Name: Route137
Title: An Awakening
Summary: A chance discovery awakens a 13 year old boy to female sexuality.
Keywords: Voy, mast, mF




Although this is written in the third person and is styled like a short 
story, it is a perfectly true account of an incident that happened to me 
when I was thirteen which awakened me to female sexuality.

****


An Awakening.

The arrival of the Campbells that summer amid the villas and rhododendrons 
of suburban, 1960s Bournemouth caused something of a stir. They appeared as 
if from nowhere and occupied one of the largest houses on Glenwood Avenue 
without a by-your-leave. They were a mystery, and they showed no deference. 
Their greatest sin, in this self-satisfied sanctuary of the middle-aged, 
was that they seemed quite young. They did not appear to have served their 
time on the ladder of life or to have earned their place. Rumours fanned 
out along the avenue; he was only 43; she was even younger; their daughter 
was already 20. The emphasis was always on “already”, as righteous minds 
did the sums. 

James, however, awash in the uncharted seas of his early teenage years, 
bored with his own company, was delighted, particularly as the Campbells 
turned out to be his neighbours. And the more he heard, the more interested 
he became. He became aware of his parents’ hushed conversations, of his 
mother’s tut-tuts of disapproval, all directed towards the innocent 
flowering shrubs that hid his garden from the house next door. Well, 
whatever his mother disapproved of so thoroughly had to be worth 
investigating. 

He began to spend more time outside, occupying himself near the shrubs. 
He accidentally threw balls into the bushes and had to search diligently 
for them. He even took to climbing trees, his fear of heights temporarily 
forgotten. And through these deceptions, he learned there were six of them: 
father and mother, daughter, a son about his age, another woman he could 
not place, and, occasionally, a baby. He caught snatches of their laughter, 
their shouted insults, and the buzz of their quieter conversation; he saw 
them running and sitting and eating at an outside table; and on one 
glorious, lucky morning, he saw the bikini-clad daughter sunbathing. 

Even at his young age, he knew that luck was not always as it seemed; she 
lay facing away from him on the sun bed, her body sloping out of sight, 
offering only tantalising glimpses of cloth, contours and flesh. And yet 
to him she was a film star, a goddess of sensual beauty, a midnight, 
morning, midday, afternoon fantasy. He clung to the tree branch, his arms 
aching, waiting for her to move, to turn, to stand, but she lay still. 
Eventually he heard his mother calling him in and returned reluctantly 
to eat his lunch in furious silence. Rushing back out, he found the  
sun bed empty, along with his hopes.

After a week, he gave up. He knew the bushes between him and this strange 
new world were impenetrable. The summer stretched languidly on and he 
returned to solitary amusements. Then, one morning, as he ambled in the 
garden, a figure stepped out of the bushes and stood in front of him. 

“Hello,” it said. “My name’s Robert. I live next door.” 

Thus began what he thought of as a friendship of convenience; two boys, 
both thirteen, waiting uncertainly to be men, in need of some sort of 
companionship. Unwritten rules were established quickly: Robert was 
slightly taller and more aggressive in his opinions and his behaviour; 
James was content to defer: James was more imaginative in his ideas; 
Robert was content to accept them. They spent their time doing what all 
teenage boys confined in narrow lives do: moping, kicking a football, 
sitting in each other’s rooms, feigning courage they didn’t possess, 
pretending knowledge of things light years away from their experience. 

They encountered each other’s families. James was hideously embarrassed 
by his, cringing at their politeness, their attempts to be funny, their 
normality. Robert seemed to feel the same way about his, but to James 
they became an object of study and fascination, the opportunity to 
solve the mystery he had abandoned. And of course, there was his Goddess. 

