fringe of pubic hair… where they hesitated because—being very cognizant of odors—because of a, albeit, not thoroughly unpleasant odor but a strong odor nonetheless, he halted, also, because being this close to it, the movement of his finger within Ina’s vagina caused a squishing sound that he could actually hear, and also, in this position his neck was beginning to hurt, but what stopped him, what stopped him cold was that suddenly…
Because the orifice of Ina’s vagina was stretched in preparation for intercourse and flooded with readying fluid, in order to feel the pressure of his finger, Ina had kept her thighs and vaginal muscle constricted, and expecting, anticipating his tongue, waiting for the sweet sensation that she so wanted, that she had never experienced because no guy had ever done it to her, for her, Ina loosened her thighs and vaginal muscle… and due to the excessive fluid within her vagina, the sudden release of internal pressure caused…
A loud, fart-like sound emitted from Ina’s vagina that she might not have heard, but being as close as he was, Mitchell sure heard, and…
Feeling the shift in his body, Ina opened her eyes as…
Changing his mind about doing the “Sal Diamond and Lou Ann thing,” straightening his back, Mitchell sat up.
Damn-it! Slightly angry with him because, Shit! How come guys don’t wanna eat me like I wanna eat them? She thought, Screw ’im! Let him do the work for a change! Reclining on her elbows, shifting, lifting her body, she laid her buttocks across his lap, and bending her right leg, putting her right foot at an angle on the seat between his right hip and the car door, by stretching her left leg onto the passenger-side floor, Ina was able to lay back with her head lying on the seat, beneath the steering wheel.
The rain outside in combination with the heavy breathing inside had caused a heavy cast of fog to cover the windows and, in the obliterated moonlight, what lay flat on the seat and across his lap lay wholly in a dark shadow, and though he could not see all that he wanted to see, the fact that a girl’s completely naked body was completely open to his hands and mouth—not making him too unhappy with this position. “Ina, lift up a second, can you?” Reaching beneath her buttocks, he pulled his cramped penis out from under and placed it, standing straight up, pressed between her right hip and his stomach.
Mitchell Lipensky looked at Ina Dorfmann and still, in whatever light there was, was able to see her darkly accentuated aureole against the stark white of her breasts, and the black shadow of her crotch in contrast to the flesh of her stomach and thighs. Concentrating on Ina’s crotch, spreading her labia with his left hand, turning his right hand upward, feeling a heightening thrill, he inserted his index finger.
In Ina’s mind, and most always so, she was the one doing all the work with the guy doing all the enjoying—not, mind you, that she did not enjoy the results of her labor. But this time, lying on her back, closing her eyes, she’s doing all the enjoying and the guy’s doing all the work. Work? Ah, yes! It’s a tough job but someone’s got to do it. Shifting slightly, Ina’s left breast rolled off her chest and hung, looking downward at the clutch, brake and accelerator. Her right breast, propped by the fabric-covered seat, standing somewhat upward, appeared to be gazing at Mitchell.
Completely impassioned once again—not, mind you, that a little thing like a “cunt-fart” would ever disimpassion him—bending forward, he drew the staring nipple into his mouth… But after a few seconds
the awkward position caused a crick in his neck, so he sat up, and because his index finger felt lost—and indeed it was—within the depth and breadth of Ina’s sexually prepared, extended vagina, Hummm? Thinking, Wonder if I can get another one in? All of his knuckles and most of his hand wet from the abundant secretion, on the next outward trip Mitchell was easily able to insert his number one finger. Having two fingers in Ina’s vagina aroused him even further, only now it had become more than just sexual, it had become experimental, a learning experience, if you will, so… Plenty of room in there, he thought, maybe one more. And put his number three finger in.
“Mmmm!” Clenching her teeth, Ina began to squirm.
Having no way of knowing what, where or why, but with his small finger bent back and his middle three fingers inserted upside down, filling Ina’s vagina, touching and caressing everything, sexually, that there was to touch and caress—including, in this position, the highly erogenous zone on the roof of her vagina, that on Ina was located midway between her clitoris and urethral opening, that in the past only she had paid attention to—a whole lot of attention—Mitchell had no place to put his thumb, so it accidentally fondled the little protruding button of highly sensory flesh at the top cleft of her vagina that…
Due to the position of his hand, the pumping motion of his three fingers and the dandling touch on her hypertrophied clitoris, along with the scientifically, still-unknown G spot, caused a sensation that Ina had never before felt, and she began to rotate her hips, putting syncopated, rolling pressure against the erotically satisfying movement of Mitchell’s fingers, and the more than satisfying caress of his thumb.
