The Back Story
Dear Reader, if your needs are urgent, you may skip this first part. It sets the scene and gives some insight about the behavior of the young subject of this narrative when he encounters the tipsy sexual attentions of two very horny matrons. Also, names are changed for privacy purposes.
So many years ago; so much forgotten—but some memories linger.
Their names were Constance and Elizabeth. The year was 1959. I was 18, just out of high school. Connie Kazmarek, mother of four, was 37. Her sister, Liz Campbell, mother of three, was 35. Connie lived in my town. At New Years eve her sister was visiting from a remote mining town in Northern Ontario. Her Scots husband was a miner who emigrated from the U.K., to Canada. Connie was a G.I. bride who came to the U.S. with her husband after WW II.
A few lines about me. The year before, I took pictures for the yearbook of the small Catholic high school I attended. One day at a basketball game the sports editor of the local daily buttonholed me. He offered me $10.00 to take pictures at the district playoffs. Other piecework followed and eventually a job. So I became a cub reporter and photographer making the munificent sum of $1.00 per hour.
A young Queen Elizabeth visited Canada that year in the royal yacht Britannia. When the royal progress reached our Canadian sister city, just across the river, I was in a gaggle of photographers who shoved, focused and snapped shots of Her Highness disembarking to the enthusiastic cheers of her many northern Ontario provincial "subjects" gathered at the quay. (Included for my U.K., readers.)
I was still very much a kid in many ways; nerdy "Buddy Holly" black glasses; a fresh innocent face with my beard only beginning to emerge and my body hair had not developed much except a pubic thatch from whence dangled my creditable but average cock. I was not an athlete or body builder but simply had the slender body of a youth on the cusp of manhood. I could muster almost 5"9" height with my shoes on. I was reared by my maiden aunt school teacher, sister of my mother, claimed by death suddenly when I was just 13 months old. My aged sight-impaired maternal grandmother rounded out our household.
I was utterly naïve about women and sex. My aunt was not forthcoming on the subject. No, even more than that. In all my life I have never met anyone who managed to so thoroughly sublimate her sexuality as did my aunt. She was utterly put off by and shrank from physical human contact. My grandmother, a petite lady, who had six children, obviously had a sex life once but she had been a retro-virginal widow for decades.
Nor were the nuns of the grade and high schools I attended a source of knowledge; veiled and coifed and draped in yards of black wool serge (before Vatican II) they were medieval in appearance and, many in their thinking as well. They and the Catholic Church made sure that by the time I finished high school I was shot through with scruples and a twisted moral compass that pointed at SEX as not only nasty and evil, but the greatest evil. There existed but one limited and highly restricted exception, i.e., in the missionary position, penis in vagina, by two persons married in the Church after "Pre-Cana" instruction and only if done just enough and always with the singular intent to produce children but never for gratification of ANIMAL impulses.
Ahem, no touching, fondling, rubbing, pinching, reading about it, talking dirty, or putting the sex organs or the mouth (Get thee behind me Satan!) anywhere on the body of the legitimate partner except you may put it in the vagina only; husband on top, wife below; that's it. No need to remove your nightwear; think of the children if one should barge in. Pull it out of your fly; she's not to touch it. Now just move her panties aside and put it in. Hurry up. Finished? Good. Then clean your dirty self and say a prayer to the Blessed Virgin for forgiveness just in case you had some filthy thoughts or groped the poor woman. And no carnal "checking" out other women or having nasty thoughts about them or (shudder) about other men.
I belabor the point. In fact, when it comes to sex nature does not give a flea's fart about morals, acculturation, propriety, dignity, relative age, location, friendship, decency, who is the keeper of theological truth, the ten Commandments, or man-made law. It cares only about ensuring that that biological thing over there, after whatever preliminaries it takes; that that thing will ultimately and inevitably be unable to keep from inserting its appendage into the willing and eager receptacle in that "other" over there; repeating as much and as often as possible leaving within the reproductive system of the other all the sperm any exultant producer can cum up with.