As it turned out, she showed no interest in him or Robert whatsoever, 
choosing to regard them both as children. She also frightened him. To 
an only child who had spent the last seven years in an all male 
boarding school, she was a real girl, a creature from another world. And 
what was worse, she sneered at him, laughed at his vulnerability, or 
more usually, failed to acknowledge he existed. Mrs Campbell he could 
cope with more easily; he was used to the company of older women: his 
mother, a bevy of aunts, family friends. She was also very attractive, 
in complete contrast to the mothers of the few friends he had in the 
past. She smiled a lot and always took the time to make him feel 
welcome, but once more, he quickly realised that she did so only for 
Robert’s sake, that he made no impact on her life. Mr Campbell tended to 
ignore him and was seldom there – Robert said that he was a publisher 
and had to travel a lot. In the end, the one who intrigued him most was 
Carla, the nanny. He had never had a nanny, but he expected one to be, 
well, nannyish, respectful, plump; instead she seemed the opposite. 
She giggled and teased, not just the Campbells, but anyone within range, 
including him, and she had a prettiness about her that he thought 
endearing. 

After a week, he found himself taking stock. Overall he felt pleased 
with the way things had developed. He had made a friend. He was 
disappointed on the Goddess front, but he had gained three faces to 
swim before his eyes and fuel his nightly ejaculations. Best of all, 
while the outside world looked on in ignorance and disapproval, he had 
found his way inside the mysterious family, even though he had little 
idea what all the fuss was about. 

He was to find out during the last week of the holidays.

****

It was a miserable final week in many ways. The sun vanished and rain 
drizzled. Things had to be prepared and packed for his return to school. 
The prospect of leaving home for another ten weeks began to loom large. 
As he always did at these times, James began to regret wasting the 
precious summer days and tried to keep himself occupied. He spent a lot 
of time with Robert. They mooched about in the rain, trampled wet 
footprints through their respective houses, got in the way, and felt 
miserable. 

Thursday came, two days before departure, and they found that they had 
Robert’s house to themselves. Confined by the incessant rain, they 
spent the morning enjoying this unexpected freedom, sitting on 
barstools in the kitchen, playing catch in the long hallway, lounging 
in the sitting room, helping themselves from the fridge. By the early 
afternoon, they had grown restless and began to chase each other 
around the house, ambush each other from behind doors, tackle each 
other on the soft carpets. And then suddenly Robert disappeared.

James was lying on the floor in the living room, trying to catch his 
breath, when Robert stood up and ran from the room. He heard footsteps 
climbing the stairs and then, after a few seconds, a distant door 
slam. He picked himself up and gave chase, taking the stairs two at 
a time to find himself standing panting on the landing, confronted 
by five closed doors and another set of stairs leading to attic rooms. 
He knew two of the doors, to Robert’s room and the bathroom, but he 
became aware, in the sudden stillness of the house, that he was a 
stranger standing there, an interloper in someone else’s private 
world. For a moment, fear seized him. Was this a trap? Were the 
Campbells actually out at all? Were they, rather, waiting behind 
the closed doors, ready to leap out and find him, to send him home 
humiliated?

After a moment’s hesitation, he forced himself forward towards the 
sanctuary of Robert’s bedroom, but found it empty. Again, indecision 
gripped him. Should he dare to search further or return quietly 
downstairs? Suddenly, he heard running footsteps on the landing and 
another door closing. He spun round, too late to identify the source, 
but reassured that it was close. He checked the bathroom, hoping that 
this last familiar room would be enough, but it was empty. 

He stood outside the next door and, drawing breath, turned the handle and 
gingerly pushed it open. He peered quickly, not daring to step 
inside, and saw a kaleidoscope of colour; yellow bedspread, red 
carpet, light blue dress hanging on a cupboard door, stuffed toys, 
heaps of discarded clothing, a pile of what his mother called 
‘unmentionables’, the smell of perfume. The Goddess. Even Robert 
wouldn’t dare to hide in there. Resisting the urge to look further 
he quickly closed the door and moved down the landing. 

Two doors left.

He opened the next door more confidently. This room was more within 
the realms of his experience: double bed, dressing table, wardrobe, 
chair, chest of drawers, muted colours. Finding more courage, he 
walked into the room and round the bed. Nothing. 

It was as he was leaving, walking quickly past the wardrobe, that 
he noticed something fluttering, a short, shiny black strip floating 
lazily through the air and dropping onto the carpet near his feet. 
Instinctively he reached down and picked it up. He recognised it at 
once as strip of negative film, about three inches long, and held it 
up to the light of the window. 

