A “Becoming” Excerpt in sequence: Erotic Watch/Kill Ewing

Careful!!! Extremely descriptive sexual sequence here

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Tower Tales 2

July, 1953

Erotic Watch… (A Cat 1)

A cherry-red, 1952 Chevrolet convertible stopped at road’s end.

Mid-morning: Appearing to lie on the white-capped, storm-tossed ocean, the roiling black clouds to the east crackled with shrouded bolts of iridescent lightning. Overhead the sky was a solid dark-gray.

The tower swayed in battering blasts of torrid wind.

Slack line slapping onto the flagpole, the red flag snapped and wreathed.

Binoculars pressed to his eyes, he watched the shadow of an outbound ship on the far fringe of his vision. Close in, on the ocean side there were no vessels within sight. But though the storm warning flag had been flying for the last twenty-four hours and storm warnings had been broadcast on television and radio for the past two days, still, there were three foolhardy fishermen to be found within the bay.

Carrying on the wind, broken strands of music drew his attention.

Moving from the plate glass window to the open doorway he turned the binoculars towards the convertible.

There was a man and women in the car.

The top was down and Mitchell could see that they were older, perhaps in their late thirties or early- to mid-forties. At least the man appeared to be that age because he was partially bald and had a short-cropped, gray-streaked beard.

The two sat closely together seemingly watching the quickly approaching storm…

Suddenly the two turned their heads and kissed.

By the movement of their heads the lookout could see that the kiss was ardent and though he could not see beyond the back of the seat, by the angle of the man’s body and the position of his left arm, Mitchell’s fervent imagination told him that the man was probably fondling the woman’s breast.

Accompanied by a blast of sultry air that caused the tower to careen, now also came three distant, sky-splitting bolts of jagged lightening along with the muffled sound of far-off, rolling thunder.

Dropping the binoculars—that dangled from the strap about his neck— he held onto either side of the door frame until the frightful motion stopped.

Going onto the catwalk. Scanning the bay he saw that all but one of the die-hard fishing boats had hoisted anchor and were heading to shore.

“ ‘Schmuck’!” he yelled futilely into the wind. “ ‘Asshole’! There’s a fuckin’ hurricane coming! Go buy some god-damned fish if you need some that fuckin’ bad!”

As though the skipper of the boat had heard him, crawling to the bow a second man hoisted the anchor and the last boat headed to shore.

“X-ray, Baker, Two, to X-ray, Baker, One. Over.”

“Baker, One to Baker, Two. Go on, Lippy.”

“X-ray, Baker, Two reporting that all vessels in the area of Sheepshead bay are ashore or heading to shore. Baker, Two, over.”

“Got’ch’ya, Baker, Two. Keep your eyes on the stragglers. Baker, One, over.”

Again the tower swayed, “Baker, One…” and again Mitchell was terrified. “Uh, Minnie? Over.”

“Yeah, Lippy? Over.

“Baker, One… I ain’t never been in a hurricane before. Over.”

“Don’t worry, Lippy,” attempting to reassure him, “it’s only qualified as a category one storm and the winds shouldn’t get much more’n seventy, eighty miles an hour. Over.”

Pushing the transmit button, forcing a laugh. “Minnie, you dick! You sitting there, in that solid brick building can tell me all you want that this is only a fuckin’ ‘category one’, but it ain’t gonna stop this fuckin’ tower from walkin’ all over the fuckin’ place!”

“X-ray, Baker, One, X-ray, Baker, Two!” A stern, third voice patching into the transmission, “This is ‘Charlie’, ‘George’, ‘Dog’, ‘How’!”

Uh-oh! ‘Coast Guard District Headquarters’.

“Baker, One, Baker, Two. This is to inform you that you are not following proper transmittal procedure…”

Madone! thought Minnossa.

Oy, Vey! thought Lipensky.

“…and you fuckers out in Far Rockaway better batten down the fuckin’ hatches ’cause she’s gonna blow like all shit! Charlie, George, Dog, How, out.”

With all vessels safely in-shore and having nothing more to do than ‘hang on’, the lookout’s attention went back to the couple in the cherry-red convertible…

Except that the top was up and he couldn’t see what the couple was doing…

Movement causing him to shift the binoculars...

Only they weren’t in the car.

“Holy shit!”

Their sandals throwing little puffs of sand, the man and woman were running across the wind-swept peninsula: She zigging; he zagging.

Their arms waving wildly in the air. Streaming behind, the woman’s long black hair blew in wind-blown strands and…

“ ‘Holy shit’!”

Taking a moment to register, Mitchell pressed the glasses closer to his eyes.

