Story drafts
_
DRAFT 1:
(
Sleeping and waking. Warmth and soft fabrics, elastic waistbands, and
holes between buttons. Lips,
eyes, soft bellies, small waists, strong shoulders, the back and
inside of the thigh.
Glimpses of the forbidden. Knowledge of the glimpses.
Phenom process: New information, to words that articulate a forbidden
possibility, to contradiction
with other articulated knowledge, to climax and release through non-
talking passion and the body, to
denoument in the unspoken re-taking up of ordinary routines.
Politeness, gym, homework.
)
Sitting on porch, toward the end of the spring semester, about to go
work at Dad's whatever for the
summer. Started to hang out during the day with a girl that he really
likes, kind of wondering how
to proceed. Abstract -- got way too close to mom this year, his first
year at community college,
his first time with extended time alone with her during the day.
Grandma's role? Homework, gym, politeness
Last summer lost his virginity, but didn't have a girlfriend just a
few hookups.
***
He woke at dawn, lay in bed and waited for car to start. After he
heard the tires on the gravel, he
got out and looked at his self in the mirror, erect, in boxer shorts.
He was a geek, supposedly,
but he had an athletic body, the faint dawn shadows playing on the
strong, slim, defined muscles of
his chest, shoulders and arms. His family all worked out. He had
never had a girlfriend, though
last summer he fumbled his way into bed with a couple of women he met
at the bar overseas. His Mom
going to spend morning with Grandma then go to work the swing shift,
leaving sis at Grandma's, just
like every Tuesday. (WHOOPS CONTINUITY)
He considered how weird it was to be home during the weekday for the
first time in his young life;
he didn't have class until 11:00, and he would to to his job at a
restaurant in the evening. Last
night, his mom had worked swing and she picked him up at his job after
they both finished; he
watched her drive, her shapely legs highlighted by the hem well above
her knee, her strong tan arms
while she held the wheel, her ruby lips asking him about his day. The
three of them did homework
together when they arrived home, like always, but after his sister
went to bed they sat up and had a
glass of wine together, laughing easily about her patients and his
classes. She had sat on the couch
across from him, legs tucked under her ass, her skirt riding even
higher than before.
This morning he wondered if her eyes had followed his as they had
explored her muscular thighs last
night, her sinewy calves, and her delicate feet; he wondered how many
other boys were staring at
their moms last night, too, drinking wine as if they were grown ups,
laughing about their days. As
he walked naked down the hall in the blue half-light of dawn, stopping
at her bedroom door, he
thought about how an empty house could be the devil's playground. He
remembered the faintest of
grins as she looked back at him last night, once when she was walking
to the kitchen; he had been
savoring the sight of her small waist, the backs of her thighs, and
the shape of her muscular ass.
He considered a moment outside her door, his penis hard with thoughts
of skirts and lips and strong
shoulders. He walked over to her bed and turned back the covers and
sits down, his face flushed
with guilty excitement. The bed is strangely warm, unlike last three
weeks where stayed away until
noon; wondering if she had left more quickly than usual. Smell on the
pillow and pull the covers
up. He couldn't forget the fact of his strange lack of shame.
Background on young intimacy, cuddles, spooning with her in her bed
until an age, sitting in her lap
until a late age. Her belly, soft fabric.
She is really nice to him, lack of power play, wonders if she is
attracted to the same degree.
Smells the pillow again, faces down, rubs against bed as he goes back
to sleep.
***
Wakes up, mom sitting on the bed, bathrobe, staring at him. He looks
at her big dark eyes, her
smiling lips, half open, her full breasts barely contained by the
terry cloth robe. "Nice hair
cut." Discussion about schedule. "Move over". She takes off the
bathrobe to show her blue
spaghetti strapped chamisol, made of soft cotton; he savors the site
of her strong shoulders, her
breasts more delicious because of her obvious strength, her nipples
distinct under the fabric. She lies down to face away from him. "Do
you miss curling around me?" He spoons against her back and they doze
off quickly.
Wakes up for a moment, and watches the side of her face as she sleeps.
his face in her hair, hand on
her stomach. He rubs his nose against in her hair and she makes a
sleepy grunting noise. His
erection just grazing her thigh. Background on intimacy as older --
doing homework together, lying
on her, vice versa, his sister and grandma present at these family
things. Touching Moms clothes,
pressing his face against her. intrepreting her reactions to his
overtures and v-v. Elastic. His
hand on her hip, her hair tickling his nose. Back to sleep.