What he saw made him gasp, made him forget the game he was playing, 
made him stand rooted to the spot. 

There were two grainy black and white images of a woman, partially 
undressed, lying down with her legs wide apart. Frustratingly the 
light was too dim and the images too dark to make out any details, 
but he knew with absolute certainty that what he held between his 
fingers was the answer to dreams, prayers, and ignorance.

“Whatya doin’?” Robert’s voice made him start. He had forgotten for 
a moment where he was.

He fumbled for words. “I was looking for you. I found this. Floating 
down.”

“Whatya mean?”

“I found this on the floor. It floated down”

“Where from?”

He thought for a moment, tried to remember the path of the twirling 
strip. “Up there,” he answered, pointing at the top of 
the wardrobe.

Without warning Robert grabbed the strip from his hand and examined it.

“It’s film,” he said, surprised. He held it up to the light. 

“Bloody Hell!” He paused. “Have you seen it?”

James nodded, staring at his prize, so quickly surrendered.

“Maybe there’s more.”

Both heads turned slowly towards the top of the wardrobe.

“This is my parents’ room,” said Robert, as if this somehow was 
important. And then, suddenly animated, he collected the chair, placed it 
in front of the wardrobe, and climbed up.

“Bloody Hell!” he said again. “There are boxes up here, and piles 
of pictures. There must be hundreds of them. Turn on the light.”

It took a moment for James to register his words. He realised his 
heart was thumping in his chest, he found it difficult to catch 
his breath. He felt a desperate urge to push Robert from the chair 
and see for himself. 

Quickly, he stepped over to the light switch and flicked it on. 
Turning back, he saw Robert climbing down off the chair carrying a 
cardboard box. He ran over beside him as he placed it on the bed 
and tried to look inside. To his surprise and anger, Robert blocked 
him.

“No! This is my parents’ room,” he repeated. “I’ll look.”

James’s voice rose, a mix of outrage and pleading. “But I found them!” 

“It’s my House!” Robert spat back, aggressively, his body suddenly tense. 

James took half a step back. He seethed. This was his discovery, his 
treasure trove, and it was being stolen from him. And yet he knew that 
his position was impossible. Life had taught him that he was no match for 
the Roberts of this world, and even if he were, as Robert said, he was in 
his house.

“Well look then!” He didn’t bother to hide his resentment.

Robert reached into the box and took out four square cartons. He opened 
one and slid out a reel of film. It had no label, and when they unwound 
the beginning of it and held it to the light, emnity temporarily 
forgotten, they could see nothing but a series of blank frames. It was 
the same for the second and third carton. They did not bother with the 
fourth.

“It’s a film,” Robert said, calling on unexpected understanding. “The 
beginning is the lead in. The picture comes later on. We take films like 
this of our holidays. You need a projector to watch them.”  James found 
himself looking round for a projector lying handily by.

Robert reached into the box again and pulled out a thick pile of paper, 
fixed together along one edge with string. On its cover was written ‘A 
Master and His Maid’ in flowery handwriting. Inside were pages and pages 
of carefully typed writing. Once or twice, stuck into the text, was 
photograph: a woman dressed as a maid; the same woman raising her skirt 
to show her stocking tops. As they flicked through the pages, the next 
photograph stopped them; the maid was lying across the knees of a man, 
her skirt around her hips, her bottom naked. They stood and looked at 
it in silence until Robert broke the spell.

“Weird,” he said, stretching the word. They both laughed, and put the 
papers aside.

Robert returned to the box and stretched his hand in. 

He paused. 

James waited with growing impatience, anticipation welling inside him.

“Well?” he said, unable to contain himself. “Get on with it!”

Robert quickly withdrew his hand from the box. It held nothing, it was 
just his hand. He started to put back the manuscript, the cartons of film.

“What are you doing?” James shouted.

Robert tuned on him, his face angry, strangely dangerous. “No!” he 
snapped. “We can’t. My parents’ will know. We must put them back.

