Culvert Mozart Lane
Copyright© 2025 by CreepyUnclePete
Chapter 1
True Story Sex Story: Chapter 1 - In this true story a mostly good man does a few horrible things; including infidelity, incest, and murder. Starts with Bruce deciding if he should join the Marines or Army near the start of World War 2. Names of the people involved have been changed for obvious legal and privacy reasons.
Caution: This True Story Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Consensual Heterosexual True Story Farming Historical War Cheating Anal Sex Masturbation Oral Sex Pregnancy
The people in this story are typical everyday country folks, but some did quite extraordinary things, good and bad. The perpetrators of all the crimes described here expired years ago. All significant events are written just as our main character “Bruce” told them, according to his memories. He said there were no “fancy metric degrees” at the time, which is incorrect, but I typed it the way he said it.
The cover image has Bruce’s granddaughter “Janelle” in the woods behind the dairy farm. In 1961, wolves nearly killed Bruce only a few steps from where she’s standing. Several people told me her grandmother Nora was just as attractive at the same age, maybe even prettier.
At least 98 percent of this is as true as I can make it, which I consider much closer to “True” than just “Based on a true story.” “Based on a true story” might make Bubba Jones the chubby middle-aged bus driver into Bubba Jones the chick magnet and super spy.
The few things I changed or filled in leave the characters, situations, and background intact; and only smooth out the reading experience. Does it really matter today which of two friends owned a small boat in 1948? I tried to find out, but boat registration was optional at the time and most of the county’s old records were destroyed in a flood a few decades back. Do people really care what they actually ate for lunch on a frozen lake that winter? Or the exact words one used when he asked his friend to impregnate his wife? In the other version of this story, published on a couple of other websites, I needed to add 4 to the ages of “Nora” and “Janelle”, due to current legal restrictions and the rules on certain websites. Here I can safely and honestly say they were fourteen.
“Brenden” is a friend of mine, and “Bruce” and “Janelle” were his parents. He has little time and even less inclination to write. He only gave me the recordings I transcribed this from after I swore to change all the names. I also agreed to say this happened a few dozen miles from Lake Superior, instead of naming the town. The dirt and gravel lane in the story’s title was replaced by a highway with a number recently, so I’m finally comfortable making this public.
Thanks again, “Brenden”!
I’m a 91-year-old man in a nursing home, sitting on what will most likely be my deathbed. My great-grandson Brenden is doing well in college, training to be an Information Systems Architect, whatever that is. He gave me a flip cell phone and separate voice recorder, and showed me how to use them on his last visit. The month before, he offered me a fancy lap computer instead, but those things are much more complicated than I need. I’m recording this so he and his descendants can know the real history of our family.
To most people these days I’m just a retired farmer, but there’s a lot more to it. Five events stick in my memory most firmly; the murders of my best friend Jake, my first wife Elaine, and my second wife Nora; my granddaughter Janelle’s fourteenth birthday; and the day Janelle gave birth to our son. I’ll describe and explain everything when I get to it, but let me start at the beginning...
When I was a boy, my family lived at the edge of a small farming town. Besides my schoolwork, I helped in my father’s workshop on Saturdays and a couple hours after school during the week. I learned to shape orange-hot iron and steel with a hammer and anvil, and weld using either a forge or blowtorch by the time I was thirteen. I didn’t have a title, but by my last year of high school, I guess I was a journeyman blacksmith, farrier, and mechanic. We worked on a few cars and trucks, several tractors, and many plows and other pieces of farm machinery; and shoed a dozen or more horses most months. During the summertime I also made a little extra money working at the farm next to us. Automobiles weren’t a rarity with a third of the families in the area owning one but the rest still depended on real horsepower, from real horses.
It was spring 1942 and my friends and I were looking forward to joining the Marines or Army, so we might get to travel and have a chance at glory and excitement. We talked endlessly about how great it would be to come home war heroes with lots of medals, so all the girls would like us. We were fools still in school, with our heads in the clouds and no idea what war really was.
