Uncle Frank, Pauline, Sex, and Me
Copyright© 2024 by Fatbastard
Chapter 38
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 38 - Coming of Age in 1960s New Zealand. My father's much younger brother guided and mentored me from early adolescence through my teenage years and a series of girlfriends. While each story can stand alone, readers will get most out of this series if they read chronologically starting with Andrea, and progressing through Bronwyn and Robyn to my adventures with Pauline
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft Teenagers Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Farming School Vignettes First Oral Sex Petting
May 1963
Shit! Shit, shit, shit!
I ran towards the kid. He still wasn’t moving. There was no blood, but otherwise he looked like most of the other dead things I had been around. Bartlett looked just about as bad, but at least he was upright, breathing, and babbling about how he didn’t mean ... etcetera.
I didn’t need that. I was going to be busy. “Shut up!” He did. “Run to the pavilion. Tell Smythe to phone an ambulance. Go!” He did.
The kid wasn’t breathing, but more importantly, he was all floppy and I couldn’t feel a pulse in his neck when I knelt beside him. Shit shit shit!. We had done some basic CPR in PE a few years back, but the details were hazy. I rolled him completely onto his back and gave his chest the hardest thump I could with the side of my fist, then knelt astride him with my hands doubled on the base of his breastbone, locked my elbows, and rocked forward to start the thirty pushes – breath - thirty pushes – breath cycle I thought I remembered.
I hadn’t worked out what to do about the ‘breath’ bit yet. Was I going to shut his mouth and try to get a seal over his nostrils? I had been the ‘mannikin’ for Mr Swain’s demonstration to our PE class in 1960, and I remember being slightly anxious that he would actually kiss me during the exercise. He hadn’t, but I couldn’t remember how he had told us to do it. Meantime, I just kept pumping.
My anxiety was relieved when one of the St Thomas parents took the initiative, and knelt down to do the business. He chose the nose, and got a couple of breaths in while I rested. And then an older man arrived. He was puffing a bit but it was clear that he knew lots more about what was required than I did.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Well done lad. Let me in there!” I was very happy to scootch back so I was astride the kid’s ankles and let him take over, but he didn’t immediately resume the compressions. Instead, he felt for a pulse and found one. “Heart’s beating!” And then the kid took a breath on his own! I stood up and almost fell over. I felt sick. Really unpleasantly nauseated. I wandered off the pitch, away from the knot of people around the kid. They were just standing around him, and although he was still floppy and deeply unconscious, he was now breathing slowly and apparently deeply.
I heard a siren in the distance, and saw Mr Smythe emerging from the pavilion. He made ‘come here’ motions, and I shepherded the team off the field. Irrespective of what might happen next, we had won the game, and the St Thomas number eleven would go down in the scorebook as J Sparling Retired Hurt 2. Whoop de shit!
He was still unconscious when the ambulance arrived and drove onto the field. They took him to Auckland Hospital, the St Thomas team and supporters packed up and left, and Smythe gave us an end of season ‘you’ve all done well and you can be proud of yourselves and each other’ speech. I felt like shit and I’m pretty sure Bartlett did too, but it seemed like no one else was bothered about Sparling.
I drove home to find Greta in the early stages of preparing dinner. She was smart enough to intuit that there was something wrong, and encouraged me to talk my way through what had happened as I peeled and diced onions, and deboned the smoked mullet she had bought from the fish shop in Newmarket.
She reached out to put her hand on my arm. “So it’s all your fault because you told the bowler to ‘see how he handles some pace’?”
“It sounds silly when you say it like that.”
Greta shrugged. “Perhaps because it doesn’t make too much sense.”
I was slightly niggled, “Maybe, but the feeling is real enough.”
She smiled. “Absolutely! So we can’t make sense of it. In that way, it’s not like your dad’s ‘shell shock’. There’s very good reason for your dad’s problems, but perhaps not for yours.” I wanted to interrupt but she held up her hand. “Neither of you can think your way out of them, ‘cos it’s the feelings that are important – not whether or not they make sense!”
“So I’ve got awful feelings that don’t make sense – but how do I deal with them?”
“Talking’s good! Would it help to have more information about the guy? Sparling?”
“Probably.”
“He’ll probably be in the new neurosurgical unit. Perhaps I can get some news.”
