Uncle Frank, Pauline, Sex, and Me
Copyright© 2024 by Fatbastard
Chapter 44
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 44 - 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
National Epee Finalist? October - 1963.
Dad was at the gym when I arrived, about half way through the Sunday morning session. They were running the sabre pools on two pistes, so there was plenty of room for what he called a ‘tune up’. He ran me through a series of exercises to sharpen my reactions. I was again disappointed to notice that I wasn’t getting the familiar ‘combat buzz’ that usually juiced me when I picked up an epee. I hoped it would come back when my epee pool started in the afternoon.
Greta sought me out at lunchtime. I had intended to go back to Mum ‘n Dad’s place with him, but he grinned and suggested ‘the Markham girl’ would be better company, but that I should ‘save some energy for the fencing’. I don’t know what he fantasised we were going to get up to in the University cafeteria, but Greta basically wanted a ‘blow by blow’ of my time with Ngaire Croft. She had clearly talked to Ngaire about our own sexual activities, so even though I felt a bit uncomfortable, I gave her a (relatively) brief rundown. She didn’t seem even slightly uncomfortable about the fact that Ngaire had cheated on her husband. I was not quite so sanguine.
The ‘combat buzz’ came back as soon as I geared up for my pool. I was relieved, but I wasn’t prepared for the additional juicing I experienced when I took the piste against my first opponent. He was a lawyer from Wellington, had been fencing for five years, and he was through to the finals in both sabre and foil. He was miles better than me, and I was totally outclassed. I managed to hit him a couple of times, but despite my ‘buzz’, I went down five to two.
I won my next three bouts, all narrowly, but as Dad said - ‘five four or five nil - a win’s a win’. My feet were slow, but my hand was fast, and my accuracy with my point was excellent. I found I could time my ‘prises de fer’ effectively, and they won me a couple of points each bout.
My last bout was going to be against McGechan. He had also lost to the Wellington lawyer, but beaten everyone else. Brian Pickmere took time out from his duties as Tournament Director to give me some information and advice.
“McGechan is a wannabe Olympian. He does epee as part of the Modern Pentathlon. He’s the fittest guy here, and has the fastest feet. He’ll note how slow your feet are, and he’ll almost certainly try a fleche. If you don’t see it coming, you’ll be fucked anyway, but if you do, don’t try to parry. Try and hit him on the way in.”
That gave me something to think about. I had seen McGechan’s fleche against other opponents. I had noted that it had always been successful, but until Brian gave me that ‘heads up’, I hadn’t connected that to the speed of his opponent’s footwork. McGechan was fast enough on his feet to launch himself bodily at his opponent – like an arrow – hence ‘fleche’, and to be inside and through the zone when a parry would be effective before his opponent could react to increase the distance and give himself time to parry.
I was thoroughly hyped when I took guard for my last bout. One of us was going through to the finals, and I don’t think I could have been more juiced even if it had been a real duel. I tried McGechan out with a series of feints, and noticed that when he used a circular parry, he dropped his arm far enough to expose the top of his wrist. I fact, it was bait, and I took it. When I mounted a compound attack to take advantage of his exposure, he took me in a prise de fer, and hit me on the knee.
But sauce for the goose - I fooled him by repeating the same manoeuvre, but altered my timing to slip his prise de fer, levelling the score at one all.
And so it went. McGechan’s Modern Pentathlon epee bouts involved only a single point, and he wasn’t as good as me at sussing out his opponent’s weaknesses and planning accordingly. I won the next three points and led four to one, but then he cranked it up a notch, and principally because he was faster and more mobile, he won the next three.
So it was four all, and the next point would decide the bout and determine who would go through to the final pool on the Monday. McGechan still hadn’t tried a fleche attack, so I guessed this was probably the moment. Most of my attention stayed on his sword arm, but I also kept watching for the start of a weight transfer which would allow him to throw his whole body forward. My plan was simple. No matter where he was going to press home his attack, I knew he would start it in the sixte line. As soon as he did, I was going to attack into it in the same line, aiming for the outside of his wrist and forearm. I expected to hit him there well before his point arrived on my body.