***
Wakes again, startled to not be touching her. She is propped up by
her arm, on her side, looking at
him, he sees her in chamisol, underwear half covered by the sheets.
"You've been watching me. What
do you think about when you watch me?" "I think about touching you."
"I think about touching you,
too," reaches to caress his arm while he waits. "When did you get so
muscular?" "Homework, being
polite, the gym," smiling, letting her run her hands on him.
"You're pretty muscular too" -- he runs her fingers lightly across her
strong shoulder, bicep, "but
I love your belly" he says, hand flat on her warm soft belly; his
fingerstips under the edge of her
chamisol. "I shouldn't let you do that." He uses his whole palm,
then circles from belly down to
her hip up to the dip of her waist and back to her soft warm belly.
Staring into her eyes. "Do you
like that?" She nods mutely. He reaches his hands up further under
her chamisole, softly cupping
her breast, bringing his fingers together on her nipple, then cupping
it again, then holding it,
feeling its warmth. "God your beautiful, mom."
She gets up and runs away to make coffee.
Lying there for a minute, remembering watching her have sex often
growing up; grandma in charge.
Gets up to follow her. The insides of her thighs, shoulders, her
waist watching as she gets up.
***
She is fiddling unproductively with something at the counter. He
comes up behind her, kisses her on
the neck, rubs her shoulders, lightly brushes his fingers on her waist
belly. She tells him to
stop, tilting her head as his lips explore her neck; he doesn't stop,
brushes fingertips lightly
across belly, then puts his hands fully on her hips, then puts a
finger under the elastic waistband of
underwear, still safe.
"Is this really what you want" she asks as he nuzzles her neck.
"Yeah". He puts one hand on a
breast, the other fingers on walk like spiders on top of her panties,
and buries his head in her
hair, presses his hardness against her ass. "I think about it all the
time since I got home." He
thrills as he distinguishes her pubic hair under the elastic against
her thighs.
She enjoys him like that, then turns around and they kiss, their
tongues touch briefly, she holds
his face in her hands. "You're still a baby, I don't know if you can
make this dangerous choice,"
brushing his hair and cheek over and over again as they stare at each
other. "This could be the
start of something super fucked up." He holds her gaze, then puts his
hand on the soft part of her
belly, "Or the start of something super beautiful." Then he slides his
hand inside the front of her
panties fingers on her pubci. He kisses, she receives, pressing
against the counter, his hand
between her legs, his finger on her wet opening for a while.
"Stop". Gets away from the counter, pushes him back. He doesn't let
go of her waist and they stare
at each other. Then he guides her hands to pull off his underwear.
She strokes his shaft while he
buries his fingers inside her, his other hand pushing her chamisole up
over her breasts, which he
caresses. Then she takes his fingers inside her wet warm mouth with
one hand and his penis with the
other. He closes his eyes and sinks his legs while she caresses him.
"I am going to leave the room. You have to go to your room, jerk off,
etc. I am going to get
dressed and get out of the house." She leaves.
Sexual tension since he came back at the end of summer. New,
surprising, maybe not so as they had
been best friends. Eyes and lips and shoulders. Soft fabric
***
Door half open, he waits a while and enters. She is standing by the
window, still in her
underwear. "I told you not to come in." "The door was half open." He
sits on the bed. "Don't sit
down. Get out of here. Go to your room. Leave me alone." He sits
and stares at her backside, the
dawn through the window. She turns around and leans back. "You know
this is the most fucked up
thing either of us have ever done."
Other thinking he has done about her
He sits on the side fo the bed, kissing nipples as she stands in front
of him, pushes him back,
propped above him, holds his penis against her, only touching,
talking, kissing lightly. "Call me
sarah if we are going to kiss like that." Rubs him against her,
teasing. "Breath deap and relax".
Takes him inside her.
***
He has just come, rests his head against her leg, which is on his
shoulder and he is standing at the
side of the bed which she was laying on.
Thinking about the future, realizing that the craziness has just
begun, while he thought it was just
resolved.
She pulled him into bed and pulled the covers over them, talked about
going to work later.
***
On porch again -- coda. He had been right. Thought had reached
climax of story, much complication,
off again on again desire, finally consummated. However, the problem
became that it wasn't abuse --
it was really great and loving -- but it wasn't OK either.
DRAFT 2:
Wow. I have turned into a real woman in the past year. Look at that
body in the mirror, the full
breasts, the sinewy arms, that mostly flat but very sexy tummy. The
swim coach is dying to touch
those nipples (at least he can't stop staring at them), the frat boys
at the crappy regional college
don't even try to hide their lust, and none of the young men in school
can have a conversation with
me without blushing.
