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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: boathous.txt (Fm, inc)
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Boathouse Revisited
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2003. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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Boathouse Revisited (Fm, inc)
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
***
Family traditions. Family ties. Family values.
***
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This tale's another expansion of a plot
line sketched in my rookie "Writer's Notebook". I
threatened to title it "Boathouse Revisited" after
Evelyn Waugh's "Brideshead Revisited". Thanks go to PBS
for bringing Britain to America. The miniseries had to
be pruned for rebroadcast to reveal less of Diana Quick
when she made love. PBS in those days was government
funded. I conceded that I probably shouldn't invite
literary comparison to Waugh.
But what the heck? I like the title.
Most erotic stories draw from a handful of popular
orgasmic activities, a few score titillating adjectives
and another few dozen arousing adverbs. How the
characters use what they use to do what they do can be
described in but a fairly small number of ways. We
choose from a limited set of venues: a high school, a
summer camp, the beach, a library table after hours, a
slumber party, etc. (OK, a boathouse too.) We construe
characters barely within the bell curve. (Has anyone
ever met an actual person who does nothing but have
climaxes?) We generate archives of like plots, some
well crafted, others not. The fact that this literature
that can be databased mF, FF, mc, beast, spanking, 22
KB should tell us something.
Literary fun for me comes in exploring within my head,
or my characters' heads, or yours, even, if I phrase
the right line. It's more fun to play with meanings,
dilemmas, cheap shots, the ironies, the empathic, the
challenge of continuity and pace than it is to just
sequence acts, adverbs and adjectives. It's really fun
to stitch things together. Word-smithing's the killer,
but that shortcoming's progressively negotiated by my
being a methodical student. Proofing? Heaven help me!
Thanks for sticking around. If you don't find it fun,
maybe 22 KB of mF, FF, mc, beast, spanking is up your
alley.
Oh my! Rereading "Writer's Notebook" to extract the
seeds of this story was a bit painful, I must admit. So
many places I could have written things better! But
guidance for new authors warns against perpetual
rewriting. Keep moving, it says. This is thus my new
story, not something to insert back into the saga from
which it emerged.
Guidance against Thesaurus-suggested adjectives nixes
an accurate "Lacustrine Seductions" title. If
"Boathouse Revisited" seems equally uninviting, you
missed an engaging PBS miniseries, especially the
version with Diana Quick's just-right breasts.
OK, enough expounding like I'm on a book tour. My
story:
BASIC PRINCIPLES, SUMMER 2003
We Midwesterners drive to the lakes for holidays.
Wherever we live, not too many hours north will be a
place where the glaciers scraped a hole that holds
water. At least that's how Mrs. Gilmore explained it in
science, but science back in the '70's was more about
how we felt about pollution and black women being
excluded from chemistry, so I'm not sure we actually
got to geology. "Black" is their post-Negro, pre-
African American designation. We and the Greeks are
both white, equally strange, as we tend to be of
lighter shade, but hardly colorless and the Greeks are
darker than those from Spain who get their own
classification. Make sense?
Anyway, for what lies ahead, you have Basic Principle #
1. We love lakes.
Another good thing about the Midwest is that we decided
not to keep going. As only rich folks owned the flat
places where we hailed from, a flat place in the middle
of America looked good. Fact is, it turned out to be.
We're still here. Just our first names distinguish
today's local news from that of decades past.
So that's Basic Principle # 2. Generation succeeds
generation.
Just before World War II, Grandpa picked up some
lakefront acreage where there was hardly a road and too
many rocks to grow corn. A good place to spend a week
when things got hot and a great place to ice fish in
January was his thought. Grandpa built a cottage with
some lumber he'd picked up for a machine shed that
never got framed. Grandma wanted a front porch, a
living room with a stone fireplace (the price was right
for stones) and a kitchen proper for central command. A
Midwestern family is like a brigade; we operate from a
command post. It's just that in ours, you can bake
cookies at the same time.
And Grandpa still had enough lumber for what he really
wanted, a boathouse. Nothing fancy, but as soundly
built as the cottage. As far as we are from any sea,
our respect for nautical things remains undiminished.
Rowboats and canoes we shelter, same thing we'd do for
a herring lugger, he'd advise. (As if any of us even
knew what a herring lugger was.) If Grandpa wanted to
command anything, it was either from his rocking chair
on the porch from where he could observe the boathouse
or from the dock from where he could look back up to
the front porch.
Usually we're up here maybe a month, Rochelle, Jeremy
and myself. My husband Steve's typically with us for
the first week, but has to head back to work. Part of
our stay usually overlaps with my brother Terry's
family. Midwesterners can share property, not like New
Yorkers.
When it got hard for Grandpa to look after the place,
Dad and Uncle Randy took over. Now that Dad's gone,
Steve and Terry do the upkeep. Jeremy and whomever
Rochelle marries will get the tool kit someday. It has
all the right stuff, Craftsman, not K-mart, Steve says.
When we factor in second cousins and all, the place
gets a lot of use and a lot of love. Ice fishing's too
cold for me, plus the drives through the storms are
horrendous, but it's fun then too, especially around
the fireplace.
So that's Basic Principle # 3. The cottage links our
generations.
Those basic principles plus a little genealogy are all
you need to tie together that which follows. (Don't
worry, this doesn't relate to Mormonism, other than
that family ties get interwoven there too.) Here's our
genealogy.
My uncle Randy was born in 1935 and my mother in 1938.
My brother Terry was born in 1961 and I was born in
1963. (So I'm no longer 30-something.)
My Jeremy was born in 1986 and Rochelle in 1987.
Jeremy says the odds of three generations being boy-
girl are 1:64. We seem pretty normal to me, but I
learned the "new math", more about sets or something
than calculating actual results. I read about this lady
who had nine daughters in a row. Now that really beats
the odds.
Three lines I wrote, one for each generation. Two names
per line, brother and sister. Now do this. Shove the
second line one name to the right so that Terry is
under Mom. Shove the bottom line the same way so that
Jeremy is under me. Our names make little stair-steps.