The woman was naked! And as she ran, bouncing up and down and from side to side, the woman’s pendulous breasts slapped against her shoulders and… Bringing the binoculars to behind her, to the man, “ ‘Holy shit’! The man was naked too, and there was nothing on him that bounced because the man had a jutting erection that stood as rigidly forward as though an oaken battering ram, and…

As the storm moved closer…

…so did the man.

Lightning cleaved the sky a mile offshore, as…

…catching the woman, grabbing her by the shoulders…

Thunder roaring overhead shook the ground, as…

… he spun her around, and…

Yet another, closer bolt of lightning.

…they embraced, as suddenly…

Rain fell in a thick, almost solid sheet, and…

Kissing. Fiercely pressing their bodies onto each other, the fingers of the man and woman pressed hard into the soft flesh of the others buttocks, as…

‘Crrackkk’! Lightning split the gray-black sky directly overhead, as…

She took hold of the man’s penis, and…

The storm now directly overhead.

He reached his upturned hand between woman’s thighs and the woman strained onto the pressure of the man’s hand as… One arm behind her back, arching the lady backwards, the fingers of the man’s other hand were rubbing, inserting and withdrawing as…

Holding his penis, widening her thighs…

The sky boiling, black…

Lifting a hanging breast, lowering his head, drawing the tightened protrusion of the woman’s large, dark areola full into his mouth as…

Lightning! Thunder! Wind! Rain!

Her hips pumping in concordance with the fingers within her vagina. Now, her nipple pulling from the man’s mouth, straightening her body and wrapping an arm about his neck as arching her pelvis, reaching to his penis with her other hand. Taking hold of him, the lady inserted the man’s penis as…

Rain sounding as a storm of pebbles on a tin roof.

Swaying in the battering wind.

Lightning rattling the windows.

Tremors transmitting from the ground upward, the tower vibrated with each renewed salvo of thunder. As…

Both wet buttocks within his hands, the man supported the weight of the woman’s body. As…

Both arms about his neck.

Lifting her body off the ground, the woman pressed her widened thighs forward, and…

The man’s penis went deeper into the heat of the woman’s vagina as…

The hot wind gusting even harder.

Off balance the man was blown off his feet. But…

The woman’s arms did not release their hold about the man’s neck, or the hold of her thighs from about his waist, nor the length of the man’s penis from deeply within her vagina. And…

Joined in their animalistic, carnal embrace, impervious to soil and sand and weed and rock, the man and woman rolled into a shallow depression in the hard, sandy soil.

The wind blew!

The lightning flashed!

The thunder roared!

The pummeling rain fell!

Beneath the man now, the woman opened her thighs from side to side.

Above the woman now, the man pressed his body forward.

Outside now. Pelted by cool rain. Buffeted by hot wind, the man, the woman, the storm, the passion… and Mitchell Lipensky were as one.

Looking over the man’s shoulder—although too far away to actually see his features— the woman did see the man on the lookout tower watching her lover and herself through binoculars and, lifting her arm, purposely exaggerating the movement of her lips, she…

My God! Mitchell saw the woman looking directly at him and the movement of her arm, “Oh, my God!” He could not believe it, but, training the glasses on her face, on her lips, the woman’s words—blown away by wind and rain and thunder— unbelievably seeing the purposeful, exaggerated movement of her lips, reading the woman’s two words…

Motioning to the lookout with her hand, “ ‘Fuck me’!” the woman yelled into the wind and rain and thunder. “ ‘Fuck me’!”

The man’s buttocks rose and lowered as his penis, glossy with the woman’s fluid, pushed into and drew outward and the woman, now returning all her attention to the man above her, to the man within her, met his downward thrusts with her upward thrusts, and her thighs spread even wider and her legs stretched even higher, even wider as….

Pressing the binoculars to his eyes with both hands. No longer aware that he was standing in the open doorway, or the shuddering tower or the battering wind and rain and thunder and lightening. Bracing himself by putting pressure against either side of the doorway with his elbows. His breath coming hard and fast he thrust his hips…

As though it were ‘he’ and not the man, Mitchell moved in rhythm with the woman as though she were beneath him and not the man.

As the wind whipped the woman’s hair and blew over their wreathing bodies and through the fissure of the man’s buttocks, he stood with his legs spread and—unaware of when, or even that he did— the fly of his jeans open with his penis jutting through with both hands on the binoculars, not having to hold himself... He did!

He actually sensed himself within the body of the woman and as the man and woman moved their hips and pelvises in concert with each other, so then did…

The man, the woman and Mitchell were joined, two physically, one mentally and all three had become a part of each other and the raging storm.

Lightening!

Thunder!

Wind!

Rain!

Moving as one!

Thrusting! Withdrawing! Thrusting!

“ ‘Yeeesss’!” Screaming into the wind.

