Keypad door locks are an awfully practical invention, for instance if you have somehow managed to fall in love with your own mother and she's expected to arrive for a visit at a time of the day when you're still in art class painting two naked girls. You don't have to leave a key under the doormat or under the pot-plant that Mr. Burglar can easily find. All you have to do is send her an SMS with a six-digit pin code. At the moment though, my thoughts were definitely not with mom.
We had all realized that Professor Dumont seemed to care more for his own entertainment than really teaching us art. All we'd ever drawn and painted since day one were naked girls, and one guy, and he was probably more of a token gesture. Today was even more illustrous as we got to paint both boobs and a penis and both belonged to the same person, while the second model had neither.
Yep, Professor Dumont had put a naked trans-woman in front of our class. Contrary to what I'd heard about trans-gender people, she didn't seem to mind posing for us and it appeared that mental problems due to the 'wrong configuration' of their body did not seem to be a universal ailment among trans-women. She looked rather comfortable with her body. I suppose some of us were more confused than she was. After all, even if your mind knows that there is nothing wrong with a transgender person, drawing boobs on someone who also has a penis feels sort of unusual when you do it.
Upon introducing herself, Rebecca had explained that although half of her body looked male, she didn't feel like a boy. She saw herself as female, 'just with a rather big clitoris', as she'd joked herself. Big it was, at least for a trans-woman. She wasn't hung like a rogue elephant, but I suspected that some of her male class mates might be smaller, and at only fifteen years of age, she wasn't yet done growing. Yep, you read that right, Dumont had put a nude trans-gender fifteen year old girl on the dais. At least Rebecca didn't seem to mind, in fact she looked like she even enjoyed it.
That was more than could be said for her co-model, a fourteen year old girl whom everybody in our school knew – a five foot tiny little doll of a girl – Franka Buergi from Switzerland. Our school was not only an arts and design college, it also had a high school for the exceptionally gifted, and Franka was more than exceptionally gifted. She was so talented, she had her own picture exhibition at just fourteen years of age. Right now however, she was modeling in the nude and she looked miserable. It made my blood boil with rage.
I'd spoken to her a few time as we lived on the same block and sometimes went home together. Franka was fourteen, but she definitely didn't look it. She was badly behind the curve in body development. It was clear that she didn't need to shave her nether region – she didn't even have any hair to shave off yet, and her tiny breasts, or what one day would develop into female breasts wouldn't have filled to egg cups. I didn't give a damn if she was of age of consent. It was visible that she was more than just self-conscious that she looked like an eleven year old child, yet Dumont had put her on a dais in the nude.
Mind you, technically, what he'd done was legal. Franka was fourteen and like us college students, all the high school pupils had signed an agreement that they would serve as a model for artistic purposes if asked to do so. Yet, it didn't take Dr. Freud to work out what kind of sick fantasies Professor Dumont planned to engage in after collecting our work for 'grading'. Funny how he had never returned any previous pictures to any of us. I had to stop this.
I raised my arm and asked to be excused for a toilet break. Dumont yacked something about using the break between lessons for that, but eventually he allowed me to go. I walked out and made a bee-line to the Principal's office. I ignored the protests of the secretary and after a knock I went straight into Professor Mung's office.
He looked at me, questioning my reasons for barging in like that without saying it.
"I'm sorry, Sir," I apologized. "I know this isn't the politest way to ask for a conversation, but it is a matter of some urgency. I want to lodge a formal complaint against Professor Dumont and certain requirements of our school charter."
The principal sighed. "He's put a girl on display again, who looks too young, didn't he?"
"Franka Buergi," I replied dryly. Now that made him look at me in shock.
"Merde! Je vais tuer ce crétin," the Swiss chairman of our school swore and ran out. That hadn't sounded like 'I'll have a quiet word with him'.
"Jesus, you've managed to upset a Swiss," the secretary said, trying to find out why her boss had run out like that. It didn't take long for the Principal, Professor Dumont and Franka to arrive in his office. Franka was clad in a bathrobe and she was crying. When she saw me, she ran over and hugged me tightly. "Merci," she sobbed over and over again. I could barely hold on to my own emotions. Seeing her so scared nearly made me cry with her.
I fixed Dumont with an enraged look and that sentiment was apparently mutual. He tried to stare me down, but I didn't feel like caving in.
"Mr. Harris," the principal asked. "I suppose the complaint against our school charter concerns the provision of volunteering as an artistic model?"
"Professor Mung, doesn't the term 'volunteer' imply that you have a right not to do it? Franka didn't volunteer, she was told to get naked and expose herself against her will, and she wouldn't be a pupil of this school if she hadn't signed an agreement that she would accept such an assignment unconditionally. I believe the word coercion is the one you were looking for."