Forgetting that just a few minutes earlier she’d thought him wholly inexperienced, “Mitchie,” she said, breathing the words rather than saying the words, “emmm, where’d you, ahhh, learn to do this?”
At that moment, not actually cognizant of the thought, Mitchell realized that in sex, for him, it was just as important to give as to receive and was ecstatic in the knowledge that he was doing something to Ina that she, too, was enjoying, and—though he had no way of knowing just how much she was enjoying what he was, albeit, unknowingly, doing—having no idea of what it was that he was doing, he said nothing.
“Oh, God, that feels so nice!” Constricting and relaxing her thighs and vaginal muscle while gyrating her pelvis in harmonized movement with the pressure of his fingers, and the touch of his thumb, “Mmmm!” rolling her head from side to side… Taking hold of his hand, moving his hand and fingers at her desired speed, her breathing coming harder… faster, now oscillating her buttocks and hips, now…
Also rubbing against, and putting a silken, oh, so sweet pressure against her hip and his stomach-entrapped, upstanding penis…
Mitchell was so absorbed in Ina’s passion that he did not realize that now he, too, was pumping his pelvis, and, of course, did not know of, nor take notice of the spasmodic tightening and loosening within her vagina as Ina’s intensely strong orgasm began, but suddenly did realize that it was not only her raspy breathing he heard but his also, and even under the weight of her buttocks, Mitchell arched his pelvis upward and this time unwilling, unable to stop himself, laying his head back on the seat he closed his eyes as, “Mmmm! God!” his voluminous…
More often than not, due to her date’s lack of staying power, consideration, or most likely a combination of both, Ina’s sexual dalliances were consummated by her own hand in the privacy of her bedroom, and now, completely satiated, relaxing, Ina loosened her thighs, and if she did realize, made no comment as…
Mitchell’s ejaculations arched upward, then dropped and splattered on her thighs, stomach and, looking much like melted droplets of vanilla ice cream, onto the dark-blue metal dashboard of Mister Dorfmann’s 1950 Pontiac.
As his breathing and pulse rate returned to normal, the realization of what had happened hit him and, angry at himself for “coming” that way, and not even getting to see “it,” Mitchell looked at Ina and, even in the dull moonlight, her face did not look nearly as appealing as it had a few seconds ago. As a matter of fact, he thought, she looks really shitty! Also, suddenly his wrist hurt terribly so, pulling it free with a wet, suction sound, opening and closing his fist a number of times to get the circulation flowing, he wiped both sides of his hand on the seat.
Still lying across his lap with her eyes closed and her thighs spread, Ina looked almost as though she were asleep.
Tilting his head downward, he tried to see between her thighs, but it was much too dark there.
Looking up, he noticed the flashlight on the cluttered, now semen-splattered dashboard… and the hint of an idea came to mind.
Mitchell looked at Ina’s face again. Her eyes were still closed and, Hmmm, she sleeping? Yeah, maybe! It sure looks like she’s sleeping. He looked at the flashlight. Nah! His eyes flicked back to Ina, and back at the flashlight. Shaking his head negatively, Nah! But, But if she is asleep, maybe I can still get to see it. Making the decision… Slowly… Moving slowly, moving his arm only because he did not want to wake her, reaching to the flashlight, he grasped, and pulled. Holding a moment, the strong magnet released with a slight jerk. He looked at her face once again and, her eyes still closed, Ina hadn’t moved.
Holding the flashlight, he waited…
Still, she did not move.
Tilting his head to the right, looking down, slowly, carefully so as not to touch her, positioning the flashlight, taking a deep breath, he pushed the button, and…
Light seemingly filling the car, several things simultaneously happened:
Thinking a cop was shining his flashlight through the window—as had happened oh, so many times in the past—Ina’s instantaneous reaction was to open her eyes and bring her head up, and…
Ina’s reaction to the light drawing his immediate attention, releasing the button, the light went off as…
Bonk!
Ina’s forehead smashed into the hard plastic steering wheel, bounced off and fell back onto the seat.
“Ina?” said softly.