“WHAT?”

Robert had picked up the box and was climbing up onto the chair. 
“They’ll know we looked. We have to put them back. I’ll get into real 
trouble. Anyway, they’ll be back soon.” He stretched up and replaced the 
box, stepped down and returned the chair to its place.

James’s mouth hung open. He wanted to shout, to beg, to plead, but no 
words would form. He just stood, staring, dumb.

“Come on, let’s go back to my room.” Robert paused, searching for 
something to say. “We can listen to records.” He started towards the 
door and then paused again. “Sorry,” he muttered, “it’s just that ...” 
He left the sentence unfinished and walked out of the room.

James stared at top of the wardrobe for moment, so tantalisingly out of 
reach, and tried to swallow his disappointment. Was that it? Having 
discovered the treasure, were they just going to abandon it? He sighed 
and followed Robert down the landing to his room.

They sat in silence listening to "The Shadows", absorbed in their own 
thoughts. James tried to cling to hope: tomorrow was his last day; 
perhaps Robert would change his mind; perhaps, tomorrow they would 
find a way to look again?  Perhaps. He couldn’t shake off the intensity 
of his disappointment.

And then he realised the truth. Robert wasn’t going to share. He was 
going to keep it all for himself!

The distant ring of a telephone interrupted the revelation and, almost 
at once, Robert left the room and walked down the landing. Afterwards, 
James remembered the next minute only as a series of still frames, and 
even then his audacity surprised him. 

Seeing Robert’s head sinking out of site on the stairs. Moving swiftly 
across the landing and into the room. Climbing on the chair. Scrabbling 
blind fingers clutching. A  yellow paper envelope with Kodak written on 
it. Climbing down and replacing. Listening at the door before returning 
to Robert’s room. 

He sat just where he had been sitting. He forced the envelope down the 
front of his trousers, feeling the corners digging painfully into his 
groin. He heard feet on the stairs and tried desperately to control his 
breathing, to look relaxed.

“That was my mother. She said they’d be home soon. I think you’d better 
go.”

****

When he reached his backdoor, the lights were out in the kitchen, and he 
could hear no sound. Tentatively, he turned the handle and crept inside. 
He could hear the sound of the television in the sitting room. Heart 
thumping, and the pain in his groin making him limp, he walked quietly 
down the hall, up the stairs and into his room. He removed the envelope 
and hesitated. He so wanted to look, just a glimpse, but he forced himself 
not too. Having risked so much, he had to do it properly. He slid the 
envelope into a small gap behind the skirting board, the secret place 
where he hid all his secrets, and went downstairs to join his mother 
watching television.

****

The waiting was agony, both mentally and physically. He had gone to bed at 
ten, earlier than usual, in the vain hope that his parents would follow his 
example, but they had not. By eleven he was beginning to despair. He had 
cleared his desk, changed into his pyjamas, found a handkerchief and turned 
out the light. He waited, sick with anticipation, his balls aching for 
release. Numerous times he almost gave in to temptation, but somehow 
managed to resist; somehow he knew this had to be done right. It wasn’t 
until eleven thirty that he heard the familiar routine of his parents 
preparing for bed, but even when their bedroom door was safely shut, he 
knew he had to wait another half an hour to ensure they were properly 
settled. 

At midnight, his hands shaking with excitement, he retrieved the envelope. 
Carefully he removed the contents, ensuring he could not see what was on 
them, and laid the pictures face down on his desk, as if he was playing a 
bizarre game of patience. He sat down on his chair, his heart thumping and 
surveyed his arrangement. There were eight pictures, just eight. 
Remembering the piles on top of the wardrobe, he felt slightly 
disappointed; he had been hoping for more. He wished he had taken just 
a moment longer, reached up a second time, but he knew that had been 
impossible. He had to settle for what he had, and the wardrobe was still 
there...

Checking for sounds outside his room, he moved forward and, with trembling 
fingers, turned over the first picture.

