Longitude: North 41 Degrees, 42 Minutes 018 seconds
Latitude: West 86 Degrees, 53 Minutes, 027 Seconds
June 24, 1958
Lakeside, Michigan
In the cottage on the lower south-eastern bend of Lake Michigan, Marsha Lipensky’s last cognizant, recurring thought of this day was: Mitchell must have it by now. He must have gotten it to...
Because she did have the letter written and envelope addressed when she went to Red-Dot to pick up the pictures last Friday, and as it was mid-afternoon and the mail had been picked up at Red-Dot, Marsha pushed the buggy directly to the postal sub-station in the drug and novelty store in the Union Pier Business Center where the lady told her: “You’re in plenty of time for the last pick-up today.”
So, she thought, as the cloak of sleep covered her, Mitchell must have it by now. He must have gotten it to... Marsha’s even breathing and occasional light snore meld with the soft breath of her baby, and the chirping buzz of cicadas on the other side of the open, screened window.
Skokie, Illinois
Approximately eighty-nine miles to the west, as the crow flies, exhausted by this day’s physical labor, to say nothing of the emotion caused by the letter "written" by his fifteen month old son, along with the four pictures of Mikey – that made him want to cry for the two months of his son’s life that he’d missed – also in bed, Mitchell Lipensky lay with one hand behind his head staring at the ceiling, and the thoughts that for the past two months he’d tried to keep from his mind, were, once again, of Marsha and Michael and of love. And as love to Mitchell was still one and the same as sex, his thoughts of Marsha were, of course sexual and, his other hand beneath the summer quilt, he held himself... But Mitchell was so very weary that his mind could not focus on any sort of sexually explicit scenario, and so physically fatigued that his body, seemingly, hadn’t strength enough to engorge his penis so soon his eyes closed, and he too...
Across the lake...
To the east, a summer rain had begun to fall.
Hearing the soft patter on the roof and the kiss of rain on the shrubbery out the window, partially awaking, turning from her stomach to her side, having a need to touch him, to feel him nearby, Marsha reached to her husband, but Mitchell was not there... Momentarily aware of a sad disappointment, she reached for the pillow that lay unused, hugged it awhile, then sensing the reflecting heat of her bare thighs, put the pillow between her thighs where the bulge of its soft corner pressed against the crotch of Marsha’s short, summer-weight pajamas.
On the western side of the lake...
Muted flashes of iridescent light crackling on the far fringe, the sky above was shrouded with black, unbroken clouds, yet, with the exception of the clicking of crickets and the sleeping sounds of the two brothers, all was quiet.
To the east...
Warm water pleasantly streaming over her nude body, seeing through the distorted, semi-opaqueness of the shower curtain, as he came closer she saw the light hue of his flesh and the dark shade of the hair of his head and the black triangle of pubic hair...
Squeezing the pillow tighter, the lump of the corner pushed higher.
To the west...
Clearly defining her sharp widow’s peak, Marsha’s long, black hair was brushed straight back and, draping over her shoulders, thick strands lay upon the upper swell of both breasts. Cinched at the waist, the long, white, diaphanous gown opened into an inverted ‘V ’ from below her navel widening as it fell along her long, slender legs.
On his back, his, extended penis pushed through the fly of his short, summer-weight pajamas, as...
To the east...
Parting the curtain, Mitchell stepped into the waterfall of warm water. His calves and thighs strong and muscled, his chest hard and covered with fine, dark hair, and his erected penis jutted ridgidly
through the tangle of wet, black hair.
Pressed tightly against the pillow, the crotch of Marsha’s pajamas moistened.
To the west...
The upward ‘V’ of the gown widening from the waist up left Marsha’s chest bare and her breasts, covered by its transparent sheen, gave the dusky pink aureole of her nipples a soft, white cast.
Placing his arms about her, Mitchell tightened her body against his and felt the soft push of Marsha’s warm breasts upon his chest.
In a simultaneous movement, he moved the pillow from beneath his head to between his thighs, and in his sleep began a slow, subtle, rhythmic pumping motion.
To the east...
As warm water cascades over them, tightening his arms about her waist, Marsha felt his lips upon her lips, his chest against her breasts, and the probe of his penis between her thighs.
Opening her thighs, ensconcing the point of the pillow higher, clamping her thighs tighter, in her sleep began a slow, subtle, rhythmic pumping motion.
To the west...
