A FBOW excerpt in sequence: Wand Of The Youth God. Caution, ‘R’ rated.

“Marcie, baby, I’m ‘so’ sorry about that! You okay? Did he do anything to you?”

“Nah! He tried, and I’m kind’a shook up, but I’m okay.”

“Thank you, God!”

“When that bastard came back...” Marsha giggled, “...he tried to screw me.” The nervous giggle changing to nervous laughter. “But I ‘sure’ taught him!”

Now raucous laughter…

…Which was joined by her husband’s also raucous laughter that continued, until. “Remind me...” he said, catching his breath, “...to ‘never’ try screwing you if you don’t wann’a be screwed!”

Attempting to stop laughing. “yeah...” Marsha said, making a stab at sounding serious, “...or I’ll puke all over you, too!”

________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

June 29, 1957

Sleeping on his stomach, Michael’s face was turned to the wall.

Standing alongside the crib, Mitchell whispered, “He’s gotten so big!”

Feeling the loss of time away from his son, his throat constricted with emotion. “Look at him! When’d he get so much hair?” Not wanting to wake him, Mitchell fought the urge to caress his son’s light brown hair.

“Babies grow and change a lot when they’re this young, Mitchie, and Mikey seems to change every day.”

“I’d love to see his little face.” Seeing his son for the first time in 34 days, “God, Marcie, I want to hold him!” Overcome with emotion—for the lost days along with the joy of this day as Mitchell leaned over the crib trying to see more of his son’s face, tears fell onto the light, summer blanket.

Whereas Mitchell Lipensky was an openly emotive person, his wife was not, usually. But now having her little family together, intact once again Marsha too felt the tightening within her throat and the pressure behind her eyes.

“Shhh, Mitchie...” Putting her arm about his waist, tightening her body against his. “...he’s just starting to sleep through the night but I promise you, honey, you’ll see him bright and early tomorrow.”

Wand Of The Youth God

When Marsha and Mitchell came into the apartment a few minutes earlier, Rhea and her son-in-law did little more than nod their heads and mutter a cursory hello.

Unwilling to be a part of a reunion that she was not too sure should be taking place anyway, returning to the show she’d been watching on television Rhea left her daughter and son-in-law alone to look at their son.

Their old apartment rented, knowing Marsha, knowing she was not going to want to live in her mother's home a second longer than absolutely necessary. Knowing also that they would have to live here until they find a place of their own…

Unaware it was primarily Rhea’s goading—along with his mother’s—that had caused their split. Knowing however that it would make Marsha happy— but also because he couldn’t hold a grudge, especially against a woman as beautiful as his mother-in-law, whom he did like.

Going to the living room, sitting alongside her on the sofa. Covering her hand with his, “Rhea...” he said sincerely, “...I want to thank you for taking such good care of my wife and baby.”

Rhea’s first instinct being to pull her hand away... “Mitchell, you don’t have to thank me!” ...but the touch of his hand upon hers feeling strangely warming. “After all, Marsha is my daughter and Michael is my grandson and I do know the right thing to do!”

Always feeling strange calling the mother of his wife by her first name because for him the word ‘Mom’ came easily.

“Yes, I know you do, but I want to thank you anyway.”

Rhea still did not know why she disliked Mitchell because she had liked him… At least until he’d gotten out of bed that morning when she saw him all but naked with a very obvious, very pronounced erection.

When seeing Mitchell then ‘that’ way' subconsciously the beauty of his youth brought about the indisputable fact of her own age when Rhea admitted to herself, Jesus, I’m forty-five years old! And at that time—as though being with a youth would make her a youth—her son-in-law became the personification of this desire and she’d wanted nothing more than to hold this personification… within her vagina.

Wanting the husband of her daughter with such intensity had shocked Rhea and as the mechanism of guilt for this—as Myra Lipensky cared little for the feelings of her son or daughter-in-law in her pursuit of ‘Mom’ —needing an excuse to ‘not’ like this young man. Having to hide her desire for the husband of her daughter, Rhea Goldman buried this desire behind a façade of abhorrence that she herself could not comprehend. In her absolute need to do this—as did Myra—Rhea also took little account for the feelings of her daughter, or her daughter’s husband.