(If you're reading this in uni-width font, here's the
result. If not, add or subtract spaces,)
Randy - Mother
Terry - Me
Jeremy - Rochelle
This is a story about the over-down-over-down-over
pattern down those steps. That's five little lines.
This is a story about five virginities surrendered in
the boathouse. Well, five's perhaps an exaggeration,
something Midwesterners shy away from. There's really
three to which Terry and I can attest: 2003, 1978 and
1977. But we're pretty sure about 1953 and I'm also
betting on 2004. Or it could be even six, depending
what you think about 1951.
Starting the story is pretty simple. I seduced my
Jeremy, as we knew I would. I'm 40 and he's 17, so it's
nothing amazing physiologically. It wasn't that I
planned it; we just knew it would happen. Seduction's
just a sequence of little advances, defenses
outflanked, a gradual imposition of desire. Success
isn't that you have sex; of course that happens. It's
the shift of ownership. If you ask Jeremy, he'll say it
was his doing, getting Mom naked. Seventeen-year-olds
give themselves lots of credit.
Virgin at 17? You thought that kids take care of it by
about 13 these days, right? There was something on TV
about AIDS, maybe. We'll you're not Midwestern and it
must have been a show about California. He wasn't ready
for me at 13.
None of the deflorations (such an aggressive word, but
it needn't be) in the boathouse were of remarkable
technique. I can attest to two penises, both expectant,
but I can't claim record lengths or anything that might
be employed for pornography. I didn't have a ruler.
Each fit exactly, but I'm not about to measure my
vagina for some pervert reading this. The term "great
sex" has been co-opted by California. Let's just say
that this story is about very, very good sex, if you
catch the difference. Good things last, but maybe great
things don't. Totally Midwestern.
And if I just described the sex in clinical detail,
you'd remain clueless about the why of it. I guess they
just like to screw, you'd say. Well, of course we do,
but that's not the point.
What follows isn't sequential. Call it five acts, if
you wish, because they are indeed acts. I'll number
them chronologically to help. I'll add some 2003 detail
later on, but we'll start by rolling back a few years.
ACT 3. THE BOATHOUSE, 1978
OK, going back from age 40 to 15 isn't perhaps "a few
years", but to me it's yesterday. You remember your
first experience that way too. It's your fourth time
that draws a blank.
(Act 3, if you're still trying to figure out that
stair-step thing, is the middle tread in our analogy,
the line between Terry and me.)
Station-wagoning to the lake, we two kids would see
enough out-of-state license plates to make it a
contest. I won four to two with one squabble, a
Tennessee where I knew that Terry wasn't even looking
that direction when I called it. If things got boring,
we could always toe war until Dad said to pipe down.
Terry's legs were the longer, so he could score on me
easier than I could on him. If we feigned to nap, Dad
wouldn't hear.
Mom turner from her book long enough to suggest that if
it got too breezy in the back seat, we pull a blanket
over our legs. When I complained, Mom made Terry share.
I'd liked how we'd toe score sometimes at the same time
after that.
It was late before we finished unloading. It being
after dark and only my brother upstairs, I just wore my
bra (my pretty one) for a PJ top. He wouldn't care, I
figured. I wasn't very old for being 15, but on the
other hand, I liked not being 14. I went in the
bathroom to brush teeth with him so he'd notice.
Terry and I would have to occupy each other for a week
until Uncle Randy's family rolled in. Then it would be
crowded and more fun.
The second day we cleaned up the boathouse. Where the
rowboat needed a little sealing, Terry had me reach
around his arm to wedge the loose joints open while he
used the caulk gun. I suppose the way I'd reach told
him that 15-year-olds don't mind doing it that way. He
was just a brother, after all. He didn't mind being 17
either, I could tell, by how much he had to move his
arm to caulk all the places.
The canoe was really fast with both of us paddling.
Crossing to the sand spit on the lake's far side was
easy. We'd beached, changed under our towels, our
modesty that which a bath-size towel affords. As
putting on my suit top backwards, twisting it around,
up and over, and getting into the straps couldn't be
done under a towel, I just held it against me and had
Terry hook me from behind. If he peeked a bit, it
passed unspoken. I'd peeked at him, but hadn't seen
anything. Brothers and sisters can do that.
Eating Mom's snack, Terry kept sliding his toes up the
side of my leg, telling me to give him another cookie.
I'd stick the morsel between his toes, he'd retreat his
foot for consumption and then again ascend for more.
He's always been a joker and I was OK with feeding a
foot.
It was fun burying each other in the sand. When he
patted the sand over my front, I pretended not to
notice how his fingertips burrowed to my nylon. It
wasn't as much like he was feeling me as it was like he
was brushing the sand grains away. Playfully-casual
touches accomplish more than dominating squeezes, as
every woman knows. (Why don't men?) Maybe, I though,
he'd brush out the sand that got between my cups, sort
of a let-me-help-you excuse to reach under the fabric.
With my arms and legs buried and everything, I'd not
have been able to escape, so I'd have said, "Don't",
and blushed while he did. Then he'd slide his hand over
my heart! If only!
When I buried him, his condition was so obvious.
Brothers! Piling sand on his chest prevented him from
witnessing his own prominence, so it wasn't like we
looked together. It seemed funny, not about me. Well, I
guess I'd helped a little, being 15 and all, but I'd
not done anything.
I thought about brushing it, just to get even. But 15-
year-old Midwestern girls didn't take the initiative,
unless you credit my resourcefulness in blocking his
view with the sand and hunching my shoulders. You could
have reached in there when I was on the bottom, I
thought. The breeze within made me hard enough that my
nipples showed when I pulled my suit tight. Some 15-
year-olds with bigger tits couldn't do that, I knew.
My girlfriends had stories about squeezing their
boyfriends, but only because it was part of going
steady. They said it was gross, but they all kept right
on making out, trying to make it ejaculate so they'd
have the proof on their skirts. If I'd the nerve to
goose it, Terry would probably have laughed and
escaped. Unless, of course, sand on his arms and legs
made escape impossible. It wasn't as if it were his
fault, getting that way, I'd say, we're just steadies.