“ ‘Yeeesss’!” Bringing her outstretched thighs to the man’s shoulders, spreading them to either side of his head, “ ‘Yeeesss’!” allowing the male organ within her body to thrust even deeper, to thrust even harder… “ ‘Yeeeeessss’!”

Straightening his arms and back. Turning his face to the wind and rain, “ ‘Yeeesss’!” the man howled into the howling wind.

“ ‘Yeeeessss’!”

Breathing harder, breathing faster, he felt the wind and rain upon his penis, but— his imagination running full bore—vicariously enveloped within the woman’s vagina the cool rain felt as warm secretion.

“ ‘Yeeeessss’!” As the man below ejaculated…

His buttocks spasmodically contracting with penile contractions… Physically unaided by hand, so too did the man in the tower and the power of his spontaneous emission propelled the initial spurts of semen inches outward before they were caught by and carried away on the wind and… ..

With the last ejaculation — * the shadow of a memory coming to Mitchell— he came back to ‘there’. Back to ‘then’, along with the realization that— soaking wet— he was standing in the open with his penis exposed.

Quickly backing into the shack he shoved his shrinking penis into his pants and pulled the zipper up.

Below, lifting himself off the woman, the man helped her to her feet.

Spent now. Cold now. Attempting to brush wet sand and dirt from each other’ backs, their bodies bowed into the wind and rain, the lovers began the walk back to the cherry-red, Chevrolet convertible.

Having the vicarious sensation that he was a part of the man and woman, Having the need to thank them for allowing him to be witness to their incredible, never to be forgotten tryst. Stepping onto the catwalk— oblivious to wind and rain —Mitchell whistled through his fingers…

The shrill sound carried away on the wind. Receiving no response from the man and woman, he tried again...Louder…

Hearing the whistle the lovers looked back.

Clasping his hand over his head, the lookout gave the man and woman the universal ‘victory’ sign.

A bit perverted in their lovemaking. Knowing a man would be in the tower ‘watching’ had added flavor to their passion. Now though that her passion had been spent, the woman—unsuccessfully— attempted to cover her hanging breasts with her right forearm and crotch with the other hand.

However, the man, proud of and acknowledging this sign by another man, returned the gesture.

Waving one last time. Backing into the shack, he watched as the two made their way to the cherry-red convertible.

Closing the door to the wind and rain, “Jesus,” Mitchell said aloud, “so that’s how old people fuck.”

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Notation: *The shadow of a memory

(An Indian Summer Night)

September 29,1951

“God, Sally!” Clenching his jaw, knowing that unless he did something then, right then! Immediately! Not wanting to, Oh, God! Not wanting to! Pulling from her hand he stepped onto the coping and, with a spring that rocked the small boat, dove over the side…

But it did not stop it and the cool water on his hot penis reacted on his shrunken scrotum… causing an orgasm that, Oh, God! bordered on pain.

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Tower Tales 3

August, 1953

Kill Ewing

Answering the telephone: “Tower!”

“Lippy!”

“Yeah, Minnie?”

“I think the old man’s on his way to you!”

“When’d he leave?”

“Beats the shit out’a me. He had a call, and when I paged him he didn’t answer. Only thing I can figure is he’s pulling a surprise inspection on you.”

“Thanks, Minnie.” Slamming the phone down, “Shit!” A surprise visit! Pulling the radio plug, The bastard! Glancing towards the road. Throwing the trapdoor back. Wrapping the cord around the radio he bound down the steep flight of steel steps.

Could be just around the bend and I’d never see the fucker ’til he’s here. Kneeling on the landing, reaching beneath. Taking precious seconds he set the radio between the two sets of upper and lower bolts that formed the unseen compartment, then rushed up the steps and through the hatch just as…

Amid a cloud of sand and dust, the gray Chevy skidded to a stop.

Hoping to catch him sleeping or with contraband. Pushing the door open, Ewing stepped out just as….

“Hi, Captain!”

Scowling, “Fuck!” Ewing plodded through the sandy soil.

In the tower. Grabbing a foul-weather flag Mitchell dusted the radio-transmitter, telephone and desk. Folding the flag, he replaced it beneath the desk with the other signal flags. Glancing towards the ocean. Timing it an hour earlier, he made the same sea swell entry he’d made the hour before.

‘Thunk’.

“Lipensky!” Ewing hit the underside of the hatch again. “You’re standing on the god-damned hatch!”

Taking a deep breath. “Sorry, Captain.” Moving off the hatch and grasping the inset brass ring, Mitchell pulled the trapdoor open to a huffing, Floyd Richard Ewing.

As Ewing stepped into the shack, Mitchell purposely let the trapdoor loudly slam shut.