On this occasion, though…

On this night of renewed family unity the façade crumbled and the touch of his hand and the closeness of his body bringing about a sense of warmth.

“That’s okay, Mitchell. You belong with your wife and child. I’m glad you’re back.” she said, trying to convince herself that she meant what she said for the proper reasons.

However, feeling what she was feeling, Rhea wished Eli, whom after twelve solid hours of work was asleep in the bedroom, wasn’t. But of course she could wake him, and of course he would happily respond.

But truly it was not her husband that Rhea Goldman desired.

And really it wasn’t ‘really’ Mitchell that Rhea desired.

But Mitchell was the personification of what Rhea truly desired…

The wand of the youth god.

June 30, 1957

“Oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light….”

They’d gotten ready for bed and as Mitchell didn’t have a toothbrush, Marsha had told him to use hers.

They’d opened the sofa bed and Marsha, in her pajamas and Mitchell in a pair of Eli’s had lain in bed waiting for Rhea to…

“O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.”

…turn the television off and go to bed.

“Thank God!” Marsha whispered.

Snubbing her cigarette out, standing. “Good night, you two.” Turning the television off, Rhea started to the bedroom.

“Mother,” coming off the sofa bed, Marsha followed Rhea into the small hall that led to the bathroom and bedroom. “let’s leave this door closed tonight, okay! Goodnight, Mother.”

Enjoying the feminine feel— sleeping in a nightgown through all the years of having one of her children sleep in the living room, the door to Eli and Rhea’s bedroom had usually been closed while the door to the hallway was usually left open.

Pulling the door shut...Forcing the door to shut all of the way. Marsha returned to the living room.

However, due to numerous coats of paint over the years and because the door was slightly warped, it no longer fit snugly within its frame; although closed, the door was not completely closed.

Checking on her son one last time, Marsha turned the remaining lamp off. Standing in the dark she pulled the pajama top over her head and wiggled out of the bottoms.

In the seconds it took for her to ensconce herself next to her husband she found—big surprise—Mitchell had removed his also and by the prodding against her thigh knew that he’d been waiting for her and was—most definitely—ready.

Her pliable breasts held tightly against his chest.

His rigid penis pushed through the tri-section of her thighs and crotch, as…

On the other side of the ‘closed’ door, coming from the bathroom, Rhea turned the light off, took the four steps to her bedroom and was about to step inside and close the door, when…

“I love you!”

Scarcely hearing her son-in-law’s whispered words, hesitating…

Voyeurism and masturbation had never been among Rhea’s shortcomings because there had always been men—at times too many men. Even now, at 1:08 AM though sound asleep, Rhea knew were she to initiate sex her husband’s response would be immediate, but even so…

“Mmmm.”

The low moan coming from the far side of the door excited her in a way that, at that moment she knew no man—especially her so familiar husband—could. Unaware she was doing it, the index finger of her left hand circled the now hardened nipple of her low hanging right breast.

“I love you too, Mitchie!”

Whereas most men like to experience their vicarious sex in graphic detail, women usually prefer using their imagination. So now, imagining herself in her daughter’s position. Hearing her daughter’s words, the mother’s right hand dropping, a finger probed her labia, as…

Marsha closed her eyes to the sweet sensation of being naked and being held again in her husband’s arms and the feel of his naked body within her arms, and the softness of his lips on hers and the touch of his tongue on hers and, Oh, God, the sweet, warm friction ‘there’ and ‘wanting’ him there, all the way there, “Mitchie...” she whispered, “...put a rubber on.”

“Marcie…” He wanted to, ‘oh yes’, he did want to. However he knew once he did, it would only be minutes until it would over for him and as badly as he wanted to be there, inside Marsha, he desperately wanted her to orgasm, too. “...you really want me to? So soon?”

“Yes, baby…” Due to their passion, the words they thought they whispered were not quite whispered. “...I want to feel you in me!”