Or maybe I'd be cheater, leaving him shackled by the
sand and inflicting toe attacks over and over. Looking
back on it, the girlfriend style seems pretty crude. An
inquisitive toe again and again would have had him
trembling. It would have worked on me, anyway. But I
didn't try.
The foretaste of rain provided us an excuse to
disengage. I was a bit relieved, actually. I didn't see
that anything had transpired other than him getting a
boner, but I didn't feel that sure. I figured when we
were pushing each other around sometime, I'd sneak a
rub he wouldn't notice.
I redressed using the bra-on-inside-shirt maneuver.
Crossing back, we splashed each other wickedly with our
paddles, fun because the gusts of wind told that we
were about to get drenched in any event. Docking, we
were soaked.
We sat on the pile of life cushions, dripping, waiting
the storm out. "Welcome to the boathouse, Indian."
That's what they called me, "Indian". Terry treated me
as the guest of honor, patting where to scoot beside
him. He rearranged the life vests to make a flatter
spread and rubbed my feet. "I thought you Indians had
feet like leather. You're too soft," running up my
calves.
When I started shivering, Terry's arm encircled my
innocence and I crawled up into his lap, our scant
warmth doubled in sharing. (Innocence? Well
technically, anyway. My bra was kind of obvious, the
way I'd forgotten some buttons.) Maybe now's when I
could brush him, I wondered, when he wouldn't notice.
He cradled my back, tracing my strap. I cuddled deeper,
liking what he was doing, ready to sneak a toe war
point with a finger. If it took my bra to distract him,
fair enough. I could tell when he squeezed the hooks
through the fabric, but they stayed clasped. I'd never
had a boy try it before, but my friends said a good one
can unhook you with a pat on your back, right there by
your locker. You flex your shoulders back first, is
all. Terry just wasn't that good at hooks, I decided.
He followed a shoulder strap up to the back of my neck
and came around. I thought of these horror movies where
the heroine almost gets strangled. When he started
working down my collar, I knew he'd cup my breast, not
that big for my age perhaps, but at least I had real
nipples. I thought that maybe he shouldn't, but it
wasn't that we hadn't accidentally bumped before. My
boobies were just another part of me to make warm, we'd
say. I inhaled to make them bigger, how I'd done it in
the sand.
If I'd have pushed his hand away, he'd have stopped,
but I whispered to make me warmer. If he were having
fun too, I'd have a better chance, I assured myself as
I dropped my hand to the cuff of his shorts.
He was deliberate in claiming his prize. I let Terry
unfasten my remaining buttons, spread my shirt and
reach behind to unhook (nothing surreptitious about it
this time). When he pushed my bra upward we could see
my proud little pink cones on my next-size-up pale
ones. It's one thing to let somebody look down your
collar. It's another to have your clothing displaced
item by item. We watched him start to rub. I used the
term "proud" a sentence ago. It's the right word.
The rain pounded harder, shaking the shingles.
I sunk deeper against him, almost there, pressing
against his shorts until my cheeks bracketed his
hardness. I still wanted the manual confirmation, but
by butt against him was good too. The size I'd more-or-
less visually ascertained, but its rigidity surprised
me. It was like my girlfriends' reports, but I'd
thought they were exaggerating.
Out on the sand spit, he'd been aroused, but didn't
have to acknowledge that I could tell. Here in the
boathouse, rain drumming on the shingles, he had to
know that I knew. It was my first realization that I
didn't have to be so secretive. I wiggled myself
against him to prove it.
"We love each other", he whispered, pushing back.
"I know", I admitted. It really felt big, me sitting on
it.
After a moment of fruitlessly fishing for what next to
say, he blurted out his excuse, "It's just natural when
you want to make somebody happy." He should have
arrived there more subtly, but it just came out.
"Because you're grown up", I agreed, lifting just
enough to press down.
"You're grown up too," Terry encouraged, massaging me
still.
Talking about me was different. It was talking about
us. At first I didn't respond. "I love you too, but we
can't. I'm not ready," my words measured. The reference
to "love" didn't enhance my resolve, however.
Well he was, he insinuated without words. His hand told
my breast that that he knew that I wanted to too. Or
was it my nipple that told his fingers? Part of me is
scared, the touch acknowledged, but the other part, my
real part, says to do it. "It's OK that we want to,"
summing what his touch proposed.
"No. It's not right, Terry," I stated with a 15-year-
old's certainty. Fifteen-year-olds change their mind a
lot, I knew at 15. By now I was lifting and pressing my
weight without guile.
"But," he rejoined, "the part of you that says yes,
that wants to, is still there, right?" Neither of us
caught that we were verbally extending lines never
voiced.
I admitted as much, but it's only a little part.
"It may seem like just a little part," by brother
paused to think, "but it's the part that wants us to be
happy."
There was no need to be explicit. My girlfriends had
all reported it was really neat, though I suspected
some boasting. I would have stretched it, anyway. Terry
assured me that it would come naturally. "We'll go
slow. You're going on sixteen. It's how you love
somebody. You'll like it, me inside. You'll know what
it's like to come together." I missed the implication
of the last line, but obviously he must have known that
I masturbated. Well so what? I knew he did too. Till my
cousins came, we had our own rooms. I could hear him,
the dummy! Sometimes I'd try it at the same time, but
it wasn't like we were doing it together or anything.
When I didn't reply, he touched my palm to his heart.
"It's OK," he assured. "Feel how it's beating."
It did feel OK, I noted with the flat of my hand.
"Part of you wants to touch more," he encouraged. "Go
ahead."
Things seemed dreamy. I'd wanted to, out there in the
sand, but it was supposed to be secretly. How did he
know? Even still, I told myself, it still has to seem
accidental. Moving lower, my wrist found his waist,
then the anxious ridge. Accidentally? No more than when
he was burying me in the sand. He said to, I told
myself. My hand closed about him.
"You make it that way," he urged.
I forced my hand within his shorts, not realizing that
most girls are fully fondled before they avail
themselves of the reciprocal possibility. I wasn't
deliberate enough to unfasten all the encumbrances, his
belt, snap zipper and all. I just pushed my way in.