No answer.
“Ina,” said a bit louder. “Ina?”
Still, no response…
Waiting another moment, pushing the button, shining the light onto her face, “Oh, my God!” Swallowing, he blinked his eyes rapidly, for…
Her tongue lolling from the corner of her drooling mouth, Ina Dorfmann’s head lay flat on the seat. Staring upward, blankly, her eyes were open, and crossed.
“Ina?” Thinking she’s dead, “Ina!” And not only dead, “Ina, I’m sorry!” but that he was responsible. That he’d killed her! “Ina,” shaking her shoulder, “I’m sorry!” Apologizing for killing her, he shook her shoulder even harder… and watched as her jiggling breasts flopped back and forth with the motion. “I’m sorry!”
“Ummm.” She moaned.
She’s not dead! Relieved that she wasn’t dead, “Ina, I’m sorry!”
She moved her head.
I didn’t kill her! Relieved that he hadn’t killed her, “I’m sorry!”
She blinked her eyes.
Looking skyward, thinking, Oh, God, thank you, God! Overjoyed because Ina was alive and that he had not killed her, “I’m sorry.” turning the flashlight off, he put it back on the dashboard.
“Oh, God,” holding her head in her hands. “I’ve got such a headache!” Turning, moving off Mitchell, sitting up, Ina faced forward.
Relieved to see her sit up, and move her by-then unbearably hot and heavy buttocks off his lap, thinking he was thinking, I’m sorry, but actually whispering it, “I’m sorry,” he muttered one last time as, reaching to the floorboard, hastily slipping his feet through his Jockey shorts and jeans, he pulled both up to his waist, then, grabbing his shirt off the driver-side floorboard, Mitchell pulled it over his head, as…
Trying to figure out, What happened? “What happened?” Ina asked.
Buttoning his fly, cinching his belt, he didn’t answer.
Ina knew that she was naked and that he was naked, and felt the rapidly evaporating moisture in and on her crotch and the familiar stretched feeling within her vagina, and in her still-muddled mind thought, He screwed me. Which in itself would not have bothered her, except, Why, all of a sudden do I have a headache? And, Why in the hell does he keep apologizing? And also, “Mitchie,” she asked, feeling her forehead, “How’d I get this goose-egg?”
Now thinking, The flashlight was a really stupid thing to do! Trying to think, What should I tell her? Trying to think of a, somewhat, plausible answer, She don’t remember the flashlight.
Stretching over the seat, reaching to the back, reclaiming her brassiere and blouse, Ina slipped her arms through the straps, adjusted her breasts into the cups, fastened the hooks, then, looking at him, “So,” she asked suspiciously, “how’d I get this bump on my head?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” he said, looking away, “I guess you, uh,” telling the truth, “kind’a bumped it.”
Bending forward, reaching for her shorts and panties, “Ouch!” her forehead grazed the steering wheel. Slipping both onto her feet, arching her body upward, Ina pulled both over her hips. “I bumped my head?
"How, Mitchie? On what?”
He thought a moment, Maybe I ought’a just tell the truth, and figuring the truth, some of it at least, might be the way to go. So, “On the steering wheel,” he said.
As though this was the only logical answer, which in fact it was, Ina simply said, “Oh.” Except, she thought, he just saw me bump my head on the steering wheel.
And Ina Dorfmann, the girl that would screw just about anyone, thought Mitchell Lipensky did…? She didn’t know what, but she did think that this boy—this boy that she felt something akin to love for an hour ago—did something to her.
Fresh air replacing fetid air, Ina rolled her window open, turned the key in the ignition starting the motor, turned the defroster on, and while waiting for a hole of clear glass to appear, “You know, Mitch,” she said, looking across the seat at him. “I’ve never been out with a guy like you before.”
Catching the inflection in her voice, not knowing if this was meant as a compliment—which it most certainly was not—and not knowing how to respond in either case, he said nothing.
“Yeah, Mitch,” Ina said as, wincing, she touched the bump on her forehead. “You know I’ve gone out with lots’a guys, an’ lots of ’em have done… well, you know, ‘it’ to me. But, Mitch, you’re the only one that’s ever apologized.”
Putting her father’s 1950 Pontiac into reverse, then forward, Ina Dorfmann drove off the dirt road of the view site onto the Old Highway.
(A "Becoming" Excerpt)
