Uncle Frank, Pauline, Sex, and Me
Copyright© 2024 by Fatbastard
Chapter 42
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 42 - 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
June, July, August - 1963.
We looked out at the rain squalls, then back at each other.
“Let’s sort the chores first.”
I got smart. “First before what?”
“First before I fuck you to death – and I’ve got a surprise!”
I worked between showers, scurrying out to carry four armloads of wood in from the shed. I loaded up the AGA with one of them, and filled the kitchen woodbox with the rest. Sandra put on raingear, and went to feed the dogs, just as it started to come down in buckets. When she came back inside and shed gumboots and parka, her hair was wet at the front, and strands clung and dripped down her forehead. She smiled and purred as I took a hand towel and dried her off.
“Ready to die?”
“I’ll die a happy man. What’s the surprise?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise!”
We only just made it to the bedroom. The sex was subtly different. It can’t have been just that Della and Johnny were away and so couldn’t hear or disturb us, we had already had lotsa sex in my bed far from parental oversight. But somehow, we were both juiced by the prospect of twenty-four hours of each other’s exclusive company, and that was manifest in a kind of playful lewdness, ‘sparking off’ and amplifying our partner’s willingness to ‘perform’ sexually. So when Sandra suggested fucking on the kitchen table, I was a starter, and when I laid back in Johnny’s recliner in the lounge, she happily mounted and rode me cowgirl.
The rain came down steadily outside, the AGA was cranked up to the max and made the whole house warm enough to let us run around naked, and I soon lost count of Sandra’s orgasms, but I had three before lunch. And over cold mutton with Della’s plum chutney, and refried mashed potato and cabbage, Sandra sprung her surprise.
“I brought back some of the dope.” She went to the mantlepiece in the kitchen, and took down an ancient and very worn tobacco tin labelled ‘Yellow Three Caftles’ in ornate and very old-fashioned lettering. It was about half full of dried leaves from the enclosure. They were brownish and although they didn’t smell very strongly, I realised I had smelled that smell before, in the early days of Mary’s World. There was a small yellow packet of Zig Zag Rice cigarette papers in the bottom of the tin.
“Jesus! It’s prison time if we get caught with that stuff!”
“Nah – I just brought it back to show the cops.”
“In a tobacco tin? With rolling papers?”
“I found the empty tin and the papers in the shearer’s quarters. They’d been there for years. I put the stuff in the tin to dry it out over the AGA this morning.” She grinned. “Just in case we decide to destroy it – by burning!”
I didn’t know what to say. This was coming out of left field, and I felt completely out of my depth. “You wanna smoke that stuff?”
Her grin widened. “Thought about it. You game?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I wasn’t consciously playing for time, but my mind was pretty busy with whys and wherefores, what ifs and yes buts, and in the meantime, I just grunted. Eventually, without coming to any decision, I asked a question that implied we were going ahead.
“I’ve never rolled anything up, have you?”
“No, but if we can’t work it out how to roll some up to smoke, I know there’s an old pipe out in the shearer’s quarters.”
Rolling up is harder than it looks. After three attempts, we waited for a lull between showers and went back out to the shearer’s quarters to rat through the drawer containing a twenty-year collection of ‘stuff the gang left behind’. There was indeed an old pipe in there, but it smelled unbelievably foul.
Sandra wasn’t keen. “Ugh! We can’t smoke that!”
That was my ‘out’, and to this day I don’t know why I didn’t take it.
“I remember one of our teachers cleaned his pipe with meths. He had pipe cleaners, but we could try with a straw from a broom.”
We tipped some meths into a soup plate, submerged the pipe and left it there while we got distracted. Sandra had a couple more orgasms but I felt as if I was done for a while. When we eventually got back to the pipe, it was easy to ream out the bowl, but the stem was still gunked, and it took lots more than one straw to clean it out.
The end result was still not very attractive, but we loaded the bowl with the dried leaves. By the time we had packed them down a bit, that had disposed of about half the stuff in the tin.
We stood in the kitchen. I was holding the pipe packed with the ‘evil weed’. Sandra held out her hand.
“You sure?”
She grinned. “Nope.” Her shoulders lifted in an exaggerated shrug. “But what the hell!”
I passed her the pipe, and she lit up and immediately began to cough her lungs out, but undeterred, she tried again. Same result, so she handed it back to me. My first attempt at drawing smoke in my lungs was successful, but my attempt to hold it there was less so. I too coughed and coughed and coughed again.