In his dream, Marsha no longer wore the sheer, white gown. Fully nude now, her legs spread from side to side, standing above him, Marsha looked down at him as, lying naked on the bed, looking up, he saw Marsha’s – in his dream – loosely hanging vaginal lips, the gap of her gaping vagina and as he watched saw glistening droplets of Marsha’s lubricating moisture bead onto the strands of black hair and drip, hanging in a silvery strand onto his chest. Reaching his cupped hand upward, running it along the underside of her sharply projected vulva he came away – as if taking water from a spigot – with Marsha’s fluid overflowing the cup of his hand and, bringing his hand to his mouth, Mitchell drank Marsha’s sweet nectar.
Turning to his side, moaning aloud, the pillow clamped tightly between his thighs, the tightening, loosening, pumping motion turned from subtle to...
To the east....
Marsha felt the delightful sensation of his hand as it played along her soap-slicked body, down her back, over and through the lubricious twin mounds of her buttocks; on first one soapy breast where, his fingers hesitating, played over and around one tightening nipple, then the other...
Turning from her side to her back, opening her thighs, throwing the pillow off, as she stretched the fingers of one hand through the gap between the buttons of her pajamas, squeezing the hardening areola of her left nipple, Marsha rubbed the palm of her left hand over the dampening crotch of her pajamas, as...
Kneeling before her, she felt the point of Mitchell’s tongue as it traced the flesh of her chest then the sweet, prickling sensation as he drew one, then the other nipple deeply into his mouth and, “Marcie,” she heard him say from a great distance, “I love you!” As lowering further, he moved his face to her mound and drew her sopping vulva fully into his mouth as, arching her hips, opening her thighs, holding his head, she felt the tip of his tongue play across her clitoris, and...
Marsha’s left hand moved beneath the elastic band of her pajamas and she touched her finger to the little button of sensory tissue at the top cleft of her vulva.
To the west...
He watched, as in slow-motion, Marsha reached to his rigidly standing penis and when she touched him the feel of her cool hand sent a sensorial shock of delicious passion through him that forced a thick drop of semen to seep through his urethra that rolled, leaving a wet trail over the glans of his penis, down the shaft and, “Mitchie,” he heard her say from a great distance, “I love you!” As extending her forefinger, Marsha reached to the bottom of the thin line of moisture and ran her finger up, along the shaft, onto the glans and, gathering the drop of semen, moving the tip of her tongue through her lips she seductively licked the tip of her finger...
The pillow now gone, holding himself, Mitchell slowly moved the thin sheath of flesh up and down, over the solid protuberance.
To the east...
Because she was certain her son had been conceived at the time she and Mitchell made love in the shower, this, in Marsha’s subconscious memory, was the absolute pinnacle of the times of their love-making, so...
“Mitchie,” urging him upward, she took hold of ‘him’... But it was not exactly him and the fluid that filled her vagina overflowed because, in her dream, the penis she held had the breadth of her husband’s and the length of the penis of ‘Nate’, Gordon Nathanson and, standing on tip-toes she led this strange new penis into her vagina and, in her dream, this strange new penis filled and fulfilled her in a way the old penis, a real penis, never could and, her hands dropping to Mitchell’s soapy slick buttocks, “Fuck me!” saying something she never had, nor would ever while awake, “Fuck me!” Marsha cried.
In Marsha’s dream it was an impassioned plea that normally would have awoken her. But lost within the passion within her mind and the ecstasy within her vagina it did not and, in the cottage in Michigan, Marsha Lipensky’s cry was little more than a spoken mumble so did not wake her, nor her baby, and...
“Oh, God! Fuck me, Mitchell!” Forcing her nails into the flesh of his buttocks she urged him even closer so she might feel ‘it’ even higher.
The touch of the finger on her clitoris had been teasingly light and luxuriously slow. Now, though, having Mitchell’s new penis within her vagina, moving faster, as Marsha applied more pressure she sensed the overflow of her fluid and moments from the onset of her somnambulant orgasm her hypertrophied clitoris began to throb.
To the west...
Although the time they had intercourse in the shower was definitely a sexual highlight, Mitchell Lipensky thought of intercourse in far less consequential terms than, ‘that’s when Michael was conceived’, and more so in terms of when and what he had enjoyed the most. So now his subconscious mind re-played and intermingled bits of both: The first time he had seen Marsha completely nude – which, to Mitchell at that time had been more a holy experience than sexual, and also – because he saw his wife’s apparent lack of emotion as his inability to satisfy her, he often felt guilty because he doubted he ever satisfied Marsha, to say nothing of her admission to ‘pretend’, so – running a close second was the one time he was absolutely certain Marsha did orgasm, and because Mitchell, too, dreamt of what he did not then have...