I'd never felt an erect male before, just the little
eraser heads of my friends' baby brothers. (My friend
Helen would let us kiss her little brother's, but I
wouldn't. I'd watch, though.) As I touched what was
going to ram between my legs, in sincerity I asked,
"Can I?"
I wasn't scared. I loved my brother. Terry was right
about the part I needed to acknowledge, so I could love
this part of him too. Why shouldn't I? Everything has
its first time. Why save myself for a flake like Ronald
Reston who would tell everybody? He let me hold him
until I was sure. I liked how the skin still could move
on it. So did he, I could tell.
Drawing upon each other's warmth, our lips met. Our wet
clothes we draped on the canoe, never breaking the
kiss. He didn't seem to mind that I didn't shave my
pubic hair. If he had, I'm not sure what I'd have done,
maybe what some of my friend's called their bikini
"do", sort of a compromise.
I lay back, sensing that he knew how. It was probably
Sandy Lewis because Sandy wore her black bra all the
time, was my guess. But Terry wouldn't have loved Sandy
like he loves Indian.
He had no ready quip for his finger; it was easier just
to keep kissing. After what seemed a lengthy period of
positioning, he asked, "OK?" In retrospect, I know he
was trying to loosen me up, help me lubricate, open my
hymen if I still had one (which I didn't, thank God).
Years later he admitted that since he'd only been with
a woman for whom none of that was an issue, he'd paid
close attention to what the guys said at school.
It was very quiet and then I replied in the
affirmative, albeit not with much certainty.
He possessed me quickly, neither of us audibly
confirming the penetration. The boathouse stillness
became our rhythmic swishing. I caught right on to that
part. It felt happy. The swishes evolved into thrashing
sounds, a bit tougher to stay with. I was glad for the
rain's drumming and that Terry's eyes were closed. The
two of us were hardly mute in culmination, me caught
between pubescent confusion and grownup aspirations, my
brother torn between proving his kindness and
celebrating his conquest. I'm glad he didn't see my
tears. They weren't about being sad, just about being
grown up.
He'd been primed too long to protract his performance.
I'd been primed not enough to discern mine. But I knew
we had until our cousins arrived, plenty enough time
for me to waylay him some more. I'd sneak down the
upstairs hall like an Indian.
I was just a blabbermouth afterwards. He was so big, so
sweet, so manly. I was already the self-appointed
historian. I kept the assignment, it seems.
When Terry and I came up from our time in the
boathouse, Mom was in the kitchen with Uncle Randy. I'd
not forethought the implication of Terry's and my
underthings being wadded into a wet ball. Seeing it
roll out when Mom dumped my towel bag got me busy
concocting something about our stuff getting rained on
while we were swimming, but she didn't ask. She just
spread our underwear plus our swimsuits on a kitchen
chair to dry. Mom didn't have her bra on either, so I
just pitched in and helped her with the cookies. It was
so embarrassing how Uncle Randy could read my size, not
that he could see me. I was sure I looked bigger than
the label said.
ACT 2. THE BOATHOUSE 1977
Mom died of lung cancer three years ago, 1990, when she
was almost 52. She never even smoked. I was 27. Jeremy
and Rochelle were a handful. Steve was traveling more.
The folks had split up not that long before, but it was
still roughest on Dad.
The times Terry and I spent together after Mom was gone
were sexual still, probably more physical in a good
way, a richly colored union. We had more to say. We had
more to learn.
But back in 1977, I was reading a novel about a Sioux
princess when the thunderstorm hit. The coincidence of
storms and dinnertime shows up in several of these
stories. I'm sure we covered it with Mrs. Gilmore, but
probably more in the light of it being meteorology as
defined by dead white males. Having the cottage to
myself that afternoon, I got a lot read. Mom didn't
even try to make me go on their boring hike.
OK, partly true about the princess book. I'd found
Terry's magazine. At fourteen, girls know the facts,
but here was better detail. I wondered if I should
shave my pubic hair like these girls when I got older?
Mom didn't, but maybe you grow it back after you're
done having kids. PBS nature documentaries often showed
the female doing certain things to announce that she's
ready to mate.
My mom and brother were almost back to the cottage
according to Terry these years later. (The fact that
Terry can tell me this tells you that he and I are
close.) Sharing the poncho with Mom draped over him
like a backpack just made them trip lockstep in the
flooding puddles. Mom's nuzzling made Terry game to
keep trying though. Finally they whooped and sprinted
toward the boathouse, soaked anyway. (Terry never
wondered why, as they were drenched already, they
didn't sprint on up to the cottage. Mom just led the
way, he recalls.)
The boathouse was piled with the same aquatic
paraphernalia it contained when Mom was a girl. (Ditto
for 2003, I'll add.) Certainly she knew where
everything went. Boathouses are very traditional.
"Safe from the storm," Mom giggled, giving Terry a
kiss. Moms kiss sons all the time, but he enjoyed this
one for the way she wrapped her arms around so that
their chests rubbed. (It works for sisters and brothers
too, I added and he grinned.) In Terry's mind, Mom was
really stacked.
"This storm might last. Let's dry this stuff off," Mom
decided without ado, peeling off first her jersey and
then her shorts. Terry had seen Mom in states of
undress around the house, in her slip or perhaps the
back of her bra when he'd passed her door, but he'd
never watched her disrobe. She hung the garments on the
canoe. (Terry was quiet as he pictured how gracefully
Mom had done this.) Her bra didn't keep her breasts
from swaying, nipples obvious, while she attended to
her arrangements.
The light wasn't good enough to distinguish more than
the contrasts of hues in her underwear, but the wetness
accentuated the circles and triangle. Not sure how else
to interpret Mom's lack of modesty, Terry figured that
being wet was a reasonable reason. He tried to not
appear that he'd noticed. In the magazine he'd stashed
up in the cottage, women didn't have pubic hair, but
Mom's evidence didn't surprise him. She was a mom,
after all. (If I were not his lover and she not our
mother, could he have told me any of this?)
"You too," she ordered. Terry hunched his legs, not
wanting Mom to see how his undershorts, soaked as well,
clung. After all, he was 16.