We were all seventeen, or almost. My pal Joshua wasn’t the hearty sort and told us his well-off family was making him go to college instead. They weren’t really rich but did own the small town’s only grocery store and the only gas station. Most of my friends got their fathers to sign for them, so they could volunteer and go off to fight in North Africa or the Pacific. All told, 26 young men from our town served in the Second World War. To this day I remember all their names and faces. 19 of them returned as heroes. One even earned the Silver Star, a very high honor! Three others returned as heroes missing an arm or a leg.
My cousin Andrew and three others are still buried where they fell, eight thousand miles from home on an island called Tarawa.
The Sunday after my 17th birthday, our family arrived early for church. My mother and sisters went inside and my father had a serious talk with me. “Bruce, I know you fancy joining the fight. Think long and hard about it. Some boys might come back with medals but others won’t come home at all. I...” He choked up a moment, then rested a hand on my shoulder and looked at me intently. I didn’t see any tears but he rubbed the corner of his eye. “I’d hate to see your mother cry for you.” It was the most emotional I’d ever seen him, and the closest he’d ever come to saying he cared about me. He was ‘Bloody Well British’ and a ‘Man’s Man’, a 250-pound blacksmith, at that.
“If you want to go to war, I understand. Adventure and glory can be appealing, but there are other things to consider.” He nodded toward Elaine, a busty brunette around thirty. “Her husband kicked the bucket three weeks ago, and she needs a man to help run her farm. A lad who could win her heart would have a home, a family, a sixty-acre farm, and a hundred acres of forest. Most farm owners get deferments from serving and the soldiers can’t win a war with empty bellies. Uncle Sam is paying top dollar for anything they can put in cans and send overseas. Please think about it, for your mother’s sake. Or at least wait a year? She’d never forgive me if I signed and you didn’t come back.” The church bell rang and we got up and went inside.
I met Elaine after church and liked her very much. She was twelve years my senior, but had a nice face and was what the fellows and I called a ‘bouncer’. I happily watched her chest bounce as she led her sons up or down the church’s front steps. I chatted with her at a picnic the next weekend, then took her to a dance the following Friday. Her oldest boy Lawrence was thirteen and capable of looking after the other three. It boggles my mind now, that I had a stepson only four years younger than I was, and a wife only seven years younger than my mother. My father had been thirty when they married on Mom’s sixteenth birthday, so I didn’t think it odd until much later.
For the morals of the time, Elaine was practically a slut on our dates. She was desperate for a husband to help with her farm and boys. She gave me a few long glances down the top of her blouse and a goodnight kiss at the end of our first date. It was even a wet kiss, French style! I got several more kisses, an exciting long hug, and a brief bum squeeze on our second date.
A week later I was quite a bad lad. I told my parents I was borrowing their ‘33 Ford Coupe so I could take her to another dance, but drove to a lake where we shared a six-pack and smooched by moonlight. On only our third date, Elaine let me get a hand in her big brassier and happily wanked me off, but told me she wouldn’t go any farther without a ring.
After a few more nice times by the lake, I nearly emptied my bank account writing a check at the closest jewelry store, which was a two-hour drive. Just getting there and back used half my gasoline ration for the month. Elaine and I returned to the lake and moved our fun to the rumble seat after I proposed. We made love for the first time under the stars, in the back of my father’s car.
I nearly wept with joy remembering, when I saw a car the same year and model in a ‘ZZ Top’ music video fifty years later. I didn’t care for the song, though.
Elaine had a firm grasp on my heart, or maybe something a little lower down. Instead of signing up for the Marines or Army, I signed a marriage certificate at the end of our wedding ceremony. When I wrote and told my buddies, they wrote back about the war and said they understood my decision. Two even told me they would have done the same, since she was a ‘bouncer’.
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