Being a sexy young woman is weird.
But he has always been my refuge from weirdness. He gives me the most
fundamental gentleness,
respect, and encouragement. Still. No matter what I look like. When
I wanted to try out for the
swim team, we practiced together. When I lose a meet, he comforts
me. When I need help with
homework, he gives it gently; when I feel like I can't take anymore he
lets me whine, and then helps
me get started again. He never even asks for anything in return,
except thanks and sensitivity. He
never touches me, never whines to me, never expects me to wait on him
like he does on me.
He is waiting for me downstairs to join him for ice cream -- we get a
treat because we pushed
ourselves hard at the gym together and I got my homework done and he
finished a project for a client
today. Ice cream before bed -- and easy laughter and comfortable
companionship -- has always been
our ritual.
He likes my hair in a bun. I put it up, still naked in front of the
mirror. I admire the curve of my neck to my my collar bones, admiring
it with him almost. I pout in the mirror.
So if he wants to enjoy the sight of me in a bikini or a short skirt,
so be it. When he gives me
money and drops me off at the mall, sure I think about my classmates
when I buy a tight sweater, but
I think about him too. I think about how he will stare at my breasts
and my tummy and my legs as
long as he doesn't think I notice. But when I meet his eyes, he looks
respectfully -- almost
bashfully -- at the floor. I like that. I don't mind that he savors
me as I walk away from him; in
fact, I like being savored. It isn't like I don't quietly savor him
-- his strong arms and flat
stomach after he finishes swimming laps, his muscular back when he
runs on the trail ahead of me,
his sinewy legs when he lifts at the gym. Why should I be any
different than my girlfriends -- I
just dont have to talk about how cute he is like they do. I can't
talk about it, really; that makes
me sad, but I can keep a secret.
He is calling up that the ice cream is melting. I open the door, and
call down that I will be there
in a second. I leave the door open, the steam pouring out.
So what that he -- and everybody else -- looks at me with hunger and
desire? That's just the
background sexiness that any pretty girl deals with.
But three nights ago it changed. In the middle of the night I woke to
hear gasping noises from his
room. I put my bathrobe over my naked body (well, I had panties on),
and got up to look in through
his door, slightly open as always. He was kneeling naked on his bed,
framed by the window, holding
his penis with his left hand and lightly stroking it with the
fignertips of his right. I was
transfixed by his strong arms, his chest, and his erection. I watched
as he systematically caressed
himself in the moonlight, his fingertips playing on his foreskin and
his tip, his other hand
clasping the base of his shaft. My chest became tight, my breathing
fast, my cunt suddenly swollen
and pulsing. I knew that watching him like this was "not OK";
everything until now had been "OK".
I kept hoping he would stop, while I kept hoping he wouldn't stop. I
knelt down too to hide myself
better while I continued to watch.
I hear him rattling around downstairs, not calling me.
Then, as I watched, he grasped the top of shaft with his left hand,
and started squeezing
rhythmically, while he leaned forward and traced the shape of a body
on the bed with his right index
finger. That was my body. He looked at the empty place on the bed,
visualizing my outline,
touching the bed where the corners of my shape would be -- the top of
my head, my shoulders, my
hips, my feet. He then put his finger on my imaginary lips, and drew
his hand down my imaginary
neck, my rise of my imaginary breasts, my imaginary stomach, and my
imaginary cunt. There he
stopped, his hand hovering about 10 inches above the bed. My pubic
hair tickled as I watched him,
imagining the warmth of his palm pressing against me, making small
circles against my clitoris. I
thought I was going to die from desire.
I am panting a little, a little red in the face as I remember this
from a few days ago. I lean on
the sink and look at my pores in the mirror, spread my legs a little
as my hot cunt swells again. I
keep waiting for the shame I think should appear, but it doesn't. He
calls from downstairs, and I
answer, in a slightly choked tone of voice, that I am on my way. I
reach for a towel.
Then, as my heart was pounding as I watched him pause to take a deep
breath and look at my imaginary
body for what seemed like forever. Then he took an especially deep
breath. He mounted my ghost,
propping himself on all fours, enveloping my outline with his
muscular, desiring body. He
positioned himself as if the tip of his cock rested on the mound of my
cunt. He bent his down for a
kiss.
I gasped. Loudly.
He looked up, but I pulled away from the door before he saw me. I
waited a few seconds, then peeked
again. He had positioned himself with one hand next to my imaginary
waist, kneeling between my make
believe legs, holding his shaft with his other hand, squeezing
rhythmically. He rocked slowly back
and forth, obviously imagining thrusting into me, gently and deeply.