Somewhat to my surprise, Sandra was still keen. She held out her hand and I handed over the pipe with no reluctance whatsoever, and her second draw was more successful. She held a lungful for three or four seconds before a spasm of coughing bent her over. But the expired air had lots of smoke in it and by now the kitchen was smoky and stinky.
“We should go out on the porch.”
“Get dressed and stand in the cold?”
“Maybe not. We can open the door and the window and air the place out when we’re done.”
The pipe had gone out, and although the bowl was still warm, drawing on it produced nothing but a rather unpleasant taste. I applied a match and tried a succession of short puffs. That worked much better, and even though the sensation was far from pleasant, I was able to hold a modest lungful of smoke for perhaps ten seconds before the urge to cough became overwhelming.
Sandra copied my technique, and we managed to finish the pipeful with at least part of each drag staying in our lungs for some seconds. It seemed to have no appreciable effect on anything except my respiratory system.
“Didn’t do anything for me.”
“Shall we have some more then?”
We reamed out the pipe, and filled it with the last of the weed. The second time through was a little easier, and by the time we had smoked it all, the world had changed subtly, and we were both slightly giggly.
I had had a (very) little experience with alcohol before, but this was different. I was more aware of my body than usual, and when I opened the firebox of the AGA to load more wood, I found the play of the flames inside it quite entrancing, and I kept watching them until Sandra came over to see what had captured my attention.
She wasn’t particularly interested in the flames, but got fascinated by the little hairs on my forearms, and started to examine them minutely, stroking them this way and that as I stared at the flames. I started to become very aware of my pelvis and groins. Not just my junk, although I was certainly acutely aware of a throbbing and swelling in my penis and a tightening of my scrotum. That was familiar, but the general awareness of energy in my pelvis was new, and reminiscent of some of our tantric experiences.
I could smell her too. We had had lotsa sex that morning, and the odours of our earlier coupling were still perceptible, but this was new, and Sandra was very obviously turned on again. She reached out to fondle me.
“More sex?”
“I can certainly finger you, but I’m not sure I’ll be up to fucking for a while.”
“Let’s go back to the lounge. We can cuddle up and see what happens.”
We did, and we did in fact fuck again, but not until after we had discovered that being stoned vastly improves Tex Moreton, Marty Robbins, and (especially) Johnny Cash. It also improves Anzac biscuits, scones, and more cold mutton!
By today’s standards, the ‘cabbage’ we were experimenting with was almost indescribably awful. It was both weak and harsh, and smelled like burning hedge-clippings, but the experience of changing my consciousness with cannabis was still much better than my experience of alcohol. When I had gotten drunk on red wine the previous year, things got a bit fuzzy and I felt terrible the next day. Once the coughing was over, the experience of cannabis was much more pleasant. All my senses seemed enhanced rather than blurred, and I had no hangover whatsoever. Sandra said she felt the same.
The rain stopped in the late afternoon, and since I knew Grandma June loved rabbit and Bruce and Robert refused to hunt so she didn’t get anything except the very occasional gift, we planned to take Johnny’s .22 and the spotlight, and go out after tea. By the time we had bowled half a dozen and dressed them, it was time for showers (plural again) and bed. Sandra announced that she was ‘a bit sore’ (surprise surprise), and I was ‘totally fucked out’, so we just cuddled up and slept very soundly indeed.
We weren’t hung over in the morning, but neither of us felt like more sex, so we tidied and aired out the house, drank multiple cups of tea over a leisurely breakfast, packed rabbit and venison for the Henley farm and the various Auckland family households, and said our goodbyes. I asked Sandra to be sure to put the tobacco tin and the pipe back in the shearer’s quarters, and to thank Johnny and Della for their hospitality, and headed for the Henley’s.
Grandma June was suitably appreciative for the venison and rabbit, produced a sumptuous lunch, and directed Bruce to wrap some mutton for the family. Harriet was carrying more dead meat than live on the way back to Auckland. By the time I distributed the bounty of flesh, it was teatime at the flat, and I spent a pleasant evening recounting some of my adventures. In deference to Jax’s very strong feelings about ‘drugs’, I somehow forgot to mention either the enclosure, or our experiences with the evil weed.
School was starting to suck! I could maintain my position at the top of my English class without too much effort, and I was interested enough in Biology to do the work necessary to stay on top of that subject, but Chemistry was a pain, Physics was worse, and Maths was a total disaster as far as I was concerned.