My plan worked perfectly, at least on one level. I hit his sword arm just in front of the elbow as he launched his body at me, and heard the buzzer and saw the light on the control box a good quarter second before his point arrived. But I had never been on the receiving end of a fleche attack before, and had no real idea of the forces involved.
His point landed just above my left nipple. His arm was straight, his elbow and shoulder were locked, and his full body weight was behind his blade. There wasn’t all that much of him, but he had literally thrown himself at me and was moving very fast indeed. It was like being hit by a train, and Dad said the whole left side of my upper body was thrown back. For perhaps half a second, there was no pain. Then it hurt a lot. The impact knocked the breath out of me, and I couldn’t expand my chest to take another and it hurt like hell to try. I think that would have been enough to take me out of the competition if that had been the limit of the damage, but it wasn’t.
McGechan’s blade bent and then broke, and his momentum carried him forward, driving the now broken end through my jacket and upper arm. When I say through, that’s a bit of an overstatement. The blade had broken square across, a handsbreadth or so behind the button switch on the tip, and the remainder of the blade ploughed a (fairly) neat channel through the skin and what the doctor called the ‘subcutaneous tissue and surface fibres’ of my deltoid muscle, before failing to penetrate the arm of my jacket a second time. By then, McGechan had let go of his epee, which found its own way back out of my jacket and dangled from his body wire as he stood looking at the control box showing I had won the point.
It was not until I noticed that the end of his blade was bloody, that my arm started to hurt nearly as much as my chest. Time seemed to stop for a second or two. The presiding judge and the spectators seemed frozen. Dad wasn’t. He moved swiftly onto the piste and grabbed me as my knees started to buckle. There seemed to be lots of blood, and even though Dad didn’t seem concerned that I would bleed to death and in fact seemed more bothered about my breathing troubles, the drama stopped the other epee pool.
And for me, that was the end of Nationals. I had won the bout and qualified for finals, but there was no way I was going to be holding an epee for some weeks. Dad took me to A&E, where the novelty value of my injuries earned more attention than they probably deserved. The junior doctor put six stitches in my arm and injected an antibiotic, but said there was no point in an Xray because even if a rib was cracked, there was no treatment. He prescribed more antibiotics and some painkillers.
Dad took me back to the flat and put me to bed. I was concerned about leaving Harriet parked by the University, but there was no way I was fit to drive, and Dad promised to ‘sort it’. I was somewhat surprised and very gratified an hour or so later, to find that ‘sorting it’ had involved picking up the ‘Miles girl’ so that she could bring Harriet back to the flat. Pauline stayed the night in my bed, fed me more painkillers and some eggs and tea, and checked me out to make sure that despite my grievous injuries, my cock still worked. It did, but since my chest was far too sore for any panting or even deep breathing, a (relatively) quick blowjob was all I could cope with.
Everything else about the night was shit! Moving hurt. Lying still hurt. At one stage I coughed, and thought I would pass out from the pain. By morning a very large and nasty looking bruise covered most of my upper chest on the left side, and my arm was bruised too, but not as badly. I had no interest whatever in getting dressed and going to watch the epee and sabre finals.
Pauline proved willing to stay another night to ‘nurse’ me. I liked that, particularly her solicitous concern for my genital function, and she not only cooked and brought me breakfast and fed me paracetamol, the newish painkiller the Doctor had prescribed, but also drove me to school on Tuesday morning, and promised to return soon after 3.30 to drive me home again. My efforts to ‘catch up’ during the previous term seemed to have restored my credit with the staff, and when Soapy Bliss noticed me pale and wincing as I tried to set up an experiment in the physics lab, he sent me off to ‘lie down’ in the Prefect’s Study. I lay on the couch and drank tea until it was time to walk over to the cricket pavilion where Pauline had parked Harriet. I had been fairly tight lipped about my injuries and their origin, but rumours nevertheless flew round the school to the effect that I had been ‘run through’ with a duelling sword.