Mom didn't seem to note that he'd removed his pants
when she grabbed his hand. "Over here," as she tugged
him to the life preservers. "It's cold. Let's make a
nest," plopping noisily down, rubbing her toes against
his leg and drawing him next to her. "Help spread out
some of our nest so it's not so bumpy," Mom ordered as
she unstacked the cushions to make a flatter site. (The
nest was wedged amongst boat hulls, paint cans, tarps
and coils or rope. Terry knew that I knew.)
Mom snuggled to his side. "Let's see your arm," another
command. She wrapped it around her shoulders, and then
dismissed it as if had been Terry's effort. "Better
like this," as she slid onto his lap. ("Terry, you
molester," I accused when I heard this part. "You got
me to do the same thing, even how you spread out the
cushions at the first!" He flopped out his palms
sideways, like what's a guy to do? I give my best
pout.)
She wrapped his arms around her stomach such that his
forefinger rode against the underside of her bra and
his other hand against the hem of her panties. Terry
had no option but to look over her shoulder at the
pronouncement of her nipples, rose-colored within the
cotton's white. (He didn't add the color bit, but every
girl knows her mom's bosoms, especially how comfy they
are.) The taught stretch of her panties, one thigh-top
to the other, enunciated Mom's form.
The afternoon shower frothed the lake surface.
He hoped she couldn't tell what's happening to him, but
with the illusion of his years, assumed that his
erection was not noticeably physical. (Just remembering
made Terry hard. I reached over to tell him I
understood and he grinned about being in denial. Women
are better about calling awkward moments awkward. A big
boner isn't physical?)
"Keep me warm." Mom shivered, but not the rattling
Terry associated with ice fishing. Her tremors seemed
lighter, willfully inviting. (I snuggled closer in his
telling, feeling shivery too.)
Mother and son massaged one another against the cold,
finger-painting their warmth. She slid her torso down
as his fingertips ascended. "It's raining harder," Mom
whispered. Did she not notice his palm passing over the
damp fabric covering her chest, Terry wondered. (Of
course these years later he knew she had to have
noticed, but kids wonder about everything.) When he
finished her shoulders, he went back down, but just to
where her bra opened between her breasts. He knew from
the way she moved that he was supposed to claim the
valley between, but instead he spread his fingers over
her cups. ("They were so soft," I added. He looked at
me and understood.)
Mom reached behind herself to rub his ribs while his
thumb found a nipple through her underwear. Might chill
explain its hardness, he wondered? He'd seen it happen
when they were swimming. She'd acted like it was
perfectly normal in the water, but here she acted like
it was very special. (Again, what's obvious gets that
way via experience. He didn't know.)
The way Mom rolled her shoulders gave Terry permission
to slip down her straps, slackening her confinement
enough so that his fingertips found passage within her
upper hem. Mom's nipples were hard like acorns, but her
flesh was soft.
She drew the heels of her hands to his hips (Terry put
mine on his to show me) and wriggled against his lap.
She wanted his erection pointing into her butt, he
first thought. No, he realized, she wanted him yet more
forward by the way she'd slide up his front and then
plunge back so that his ridge pounded into the crease
in her panties. He wanted to poke her too. By spreading
his own knees, he enunciated both his own tented upward
rigidity and the bulge of Mom's mons.
He knew that she was waiting, that she'd let him. No,
he knew more -- that he was supposed to be a man. He
swallowed, peeled down her damp top and enveloped her
from both sides. It had never occurred to him that he'd
be feeling up mom, topless in his lap. (I put his hands
on my breasts to do the same.).
He could lift each breast and let it slide down against
his fingers. (I like it too. It's isn't like he's
feeling you as much as it's like you're feeling him.)
Mom somehow hooked both their underpants in her thumbs
and worked them down in but one motion. When she raised
enough to grip him as a woman would, he hesitated, but
didn't deny. How could he defy the bond? He may be just
a boy, but he's her boy. ("Just like you may just be a
brother, but you're my brother," I added, partly in
jest, but partly in truth.)
Mothers kiss sons and sons kiss mothers the world
around. Their kiss, however, continued as she turned to
meet him, never letting go. (We kissed too, not to
initiate anything else, just to relive Mom. So
committed, however, I lay back and let him love me the
way that she did.)
The indestructible, indecipherable, inconsiderate tags
sewn into the seams of Coast Guard approved flotation
devices must have poked Mom's back. I know at the end,
though, what's under you is of little concern.
And here's the epilogue that Terry never knew until I
made the connection.
When he and Mom got back to the cottage, I was still
downstairs reading, but I switched off my flashlight so
Mom wouldn't nail me for not cleaning up the kitchen.
Buried as I was in the stuffed chair, they wouldn't see
me when they went through, probably snagging some of
the cookies I'd left out. Plus I didn't want Terry to
see I'd found his magazine.
Whatever Mom giggled about "on the life preservers"
made me think that they'd capsized. I'd thought that
they were on a hike. Mom went back to her room, Terry
up to his, and when the coast was clear, silent like an
Indian, I to mine.
They'd hung their underwear to dry on the front porch
rocker before they'd come in. I must have assumed that
returning sans underpants had something to do with
tipping the boat. In any case, I forgot to ask. Twenty-
six years later, when Mom can't defend herself, Terry
claims that she said she'd take care of getting it put
away.
ACT 1. THE BOATHOUSE 1953
Neither Terry nor I know anything particular about the
initiation of Mom and Uncle Randy's relationship, other
than they were young. All we can do is reconstruct from
clues faded like the life cushions.
From something Mom said in the boathouse, Terry's sure
that she too discovered love in that very shelter. Our
boathouse on a rainy day opens up your life, she'd
said, not yet releasing Terry from between her thighs.
The way she said it was personal.
Her comment, however it started, Terry says then tied
to wars. She prayed that the fighting would be over
before Terry turned 18, even if they'd stopped sending
American boys. Terry was just 16 in 1977. Moms and
sisters fear the future. Terry didn't, but what does a
guy know?
But she was speaking also about something in her past.
War makes first lovers love for real, she reflected
while absently fondling Terry. The funny thing is that
while he was remembering this, I was absently fondling
him too.