Rhea heard the soft spoken words, then the rustle of bedding. Waiting, holding her breath, both fingers stopped all motion.

It took a moment to find the Foil Pac he’d put beneath the pillow, another to tear it open, then, on his knees between his wife’s open thighs, another second or two as he unrolled the pre-moistened— hardly needed, this time— prophylactic.

“Okay, baby.”

Rhea heard the rustle of bedding and the whispered words that sifted through the barely parted door, as…

Taking hold of Mitchell, enjoying the feel of him within her hand, knowing, too, by the sharp intake of his breath that he, too, enjoyed—more than she could imagine—the sensation of the touch of her hand.

Opening herself, Marsha arched upward as he moved inward and… there!

‘Home’! He was home.

Hearing her daughter, becoming her daughter, Rhea once again moved the tip of her finger against the now erect protuberance of her clitoris as, slowly, then…

Faster... The sounds of movement beyond the door coming faster and…

Biting her lip, the soft, slow… now harder, faster motion of her finger going with the sounds from the other side of the door— and Rhea’s imagination, as…

Lifting her legs, opening her thighs to their utmost, her calves laying on Mitchell’s shoulders, opening herself even further, allowing him to go even closer, allowing him to go even deeper, Marsha moved outward, Mitchell moved inward.

“Oh, God!”

Faster… harder…

Sensing the start!

Though reached quickly, feeling his triggered hers and…

“Oh, God!”

Pulsating! Sharp! Delicious!”

The only one of the three that did not orgasm was Rhea as suddenly all motion and sound from the other side of the door stopped and—though to their ears their breathing was harsh and loud—all Rhea now heard was the sound of her own ragged breathing so she, too, had to stop before her daughter and Mitchell heard her or came into the hall to use the bathroom.

Abandoning her position within the hallway. Closing the door silently behind her, Rhea went into the bedroom…

But still sensing the flood of her fluid. Still sensing the heat of her voyeuristic coupling. Still wanting…’needing’ release…

In bed, lying alongside Eli, Rhea did something she hadn’t done in years— at least not with her husband…

Initiate sex.

****

Eli Goldman usually left for the grill before six AM and returned home—depending on traffic—at approximately six thirty PM. Once home, Eli would shower, put on clean boxer shorts and undershirt and, if alone—as Eli most often was —or if only he and his wife, Eli would eat dinner in his underwear, read the newspaper, watch television for an hour then, exhausted, go to bed.

****

Lying alongside her husband who was sleeping on his back, feeling for the fly of his shorts and putting her finger through, Rhea traced the stub of his flaccid flesh, and yet…

The only sound in the room was that of Eli’s deep, even breathing and the occasional buzz of a light snore, as…

Popping the snap. Opening the fly while wondering how long it would be until he awoke. Closing her hand about the soft pliable flesh Rhea slowly began to manipulate her husband’s sleeping penis.

These deliberate movements were not only meant to bestir her sleeping husband, but due to the years of their marriage and her familiarity with Eli—also because of numerous ‘friendships’ with far more dynamic men, Rhea considered her husband a plodder—and one of the least exciting men she knew. So now...

Going beyond merely arousing Eli, Rhea attempted to tease herself back into her previous state of arousal so that going beyond ‘just’ her imagination, she would ‘hopefully’ actually want Eli to make love to her.

The sounds of Eli sleeping were the same: his even breathing and light snore, but…

Within the warm palm of Rhea’s hand life began and as blood pumped in and began to fill its chambers, the few inches of pliable flesh stretched and hardened and its circumference widened, and…

Because Eli Goldman loved Rhea more than ‘anything’ in the world, the thought of sex with a woman other than his wife was unthinkable and as the times of intercourse with Rhea had become ‘very’ few and ‘very’ far between, Eli’s conscious mind had placed sex on any sort of a regular basis on a far back burner…

But his subconscious mind?

Eli’s subconscious mind was a different matter!

As Eli had occasionally had...

He then dreamt the dream of being held.

He then dreamt the dream of being caressed.