I unconsciously spread my
thighs a little as I continued to kneel at the door. Then he covered
his hand with saliva, gripped
himself again, and started pumping his hardness more vigorously. His
face, in ectasy, was beautiful;
my fingers found my wet cunt under my panties; they circled my clit
while he enjoyed his image of
me; as I watched, my finger circled, inserted, circled, inserted past
my swollen labia. I widened
my kneeling legs and moved my hips in sync with his pantomime
thrusting. Then he came, short sharp
breaths, and collapsed face down; my image disappeared under him like
so much smoke.
I snuck back to my room and threw off my bathrobe. For a moment I
just stood there with the door
open, caressing myself, hoping he would follow and throw me on the
floor and take me. He didn't,
and I frantically masturbated three times: once on my knees, bracing
myself with a hand against the
wall, imagining his strong arms pulling us together; once on my back,
legs straight, imagining his
lips and fingers exploring my breasts, my lips, my cunt; and once on
my side, my legs pulled almost
to my neck, with my fingers deep inside myself, just like I imagine he
would fill me with his thick,
hot, thrusting penis as he had me fully. I fell asleep immediately
after.
He calls yet again. He hides his impatience with me always; I
appreciate it. I fix the towel on my
body and make sure my hair is more or less in place. Since three
nights ago, I have been wearing
this same short lavender towel to our nightly ice cream sessions. It
isn't the statement that it
might be if some girls did it; I have worn towels and bunny pyjamas
and sweatpants these many years
already. But he notices.
Two nights ago he couldn't meet my gaze as we sat together, but he
couldn't stop watching me as I
walked around the kitchen barely dressed. When I was sitting at the
breakfast nook eating and
reading for school when said he was going up to work a little before
sleeping; he stood behind me
and rested his his hand on my bare neck and shoulder; it was shaking.
He let himself lightly caress
my collarbone and the nape of my neck a few times, rubbing a little
bit like it was a massage. He
told me I was beautiful. Then he left.
Last night I sat at the same stool, and early he came up behind me and
worked his strong fingers
into my shoulders and neck, as we got quiet together. Then he went to
wash a pan, much longer than
it required, his hardness visible under his sweatpants. I went over
and stood close to him, leaning
against the counter, my heart racing, my lips -- and my legs,
unconsciously -- slightly parted,
talking and giggling about who knows what. He stopped washing the
pan, and reached behind me for a
towel; we stood at right angles as he dried the pan (very thoroughly,
again). He pressed his his
leg and this his torso ever so lightly against me. I quivered with
desire, blushing, fumbling my
words, unconsciously (I swear) playing at the knot of my towel. I
couldn't take my eyes off his
thick, hard bicep; he couldn't pull his eyes off the insides of my
separated thighs. While we talked
we couldn't look at each other. Then he caught himself and put the
pan away. His eyes met mine for
the first time that evening from across the room, and he held my gaze
for several seconds. Then he
went upstairs and closed his door.
He calls again. I say I am just about ready.
It is crazy what seems possible to me now, things that I couldn't even
imagine a few days ago. I
love him and he loves me -- that is so clear, so easy, that it lets my
mind wander immediately to
satisfying that love with the forbidden. Would he have me on the
couch tonight? I can already feel
his arms holding my back as he guides me down, then kneels before me
on the black leather,
positioning my legs up around his waist. I want watch as he enters me
like this -- first I see his
cock resting on my swollen cunt, then the tip disappear as my labia
move apart for him, then this
whole hot throbbing warmth inside. I would kiss him and stare into
his eyes as he gave our first
thrust together, tell him I love him, and offer myself completely.
Here in front of the mirror I
feel the rest of this delicious evening: he approaches behind me,
pulling off this towel as he
kisses my neck and caresses my breasts, these nipples between his
fingers; I lean forward to part my
legs and take him inside me. I can feel myself mount him on the floor
in front of the TV,
surrounding his shaft and smiling at him and taking him inside while
he bucks with pleasure, I can
feel him kneel and lick my cunt in the kitchen as he parts my thighs
with his hand, I can feel us
kiss standing together in the hall while we pleasured each other with
our hands.
He has possessed me already in a dozen positions during the past few
days; I know he has thought
about nothing else too, I can see it. I have said yes a hundred
times. Now it is his turn.
I smile at myself in the mirror, open the door, and walk down the
stairs. It will be a crazy life,
but we want to love each other.
END