Mom's first sex was in the boathouse, she seemed to
say. The only war that might coincide with a first
lover had to be the Korean, which ended in 1953. She
would have been about 15 and Uncle Randy, a couple of
years older. She of course could have lost her
virginity to any number of schoolboys, but not here at
the lake. There weren't traveling salesmen stopping by,
that sort of story. Her boy cousins would have been too
young. Grandpa of course could have been culpable, as
fathers do these things to daughters, but I knew
Grandpa. He was in every way a loving man, but no way
in that way. Granddaughters know. Uncle Randy was never
inappropriate with me, but girls know their uncles too.
Grandpa's son was of freer spirit.
The three recollections I've told my brother are enough
to convince him that Uncle Randy was Mom's lover before
him.
My first recollection is from early enough that
grownups must have figured I'd take no notice, but late
enough that I did. I was playing on the cottage floor
after dinner. Mom, Dad, Aunt Clella and Uncle Randy
were playing cards, Mom across from her brother. I
could see their legs.
Right while the grownups were talking, Uncle Randy
pushed off a shoe, reached his foot across to Mom and
rubbed around her ankle until she pushed her foot
forward. Then where nobody but me could see, Uncle
Randy slid his foot up the inside of Mom's calf. This
was in the days when moms wore dresses, so I couldn't
really see it, but that's where it had to have gone.
Mom, still chatting away, looked like she was trying to
trap the invader, but then scooted forward and dropped
a knee so that the foot could get higher up. I knew
they were sharing some sort of secret, the way their
top halves kept acting like nothing was going. I went
back to whatever I was playing and watched how to play
toe war.
My second memory is one evening when I was about ten,
coming upon Mom and Uncle Randy exiting the boathouse.
They made a big point how they'd been cleaning things
up. The reason I remember the encounter is that I could
tell they'd cleaned up nothing. I'd left a paint can
open on the workbench and nobody had even bothered to
put the lid on. The only thing that had been
straightened up was the stack of boat cushions.
My third recollection was probably was the next year
when I heard what can only have been lovemaking. Dad
had gone back to work. Aunt Clella must have gone to
town for groceries. Terry and I and our cousins were
Cowboys and Indians. (Do children these days play
Cattlepersons and Native Americans?) Being the latter,
I had to sneak around. I was the best Indian. Deftly
eluding the Cowboys, I was behind the cottage, close to
Mom's bedroom window. Aunt Clella and Uncle Randy had
the big one upstairs and the kids got the leftover
alcoves. We girls loved the attic, even if we could
hardly stand up.
Through the curtain, I could tell that Mom's door was
shut, but that was about all I could see. It seemed
odd, but there were noises -- odd, that is, for midday
in a shut-up room. I couldn't exactly hear words, but
it had to have been Mom and Uncle Randy. Whispers still
sound like the whisperer. Mom's laugh sounded exactly
like Mom's laugh when she tried not to. What I could
also hear were the beginning of movement like a rocking
chair, more of a creaking, pretty fast for a rocker,
even if there had been one in her room. Sometimes more
of the sound would be murmurs; sometimes more of it
would be mechanical. Perhaps because at the time I
envisioned a rocking chair, even today I can't equate
the sound to that of bedsprings.
After a while Mom said, "Randy, Randy, Randy," plain as
day and then it got quiet. Then she giggled. I was
afraid that they might hear me breathing, so I snuck
back to attack Cowboys. Unfortunately, the posse
trapped me and tortured me with pinecones. I never told
anyone till Terry all these years later.
The way memory functions, I'm pretty sure now that I
salted away all sorts of clues. A time I saw the two
sitting in our station wagon. How he'd help Mom in the
kitchen, hold her on the stepstool. When we'd swim and
he'd come up behind to grab her. She'd dare him to
tickle her. I knew where somebody had hidden an army
blanket in a plastic bag up in the woods, but I never
saw whom. As an Indian, though, I used pieces of dry
grass to tell that it got unfolded two or three times a
week. Whoever it was, it was my favorite place to
masturbate. On your back, you watch the trees sway. Did
Mom usually do the watching, I now wonder, or did she
get to be on top? I think the latter.
But such suspicions are more fleeting, perhaps fed by
our search for pattern.
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
Dad and dear Aunt Clella just had their spouses.
Actually (and here's where Terry and I show our bad
side), we wonder why Dad didn't sleep with his sister-
in-law. We can just see Uncle Randy trying to reach
under the table to footsie Mom, but bumping into Dad
who's reaching for Aunt Clella.
When one illicit pair slipped down to the boathouse,
the other would have the downstairs bedroom.
"Gee, Aunt Clella, I guess Mom and Uncle Randy got tied
up down in the boathouse. Or did they go walking up in
the woods? Sorry that us kids were so noisy that you
and Dad had go back there and shut the door to read.
That rocking chair by the blanket chest rocks great,
right? We went ahead and baked these cookies, but maybe
we should let Uncle Randy think you did. Think so?"
Let impregnation crisscross, I say. First cousin or
siblings, we offspring look alike. Fiction can take you
lots of places. The intricacies of life are more
compelling, though.
DUPLICITY
I should have laid it out at the start as Basic
Principle # 4. It takes duplicity.
There's the duplicity of pretending not to notice.
If Dad and Terry played golf on a Saturday, I'd find
someplace to go when my uncle stopped by. If I came
back too early and they were still in their underwear,
I'd try to be nonchalant. Obviously Mom told her
brother that I was old enough to understand.
If Dad were away, Mom would make a point of telling me
she'd be out of the house for how long. We'd still shut
my bedroom door, but Terry surely saw the collusion.
One time Terry went back to his room stark naked and
there was Mom in the hall. Maybe she was checking on
us; I don't know. She said something maternal about
wearing a towel going to the shower. She of course had
seen him naked much more intimately, but him coming
from my room called for a quick justification. He
wasn't even heading toward the bathroom. Later on I
told Terry that she was just curious what he was up to.