It was in black and white. It was a close-up of the side of a woman’s 
face. She was young and very attractive, and her eyes were looking up out 
of shot, alert and smiling. Strands of blonde hair clung to her cheekbones, 
held there by a sheen of sweat. But it was not this that focused his 
attention and made him gasp. Her mouth was wrapped round a thick cock 
which stretched away, solid and dark veined, out of the picture. From the 
shape of the girl’s stretched lips, it seemed to be pulling back and her 
cheeks were sucked in.  A ring of moisture glistened on the shaft.

He sat back and stared at the photograph. It was only later, years later, 
that he realised his reaction to what he saw was not so much arousal as 
joy. He was having his first excursion into a world that he had dreamed of 
but knew nothing about, and it had already exceeded his expectations. 

Of course he was also shocked. In his world, women did not enjoy sex; 
rather they seemed to refer to it with undisguised scorn. Yet the girl was 
enjoying what she was doing; her eyes said so. And there was also the size 
of the man’s cock: it was so large. He gripped his own in alarm.

He turned over the second photograph and was immediately confused. It was 
in colour, slightly blurred, a mix of red and pink and black, and the only 
things he could identify immediately were four fingers pointing upwards. 
It was only when he realised he was holding it upside down that 
understanding dawned. 

He knew what he was looking at. He had giggled with his friends at school 
in what passed for sex education when they were told about 'the vulva'. 
It seemed such an odd word, so clinical and foreign. What he was looking at 
now wasn’t foreign and certainly not clinical; it was pink, and red, and 
glistening. He knew another word for it, a word that he had been beaten 
for using, a word that was so taboo to him that it both thrilled and 
frightened him when he thought it: a cunt. 

The woman’s red, nail-varnished fingers lay on a mat of pubic hair which 
extended down between her thighs. They seemed to be pressing downwards into 
folds of pink skin. The folds continued downwards, pink deepening to red, 
rising above the hair that surrounded them, and in the middle, a patch of 
darkness, blurred, undefined; a secret place. And everywhere, moisture, 
matting the hair, glistening on the folds, on the fingers.

He came. He had not intended to, he had not even thought about it. He had 
been holding his cock but his hand had been still as he absorbed the 
picture. It was as if, as he stared at this magical place that he had so 
yearned to see, his balls made the decision for him. He gave a startled 
grunt and felt his sperm coat his lower belly and dribble over his hand; 
he was hardly aware of pleasure, just of release. He cleaned himself 
without taking his eyes off the picture, and realised that his penis was 
still hard. 

Every picture tells a story, and he savoured the story of this one. Two 
incredible possibilities occurred to him: that this was a picture of a 
woman masturbating, that most dreadful of sins; or, the hand belonged to 
another woman. He sat back and allowed the dimensions of his world to 
expand.

The next two pictures, black and white, were a disappointment. They were 
both of the same woman, naked, one from behind, one from the front. In 
both pictures she was looking at the camera, laughing, and her arms were 
stretched out like a dancer. She was slim and pretty, and he liked the 
roundness of her bottom and the shape of her breasts.  He studied her erect 
nipples and the flat triangle of black hair at the top of her thighs. If he 
had seen these first he would have been thrilled, but now they seemed tame, 
they lacked the explicit excitement of the others. Suddenly he was anxious 
that the others would be the same and that his efforts had been wasted.

His anxiety increased when he turned over the fifth photograph. It was the 
face of the woman from the first picture, again in black and white. Just 
her face. For a moment he didn’t understand why it was there. She was 
looking directly at the camera, her head slightly tilted, one eyebrow 
raised, as if challenging him. It was only when he looked closer that he 
realised that this picture was the culmination of the first. There was a 
large blob of white fluid on her hair and he knew at once it was sperm, 
just as he knew that it was sperm that glistened on her lips.  He looked 
again at her eyes, taunting him as if to say, “Yes, you’re right. He came 
on my face. Do you want to make something of it?”

He tried to swallow, his mouth dry. His cock ached. He felt his resolution 
crumble. He had intended to look at each picture in turn, but looking at 
the three remaining, his senses in overload, he knew he couldn’t wait. He 
turned the last pictures over together.

