("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: boathous.txt (Fm, inc) Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com) Story title : Boathouse Revisited -------------------------------------------------------- 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 "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- 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 /~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