On more than one occasion Mom surely heard us. I'm
positive because we acted like teenagers. I could float
to Terry's room without a sound, but then he'd blow it
by bouncing me too much. I certainly heard Mom and
Uncle Randy go at it, but then I sort of spied
sometimes, my Indian background, you know. They weren't
teenagers, but still pretty squeaky on the mattress.
I certainly wasn't the first in my class to have sex,
but I'm pretty sure that I was one of the first on the
pill. My girlfriends played dangerous games, hoping
that their boyfriends would wear a rubber, but
powerless if they didn't. Mom just double ordered her
pills and the extra punch-pack was always in the
medicine cabinet. She never pretended to tell me it was
for acne. I had to guess at all the fine print, when to
take what, though.
There's the duplicity of guarding another's secret.
Mom and I were co-deceivers par excellence. If Uncle
Randy and Aunt Clella were with us for dinner, I'd set
Randy opposite Mom and distract the spouses. I figured
that some apple pie time, Randy's toes would ring Mom's
bell and I'd have to hop up and pound her back,
claiming she seemed to be choking.
Once Terry and I were in my room when my friends came
to pick me up for ice cream. I don't know how Mom knew
that we were under the sheets. She sequestered the
whole gang into the kitchen to help can peaches for as
long as it took my brother and me to resolve our
intent.
Without duplicity it wouldn't work.
TRIPLICITY
Mom's triplicity, if that's a word, was more complex.
(The way they taught us English ignored colonial
nations. It was about words expressing our
individuality, adjectives like bitchin'. So I just made
this one up.) Sex with husband, brother and son takes
balancing; this I myself know. What if Terry wanted to
take Mom down to the boathouse before the dinner bell,
Uncle Randy up to the army blanket after drying dishes
and then Dad wanted to take her to bed? You can have
too much of a good thing, in my opinion, but sometimes
we still opt to.
But which relationship was harmed by perpetuation? In
United Methodist Sunday School we pursued the
implications of God being dead. Morality's all
situational these days, nothing as simple as not having
sex. Her having three lovers seemed a pretty exciting
situation to me. Mom's men each brought her something
different: stability, continuity and renewal.
We're possessive femmes. I'd always sense when Terry
was with her again. I never hindered the two slipping
away; I just didn't want to know. What I couldn't do
(what I'd sometimes pulled on Mom and Uncle Randy) was
to hear the wriggling. I would have cried hearing their
pumping together, Mom's little giggles and squeals. In
our lineage, though, it's how moms and sons remain moms
and sons.
I understand Mom's wanting her brother for the long
haul. I'd be pretty certain that Uncle Randy made love
to Mom on her cancer bed. That's how a brother should
say goodbye. Terry was sweet, but I'll bet like my Dad
he didn't say goodbye embraced as man and woman.
Before I die, I'm betting my last will be with Terry.
It's how a brother should say goodbye.
ACT 0 (PERHAPS). THE BOATHOUSE 1951
Did I miss anybody? If we extend the stair-step pattern
backward to perhaps 1951, Grandma could have
inaugurated the boathouse with her little Randy. It
stands to reason. My mom would have been about 13, a
couple of years shy of her own initiation. My
hesitation with such speculation, though, is that
Grandma was always old as long as I can remember. Sex
just doesn't fit the image.
But let's face it. She'd have been no older than I am
now and three guys think I'm pretty good in bed. (Well,
actually just two. Jeremy's still getting oriented. But
he will.) So maybe yes. I can't believe that Uncle
Randy just seduced his little sister out of the blue.
In 1951, the equipment in the boathouse would have been
new, a few war surplus tarps probably, but mostly
things clean and bright. While a half-century sounds
forever, quality marine goods remain functional if
properly maintained. Paddles just need new varnish.
Boats need some scraping. Life cushions need a bouncing
girl to keep them limber.
ACT 4. THE BOATHOUSE, 2003
So we're back to now, this summer, 2003, a hot one.
What happened with Jeremy wasn't that unexpected. It
wasn't planned, yet of course it was.
It was raining in the morning, just the three of us in
our pajamas. Rochelle wanted to bake cookies. I watched
how she flashed Jeremy her breasts, the way she worked
at the counter. I thought they were cute too. The way I
was helping roll the dough, Jeremy was pleased to man
the cookie cutter. I couldn't just sit down and
surrender to size A's, could I? Someday Rochelle and I
will laugh about it, but not while she's still A. The
three of us frittered away the morning and made tuna
fish salad for lunch.
Clouds were forming by mid-afternoon. Before he'd
headed back, Steve suggested varnishing the oars and
paddles, so that's why I sent Jeremy down to the
boathouse.
The stepstool was behind me, so when Jeremy passed
between me and the kitchen counter, I had no room to
step back and he had no choice but to squeeze through.
His forearm, involuntarily triumphant, lagged behind
his stride such that his elbow traversed me fully. I
tipped forward for the lingering affirmation.
"You know where the varnish is," I'd shooed him out.
"Beat the storm."
"Cookie power," he'd responded, grabbing a handful.
The rain started not long after he headed down the
path.
I'd followed down there to check and found the boy
sleeping on the cushions, the yet-unvarnished
implements neatly laid out for treatment. At least he'd
sort of started. Jeremy had spread the extra cushions
beside him.
The rain drumming on the shingles lulled me too, but of
course it wasn't just the pitter-patter. Stretching
out, I slipped him a little kiss, a motherly sort,
maybe a bit longer. I slipped off his shoes so I could
tickle his feet with my toes. Then we were closer, me
against his arm as it was in the kitchen. It wasn't as
if I decided. Then his hand was touching me. I wasn't
sure if he was waking, but he'd found me. Then I was
touching him, just his stomach where his shirt had
slipped up. The way he sucked in his gut opened up a
space below, but I didn't go further. I kissed him
again. He stirred, letting his hand close about me, a
finger drawing across my nipple until it said yes. I
slipped him another little kiss and let him slide my
hand downward. He wanted me to know. Somehow he knew my
hand would undo his buckle when he returned to my
buttons.
We listened from our safe refuge to the beat of the
raindrops.