They were all in colour, and their quality was better than the others. They 
seemed to form a sequence: a woman lying on her back on a carpet, her knees 
bent and her legs wide apart. A satin robe hung away from the edges of her 
body, completely revealing her nakedness. But it wasn’t the abandon of her 
pose or her complete exposure to the camera that attracted his attention; 
it was her face. 

It was Mrs Campbell.

His mind reeled. He had known her for a summer, stood near her in the 
kitchen, returned her smiles, even tried to talk to her in the way that 
adults talked to each other. But he would have never known, never guessed... 
He instinctively turned his head in the direction of next door, as if 
somehow he would be able to see through the masonry and she would be 
standing in her robe, beckoning to him. 

He returned to the pictures. In the first her hands lay elegantly on the 
inside of her thighs, as it holding them apart for him to see clearly. 
Her pubic hair was sparser and her folds more exposed; they seemed redder, 
thicker than the second picture. And once more they seemed to glisten in 
the light. Her body was thin, curved, and her breasts were the shape he had 
always imagined breasts to be. Her eyes shone at the camera, confident, 
smiling, excited.

In this next picture, only her hands had moved. Her hands had moved up. Her 
index fingers now held the folds apart, exposing a red, wet centre. He felt 
knowledge wash over him. He and his friends often talked about fucking, 
pretending understanding. Now he knew.

The last picture was the most abandoned of all. She no longer looked at the 
camera but had her head tilted to the side, her mouth open. One hand was on 
her breast and she could see her nipple between her thumb and forefinger. 
Her other hand was between her legs, two fingers buried inside her. Her 
back was slightly arched, her bottom lifted slightly into the air, her legs 
straighter, tenser. He recognised that tension; it was the same he felt 
when he came, that moment when he abandoned himself to the pleasure. She 
was doing than now, and she looked beautiful.

He looked again at her face in the previous picture and felt overwhelmed. He 
knew that face, it was real. And it seemed to speak to him. ‘I know what 
you see, and I want you to see it. I am a woman, I am enjoy what I am 
doing, and I am just like you. This is not my vulva,’ she said, ‘it is 
my cunt.”

He came again, rubbing himself this time, looking into her eyes. He felt 
the prick of tears, and an absurd gratitude for the understanding she had 
given him. Tiredness filled his muscles. He cleaned himself, returned the 
photos to their hiding place and crawled into bed. Spent, he fell asleep at 
once, following two smiling eyes into his dream.

***

As soon as he woke, his mind buzzed with plans. He wanted more pictures, 
but more than that, he wanted to see her, to stand next to her with his 
secret knowledge, to look at her hands, her eyes. 

But fate conspired against him. His mother had a surprise for his last day, 
a trip up to London on the train, and when he eventually got back home, he 
knew it was too late. He returned to school and fretted through the ten 
weeks of term, Mrs Campbell filling his dreams, making plans, longing for 
the holidays.

After an eternity they arrived. His father collected him from the station 
and as they drove home, he felt a delicious tension building inside him. 
When they eventually parked in the driveway, it was dark and it had started 
to rain. His mother rushed to greet him, and as she hugged him, he looked 
over her shoulder for lights from next door. All was darkness. He helped 
his father unpack the car and went into the house to find a meal waiting 
for him on the table.

“You must be starving,” his mother said, happiness in her voice.

They talked a lot over the meal; at least his parents did, bombarding him 
with questions. He sensed their happiness and tried to respond, but his 
mind was elsewhere, on the other side of the shrubs, in his bedroom, behind 
the skirting board. Eventually he stood up and said he needed to unpack 
some things. They watched him leave the room, but as he reached the bottom 
of the stairs, his mother called after him.

“By the way, James, I’m afraid you’ll have to find a new friend. Robert’s 
gone. The whole family just packed up and went. People say they did a 
moonlight flit. Anyway, the house is empty now.”

“Good riddance, if you ask me,” he heard his father say. 

He stood still for a moment, and then, with leaden feet, climbed the 
stairs to his room. He shut the door and sat slowly down on his bed.

Holding his head in his hands, he wept.




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