This nature does with a couple of hormonal soups and by packing a tsunami of bliss into the joining of the sex organs so that the act is the fundamental force that drives the world. Making love, and plain old lusty fucking, is as inevitable as the sunrise. But suppression of this fundamental truth about the human condition was the essential goal of all my upbringing and instruction.
My body did not agree with the indoctrination of my mind. Figuratively it said, "Fuck it." Literally, it urged me to fuck it. At 18 I had inevitably taken my place in the ranks of testosterone soaked but virginal young men; upshot— I was horny all the time. Nature had me locked in her grasp. My body rebelled at the notion of being denied. I had learned early on that some amazingly delicious, mind blowing pleasure radiated from my fingerling cock's head; whenever I got a chance to give it a frantic rubbing; that I could bring forth, gasping and shuddering, multiple spurts of cum, each driven out of me by a sublime diffusion of toe curling ecstasy through my groin and down my legs. I knew generally and even instinctively that as good as masturbation is, it does not approach the bliss to be found in a woman's body. I yearned for initiation.
I came to assess practically all the women who entered my field of vision as potential sex partners. This one's tits; that one's great ass, the beauty of another, the glimpse of this one's thigh or that one's cleavage. Or it could be the sway of a woman's hips; a glimpse of armpit and beyond in a sleeveless blouse; a warm smile or a toss of the hair. Age mattered little. The smell of women opened yet another axis from nostrils to a neurological olfactory center thence urgent messages dispatched directly to the glans of my penis and instantly redirected blood flow to lift my ever anxious cock. I masturbated my way through fantasies about dozens of women. Early on for some reason, I am not sure why, I became most excited at the thought of sex with women much older than I; women old enough to be my mother or grandmother.
It was at this threshold of my young life that I met Master Sergeant Casimir Kazmarek (RIP), U. S. Army; husband and through him, his wife Connie and their family. Our acquaintance grew out of my role as newspaper neophyte and his, as public information NCO of the Army camp in our town.
He was a very tall and lanky man, thin faced, intelligent and inquiring piercing brown eyes, a narrow face, pencil moustache, dark complexioned and spoke in a rumbling base voice. When we met he was in his mid forties and had been in the Army perhaps 16 years. Both his parents were Polish immigrants to the U.S., and he spoke Polish as fluently as English.
When Kaz and Connie met he was one of the many thousands of GIs gathering in England for the invasion of Europe. As many Brits said or thought, "They're over paid, oversexed and over here." The GI's caustically responded that Brits were "underpaid, undersexed and under Ike [Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower]." Connie was then in the ranks of the WRNS (the Wrens). I was to learn that she and her sister were not "undersexed."
What brought me to become friends with the Kazmareks is difficult to pin down. "Kaz" seemed to me to be worldly wise, smart and well schooled in life and in public information as PR was called then. He treated me as a colleague and I think he took satisfaction in something of a mentoring role with a pliable young man. There was a paucity of male role models in my life. He and Connie were very much "people" persons who seemed to enjoy life. Their home was a frenetic place filled with the detritus of multiple persons living under one roof. Soon I found the door open to me whenever I felt like soaking up the earthy family atmosphere that fascinated and excited me. It contrasted so sharply with the staid, muted ambiance of my own home. My better angels liked them both, admired and respected them. My cock wanted Connie without regard for any sense of loyalty or decency.
Over the Christmas holidays the Kazmarek household became even more frantic than usual when Liz, sans husband but with children, arrived for a reunion with her sister. Neither had seen each other since Connie had departed for the New World with her GI husband 13 years earlier.
New Year's Eve
On the last day of 1959 Connie called and said I should join them for New Year's celebration. The Kazmareks had readily taken me into their family circle so Connie's call was welcome did not come as a surprise. I had no other invitations and was glad to get out of the house and the two staid (boring) women I lived with. I said I would check with my Aunt. Connie said," let me talk to her." I handed the phone to my Aunt.
.... There is more of this story ...