“Thought I saw something out there and got so absorbed I forgot you were heading up.”

“Yeah, ‘sure you did’, Lipensky.”

Standing a moment visually inspecting the shack, he then ran his finger over the transmitter, desk and telephone. Finding no dust he said nothing. Looking at the day’s log entries, Ewing back-paged two or three days and seeing nothing amiss, let the pages settle back to the present day.

Surprise inspections were made by Ewing only during daylight hours.

First off, at night it was almost impossible to leave the building without the man on the switchboard noticing and calling ahead. Secondly, no one in his right mind would drive the twisting, bumpy, four miles of Rockaway Beach Boulevard with the headlights turned off.

With headlights on the ‘watch’ would surly spot them —unless he was asleep— and have time enough to run below and hide whatever he had— that he shouldn’t have beneath a rock or driftwood and be back in the shack before Ewing had the tower in sight.

Besides, the thought of walking two hundred and seventy-five yards from the road to the tower in total or near-total darkness, then climbing the fifty-seven steep, steel stairs in the black of night was repugnant to Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing.

Standing behind him, watching as Mitchell scanned the horizon with the binoculars, “Think you’re shittin’ me, huh Lipensky?”

Lowering the binoculars. “Excuse me, Sir?”

“Pretending to be some kind of a ‘perfect’ Coast Guard Seaman, are you Lipensky?”

Not understanding what he was getting at. “Me, Sir? No, Sir,” he said. “Not at all, Sir.”

“You ain’t got anything hid up here, do you, Lipensky?”

“Of ‘course’ not, Sir.”

“No one called and told you I was coming, did they, Lipensky?”

“No, Sir. Of ‘course not’, Sir.”

“Someday, Lipensky!”

“Why?”

Surprised at the unexpected question, “ ‘Why’, what?”

The binoculars hanging by its strap, attempting to keep the anger from his voice while knowing full well ‘why’. “Why are you always on my back?” Mitchell asked, wanting to hear Ewing say it to his face. “I’ve never done anything wrong. Anything really wrong since I’ve been here. So why are you ‘always’ on my back,” adding, “Sir?”

“Why, Lipensky? I’ll tell you why!”

He wanted to say: ‘Because you’re a fucking Jew’! ‘Because you’re a fucking sheeny’! ‘Because you’re a fucking kike’!

And… And because… ‘Jesus Christ’! Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing thought, ‘I want to suck your cock’!

But instead, “Because you’re a ‘fuck-up’, Lipensky!” Turning from him Ewing reached for the ring, pulled the hatch open and begun the backward decent... Having to walk backward on the steep stair while holding onto both hand rails,…

Taking five steps down. Stopping now, the top of his head two or three inches above the deck.

Tilting his head back, the twitch of his lips forming the smile that wasn’t a smile.

Their eyes locking. The older man below and the younger man — holding the heavy wooden hatch above — stared at each other…

The knowledge of Ewing’s prejudice aside. Unable to ‘remotely’ comprehend the ‘real’ reason for Ewing’s hatred of him—or love for him— the older man’s dark look chilling him...

Hating this man more than he thought he was capable of hating anyone…

Just lit it drop.

As though knowing his thoughts. Looking upward…

Staring downward… Drop it!

But ‘murder’?

To actually ‘kill’ someone.

Mitchell’s stare breaking first.

Taking another step downward.

As Ewing’s head cleared the hatch… Purposely allowing the heavy wooden hatch to slam shut… Actually, putting his weight behind it, Mitchell slammed the hatch shut.

The loudly slamming hatch startled Ewing, causing him to almost lose his grip on the handrails.

“Sorry, Captain! It slipped.”

His stomach turning at what he’d almost done. What he had ‘wanted’ to do,

Jesus, if I’d been one step higher!

Knowing there was no way he could prove that Mitchell had purposely slammed the hatch. “Yeah, Lipensky,” Ewing said sarcastically, “I’ll ‘bet’ it did!”

Doing his best ‘not’ to sound sarcastic. “Yes, Sir, Captain Ewing, ‘Sir’!”

****

Going on a hunch, Mitchell did not retrieve the radio and sure enough, within forty-five minutes…

Shaken by the near miss of his head by the slamming hatch. Stopping at ‘Pete’s Tavern’ for two fast ones—the car came roaring around the bend and, its rear wheels locking, shimmied to a stop.

“Captain Ewing, Sir!” Calling through his cupped hands. “Hi!”

Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing stood by the open door of the car looking at the figure on the catwalk of the tower, Fuckin’ kike!

who in turn was looking at him through the binoculars.

With a gesture of contempt, “Shit!” Dropping back onto the seat, starting the engine and putting the car into gear he drove back to the station.

 Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: Rockaway/Tower Tales 4+