Once again standing above him, straddling him, he saw the creamy smooth undersides of his wife’s breasts, but they were not exactly Marsha’s breasts for – were he to remember while awake he would know exactly where he ‘pulled’ this from – for the areolae were the domed, dusky pink, half-dollar sized areolae of Marsha’s before she had the baby, before pregnancy and the birth of Michael had changed the size, texture and appearance of Marsha’s nipples and breasts from what he loved to what they were. In his dream the areolae of his wife’s nipples were the areolae before the baby, however... Though he’d never seen her bare-chested, the breasts were not the breasts of Marsha, but the so soft appearing, hanging breasts of his mother-in-law.
Lying beneath Marsha he saw the long crease that separated the twin mounds of her small, tight buttocks and the dark, hairy – much darker, much hairier – fissure of her of her vulva and her puckered rectum and the extended fold of her sodden labium, which, magnified tenfold in his dream, dripping upon him, seemed to wave to him, to beckon to him.
Reaching to her, taking hold of her hips he attempted to lower those, oh, God, gaping, dripping wet lips onto the glistening head of his penis as, “Marcie,” saying something he had often said aloud, “please fuck me!” And in his dream, hearing words he’d never heard while awake...
“Yes, Mitchie,” Marsha said in reply, “I want you to fuck me!”
Squatting, leaning forward, completely enfolding his face within the soft, warm, deep crease of his wife’s – her mother’s – breasts, Mitchell sensed the warmth that surrounded him and subliminally smelled the subdued scent of ‘White Shoulders’ as, lowering onto him, enveloping him; sensing his entire essence being swallowed within the slick wetness and wonderful warmth, Mitchell pumped his hips upward then downward, and...
Waking suddenly, staring into the darkness he realized what he was doing and not remembering the breasts of his mother-in-law, nor the sodden, dangling labium of the Marsha of his dream, but knowing he was, in his mind is with Marsha, within Marsha, giving no thought of where ‘it’ may go...
... Actually feeling it! Even in her sleep Marsha felt the wondrous pulsing within her hypertrophied clitoris – stopping long enough to push the pajama bottom to her feet and kick it off – on the onset of her somnambulate orgasm, she again opened her thighs to her hand, and – unaware that the momentary closure of her vagina had forced a line of foamy fluid to form along the fissure, nor, that upon widening her thighs again the overabundance of her moisture had caused a loud suction sound, and – her movement now turned urgent, froth formed in the crease of her vulva as, no longer just stroking herself, Marsha had two fingers deeply within the sheath of her vagina and the upward and downward pumping motion of her hips and pelvis, along with the frantic rubbing motion of the palm of her hand against her slithery clitoris and labia gave her the spectacular sensation of being stroked and, “Ummmm! Mitchie!” fucked at the same time and Marsha pressed her palm harder and pumped her fingers faster and as she pushed, “Fuck me, Mitchie! Fuck me!” deeper, harder, faster, as...
... He saw the breasts of Marsha and felt the tightness of Marsha and the girl he fantasized now was only Marsha, and – his hand keeping stride with his memory – he visualized ‘that time’ in clear detail: Marsha astride him, rocking fore and back, furrows formed on either side of her tightly shut eyes. With her lower lip clamped between her teeth, Marsha inhaled deeply with each forward motion and exhaled with each backward motion. Now, extending her hands to either side of his head, she leaned forward allowing his eyes, lips, mouth and tongue access to her hanging, pendulous breasts and their tightened, elongated, sweet tasting nipples. Straightening suddenly, sitting straight up, the rocking stopped and the movement became a tight, circular movement as – as though unable to draw enough air through her nostrils only – the sound of Marsha’s breathing changed and her breath came harder, faster... then all motion stopped, as...
Lying perfectly still with the length of his penis sheathed within Marsha’s so warm, so wet vagina he felt them, “Oh, God!” He actually felt the spasmodic pulsing of...
... “Oh, God!” Droplets of moisture flecking her thighs, reaching orgasm, Marsha’s pelvis throbbed with waves of sensual heat and her clitoris, at the crest of passion, convulsed so strongly that, “Oh, God!” she let out a low, guttural moan, as...
... His back arching sharply, “Oh, God!” His feet pointing stiffly upward – breathing as though running – during the ten seconds of ejaculatory rapture Mitchell’s heart rate jumped to 160 and, his sphincter contracting with each spasm, his orgasm convulsed so intently that, “Oh, God!” he let out a low, guttural moan, as...
At an Illusory coordinate on Lake Michigan, at approximately halfway between the eighty-nine miles, as the crow flies, that separates the house in Skokie, Illinois and the cottage in Lakeside, Michigan, on June 23, 1958, at sometime about 11:38 p.m. At roughly
Longitude: North 41 Degrees, 42 Minutes, 018 seconds
Latitude: West 86 Degrees 53 Minutes, 027 seconds
Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky, unknowingly, on this night did, once again, make love.