Greta dried her hands and went to use the phone. She talked for a couple of minutes, then came back to the kitchen. “I’ve left a message for a friend. I’ve asked her to ring when she comes off shift at eleven. We can expect a call around half past.”
I made a mental note that we should take care to be finished whatever we were up to before then – the first round anyway! But I had a few doubts.
“What about confidentiality?”
“I won’t ask about Sparling, but I can ask my friend about unusual admissions and the medical and surgical challenges they present. Rugby hasn’t started, so an admission for a sporting injury will be unusual.”
We went back to the meal. It was what Greta called a ‘fish pie”, but it wasn’t too different from the ‘kedgeree’ I had been introduced to a few years before. She sauteed the onions I had diced, minced the first clove of garlic I had ever seen, and tossed that in as the onions softened. That became the basis of a white sauce with a little cheese and the smoked mullet I had deboned. I peeled, boiled, and mashed some potatoes as a topping, and sprinkled a little more grated cheese on the top of that. Then it was the oven for half an hour. Another cabbage was cooked with butter, more garlic, and some grated root ginger (also new to me).
Again, the meal was delicious, and again the flatmates were suitably appreciative. Greta and I cleaned up and went to the shower. I had pleasured myself in my parent’s shower with a fantasy of fucking Greta, but when we had actually showered together the previous evening, she wasn’t interested. Now she was, but the need for a condom and spermicide meant that we were limited to soapy lather and hands. We discovered that Greta liked soapy bum play. I already knew that I did. We both managed orgasms before drying each other off and snuggling in bed.
“Let’s set an alarm for eleven fifteen. We wouldn’t want to miss your friend’s call!” I did, and then we snuggled and smooched. We both turned on again fairly quickly, and I chewed on Greta’s various bits with a degree of sensitivity to her responses that largely satisfied her without tipping over into ‘ouch’ territory. She eventually encouraged me to take the next step.
“I’m ready to have you fuck me!”
I dealt with the tablet as Greta sheathed me. I don’t know exactly what was going on with me, but on some level, I think I sussed that talking, permission, and consent on my usual level wasn’t quite where it was at right then, and I wordlessly and (for me) quite masterfully manoeuvred her onto her knees and got behind her trim little bum. I had just slipped a tablet into her vagina, so I have no idea why she was concerned about my intentions, but she was.
“Not my arse!”
I laughed. “It’s your juicy little cunt I want!”
Greta just grunted, and I slid into her slowly. We fucked doggy for a few minutes, and ramped up quite a long way, then she got a hand on her clit and soon came quite noisily. As her orgasm washed through her and she started to relax, she stopped supporting her head and shoulders on her arms (or arm), and flopped forward to lie prone beneath me. I spread my legs to straddle her thighs and lower buttocks, and within half a dozen strokes, I filled the condom and collapsed on top of her. I would have been happy to stay there until the alarm sounded, but remembered the condom, so I withdrew carefully and dealt with it, then snuggled back beside her.
The alarm seemed to ring almost at once, so I got up to make some tea, and we were sitting up in bed drinking it when the phone rang. Greta got up and went to answer, and spoke quietly for two or three minutes. I found myself very anxious as I waited for what she had to tell me. She was smiling as she returned to the bedroom.
“How’s Sparling?”
Her smile became a grin. “I couldn’t tell you even if I knew. Patient confidentiality is a very big deal, and breaking it could get me suspended or thrown out!”
I didn’t get it. “So what was the point of talking to your friend?”
“I can tell you that the neurosurgical service has admitted a young person with a depressed temporoparietal fracture, and an extradural haematoma at the site. He has had surgery for the fracture and haematoma. His brain is badly bruised and he is being treated to reduce the swelling. He is being kept sedated in the meantime.”
I felt much better, and wondered if I should phone Bartlett, and how I might give him the news discretely. Perhaps it was a bit late, and I was keen to get jiggy with Greta, but I promised myself that I would do it for sure in the morning!
We went back to bed. I was conscious that Greta was full of Gynomin and would taste terrible. I could get my mouth on her nipples but not her genitals. I was quite proud of the way I had learned to nibble, nip, chew and gnaw her, and I would have been happy to stay in that groove.
Greta was pretty sharp. She picked up something was missing with me, “Whatcha thinking?”
“I can’t eat you – spermicide!”