He then dreamt the dream of being loved and as he ‘never’ imagined himself within the arms of, or in the hand of— or being loved by a woman other than his wife….

Moaning within his slumber Eli moved his legs outward allowing his phantom wife further and easier access to his now fully upstanding penis, but…

But for the sound of the moan, his sleeping breathing remained as before and there was nothing to indicate that Eli was awake.

Having been involved with any number of men, Rhea considered herself fairly knowledgeable regarding male sexuality.

What was happening then, though, not only surprised Rhea but excited her far beyond ‘just’ being with Eli had in years.

Knowing he was physically alongside and mentally elsewhere—possibly in the arms and the hand of a different woman, the woman of her husband’s dream and…

Surprised by her husband’s subconscious reaction to her touch and excited by the thought that subconsciously Eli was with a different woman made their routine sex excitedly different.

Remaining on her left side, holding the side of her face within the palm of her left hand and her husband’s penis within the palm of her right hand, angling her body and draping her right thigh over his right calf, moving closer, pressing against Eli as slowly moving her hand up and down along the shaft as simultaneously rubbing her bare crotch against his knee...

Moving higher. Straddling his waist. Spreading herself as placing the head of her husband’s penis within, lowering her body…

Dreaming?

Dreaming...

The phantom form of his wife and the live Rhea solidifying.

Leaning forward, supported by both straightened arms locked to either side of his head, Rhea allowed her long hair to tickle Eli’s face, and her thick nipples to brush his mouth.

Feeling the brush of hair, “Rhe?” he smelled the scent of perfume and felt the kiss of her nipples upon his lips… Along the warm dream of his penis within his wife’s so wet, so sweet vagina.

Occasionally, even the dreams of an Eli Goldman come true .

Eli knew this was not a dream.

Yet outside of a few… the far ‘too’ few occasions his wife had surprised him in this manner soon after they were married— so long ago—way back then! Then maybe this was, “ ‘Rhe’? Is it you, Rhe?” he asked. “Is it ‘really’ you?”

“Yes! Sure it’s me! Who’d you expect, Jane Russell?”

“No, Rhe! ‘You’, Rhe! Only you, baby! ‘Always’ you!”

Swept into the passion of this unexpected rendezvous. Having been informed that besides his daughter, his son-in-law would be sleeping here also. In the heat of his passion Eli forgot, or didn’t realise, or simply did not care that there were two people sleeping—or possibly hearing—on the other side of the wall.

Also…

…Impassioned by her vicarious visit to the bed of her daughter and son-in-law and impaled—if not with the wand of the youth god then surely with the staff of the one person in the world that truly loved her, Rhea allowed her prurient, sensualist nature to overflow.

In the years of living in this apartment, Marsha had always slept in the dining room away from the love sounds— if any, of her parents. But Roger, whom had always slept in the living room, could hardly help but hear the sounds— if any. But if ever there were sounds and Roger had heard, he’d never said—at least not to his sister.

Lying side by side. Awake, holding hands. Sated with their own love making, the love sounds of her parents embarrassed Marsha but in actuality thrilled her more because —for as long as she could remember and for long as she had been cognisant of sex she had been sure her father lived an austere, loveless existence and even on this night, as difficult as it was for any child to visualise their parents making love—having sex…

Although Marsha still could not imagine her mother andfather having sex, Marsha felt happiness for her father because he was making love… having sex.

As for Mitchell. Remembering how Rhea had looked when they’d arrived from New York: her robe with nothing beneath. The zipper pulled low enough for him to see, and appreciate the flow of her breasts and the embossed outline of her nipples upon the clingy material…

And the thrill of the next morning as he’d—actually having no less obvious way to do it—left the bed and walked across the room knowing she was watching him, seeing him.

Imagining his beautiful mother-in-law naked, being fucked by his father-in-law, even if she was an ‘old lady’ and the mother of his wife, his penis twitching to life…

“Baby...” cuddling closer, letting it poke onto the side of Marsha’s thigh, “...how’s ’bout we do it again?”

Although disappointed, he was not too surprised when she said…

“No, Mitchie, let’s not.”

Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: Finding Home