He explored my contours with cautious advances,
ascending and descending as if some unforeseen barrier
might impede his conquest. I lay still, fearing that a
reflex invitation might be interpreted wrongly. Every
gain he secured before further the next advance, the
draw between my breasts as carefully acquired as the
next summit. His trust was in the methodical, security
in sequence. The finesse and serendipity that melts
women (why we're again and again seducible) would come
later.
In the end he seized me with the trust of a forever
lover. He knew it was why I'd lain beside him. When he
didn't know, I guided. A boy believes his mother more
than anyone. His only hesitation was in removing my
panties, seeing me naked. I was his first, as it should
be.
My Jeremy will become a good lovemaker. I dream of how
we'll perfect the art. They say at 40 I'm at my peak of
sexual prowess. Add a 17-year-old's enthusiasm.
I'll never know how he knew I'd follow him down there.
My panties were robin blue and he was very careful with
them. Maybe I should append another element to why
we'll be good for each other: a boy's respect for his
mom.
ACT 5. FORESEEN. THE BOATHOUSE, 2004
Rochelle of course shouldn't know about brother and
mom. She's not that old for 16. But with soccer,
basketball and track, she's never home much before
Steve. Jeremy and I are careful. More accurately put,
Jeremy is usually careful and I'm absolutely careful.
Our only uncareful times are when Rochelle's overnight
at a friend's and Steve's on some trip. That's when I
let my boy take charge.
My daughter's still my baby. If she and I are reading
on the sofa, looking down at the boathouse, sometimes
she'll still snuggle her head on my breast. Even if my
bra's still on, it's soft for her. If I know we're
going to read together, though, I'll have it off. When
my nipple hardens against her cheek, we both smile. She
knows how her being my baby makes me happy too. It's
how I want us to remember, just like I remember my own
mother.
But Rochelle's growing up. She wears a bra, but when
she paddled off with her brother this morning, she was
just in her T-shirt. It's not that she really needs a
bra, I agree. At 16, nubility is about perfect -- just
enough flesh (they disagree, of course), firm and high
up by the shoulders. The way she'll lean forward to
paddle, though... Well it's only her brother in the
bow, she'll tell herself. And, of course, if they get
caught in a storm, a T-shirt clings. Or if it doesn't
rain, maybe they just jump in clothed and let the sun
dry them off. She's beginning to understand boys. She
has Terry to practice on.
Next summer Rochelle will be 17, ready. Some of her
girlfriends are sexually active (I'm sure I can guess
who), so the idea of consummation's planted. As a
mother, I'll know when she's decided. My Jeremy will
know to let her be the seductress. He'll love her
gently, not like some horny boyfriend with his pants
pulled down. It won't be in some car's back seat; it
will be in the boathouse. If I have to send the two up
here to ice fish, they'll get the boathouse.
I'll forestall her, best I can, till summer though.
Perhaps I'll see my two docking in the rain. From my
command post I'll assure Steve that the kids must be
sitting it out under their ponchos before heading back.
Our kids know enough not to cross the lake when there
might be lightning.
If Steve's half in the mood, I'll get him to slip back
to our room while dinner simmers. Those two won't be
here for a good long while, I'll giggle. I'll wait to
bake the cookies afterwards so they'll be nice and
fresh. If Steve's one-tenth in the mood, actually, I'll
get him back there so I can celebrate Rochelle's moment
with her. I'll pretend that somebody's outside our
window listening like an Indian.
Jeremy and Rochelle will have each other on the life
preservers. I'll try to leave a blanket forgotten on
the canoe, but may forget. You can't keep track of
every little detail when you're baking cookies. If
she's my daughter, she won't mind those pokey tags.
At least she'll have a real nurse to help her
understand the pill thing. They get them free at school
these days if I sign what the kids call to themselves
the "Free to Fuck Form". It, of course, doesn't say
anything about permission to engage in intercourse,
just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about access to options for
reproductive control. Jeremy could get free condoms the
same way, but it would hardly be fair to Rochelle if he
had to wear them with her when he doesn't with me.
REFLECTIONS
When Terry and I came up from our time in the boathouse
those years ago, Mom was mixing cookie dough in her
command post with Uncle Randy. Dad had left. (Uncle
Randy hardly ever overlapped with Dad. Duhh.) I could
tell Mom and her brother hadn't been there long because
they were still switching on lights. Until that moment,
I'd not let myself extrapolate their fondness to the
romantically-necessary conclusion. I knew, of course,
but I didn't have to admit it. It was easier leaving
some mysteries as mysteries. But realizing now that
they'd been making love at the same time as were Terry
and I seemed right. I gave her a kiss that would have
meant nothing to the males.
Before bed, Mom shooed the guys out and she and I
cuddled up on the sofa. She told her "little papoose"
that she came up here too when she was about my age. I
knew she'd loved Randy that afternoon, but she needed
to tell me it started like today. Resting my head on
her, I knew that she was happy for me.
"Indian," she said after some thought. "You knew that
Randy and I made love too, didn't you?"
"I've always known."
"And you knew that Terry wasn't a virgin too?"
"I knew."
"Do you know who?" Her nipple hardened.
"I think so, Mom." Right them I did. It wasn't Sandy
Lewis at all.
"She loves you as much as she loves our Terry, Indian."
"Tell her I love her that much too."
And that's how she told me. And that's how I told her
it was OK.
The nice thing about us reading together on the sofa
from then on ("Couch Canoers" we called ourselves) was
how she'd cuddle up onto me as well. I was a woman now,
just not yet a soft one. Sometimes one of us would try
a stealth toe attack. We'd never get above the ankles
(higher would be weird) before we'd loose our places,
giggling.
Whenever Mom and I baked cookies, the guys would want
to be the assistants. They could cut and decorate, we
decided. Rochelle and I will be the kitchen commanders
after next summer. I wish it could be all three
generations together.
How do I know all this? Basic principles and a
genealogy.
Actually, there's one more: Basic Principle # 5. We
bake really, really good cookies.
THE END
****
Holly on the Web
Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or
just poor word usages) are made know to me, I'll repair
that which is salvageable on
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native
language.
You can contact me via the site's message form, that
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.
I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same.
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more
cleanly.
Holly
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 26