The principal's eyes went wide with astonishment over my passionate speech and Franka looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears, but also gratitude. On an impulse I gave her a little peck on the tip of her nose. She put her head back against my chest, hugging me tightly.
Professor Mung sighed. "This ... requirement is a relict from when this school was founded in the late fifties. Society was much more inhibited back then and finding models was nigh-on impossible. Perhaps it is time we change that. Your complaint against Professor Dumont will have to be rejected though, as he was perfectly within the rules, if perhaps not entirely accepting the spirit of them."
"This might hurt a little," I told Franka, "But I have to say this."
She nodded and let go of me. "Professor Mung, this isn't a discussion about rules or the spirit of them. Unless you want us all to become the spiritual successors of Tuke, Lohmüller, Bouguerau or David Hamilton, we have to paint something other than naked girls who look younger than they are once in a while. I know artistic nudity is a mainstay in painting and photography, but how about painting a proper woman for a change? My mother is the least shy person on this planet as I've found out recently. Let her model for us and some of my class mates get to see some proper curves for a change and not some adolescent breasts that started growing last week."
Franka sobbed and I hugged her, apologizing for my bluntness. She assured me it was okay.
"None of the girls we'd been painting since day one looked a day older than sixteen, usually much younger actually. Oh, it was all 'perfectly legal', as they are all freshmen at Hundertwasser School, which means they are at least fourteen, but David friggin' Hamilton wouldn't have dared photographing some of them. I don't care if this ends with me being thrown out of this school, but I officially accuse Professor Dumont of having a propensity for pedophilia. Ask him to hand over our works, none of which were ever returned to us, by the way. Have a look yourself at how young some of those girls look. Franka was merely the straw the breaks the camel's back, because she's the most extreme example. I for once, refuse to attend any more lessons that are taught by Professor Dumont."
The two Professors started to argue in French and the argument became very loud, very soon. When it reached the level of a shouting match, Dumont pivoted and stormed out.
"Professor Dumont refuses to hand over your works. Instead he chose immediate termination of contract," the principal explained, shaking his head. I could hear just how devastated he was, realizing that I had probably been true.
"Sir, shouldn't we inform the school authorities?" I asked. "It is not my intention to destroy Professor Dumont's career, in fact it would be my hope that the authorities treat this with the necessary level of confidence, instead perhaps might support him in finding help. They must know a therapist who can help him before he acts on his ... uh preference ... with a girl who doesn't only look twelve?"
"That's a good idea, Mr. Harris."
I nodded and took Franka's hand. We walked out of the principals office. I didn't leave her side until we'd arrived at the small locker room where models usually undressed before a painting lesson.
If looks could kill, I'd been pregnant by now. Rebecca walked up to me, staring daggers at me while I was waiting in the corridor for Franka to come back out. There was no way I'd let her go home alone, scared and confused as she still was.
"Well thanks for nothing," Rebecca groused. "One time, just one fucking time, someone dares painting or photographing me without freaking out that I have a dick, and you ruined it!"
She turned to leave, but I asked her to stay.
"Rebecca, I'm sorry that I ruined it for you, but unlike you Franka didn't quite find it such an exhilarating experience. She was scared, self-conscious and hurt. Sorry, but I couldn't let that asshole get away with something like that."
She looked at me for a while, saying nothing. Her anger dissipated.
"The poor girl. She must feel awful being trapped in the body of a little girl. And then being displayed like that. Shit, I'm such a bitch. I only thought about my own fun."
"That will change," I said with a shrug. "Franka merely started later than others, but I would hazard a guess that in a year or two, some girls will be quite envious. She's beautiful."
Rebecca giggled and her face was split by what could only be described as a shit-eating grin.
"Speaking of trapped in your body," I said. "If it isn't too personal..."
"What it is like to be a girl with a penis?" she asked. I nodded.
"Technically, I'm a boy," she explained. "But I've never felt anything other than being a girl. Well, slight misconfiguration, and I need hormone treatments to help my boobs grow, but my identity is one-hundred percent female. I could get a sex change surgery, but why? I like boys as much as I like girls. At least for the woman-on-woman action, I've got an advantage, and since most boys like boinking a girl's ass. I'm well catered for from both genders."
I gasped slightly in light of her bluntness. Rebecca got serious.
"You're different you know. You're the first one who didn't gawk at me and you're interested in how I feel about my body. That's rare."
"It's just a fact of nature," I shrugged. "I'd have preferred to be blond, but that's not what my genetics decided. I'm just glad you're happy with yourself. I read that many trans-gender people hate their body."
She nodded in agreement. "I'm happy the way I am," she said. "But I'm still a bit pissed that I didn't get to be painted, but then, from what I'm hearing, I wouldn't have gotten my hands on any of the pictures anyway."
"Well, if it helps making amends, I'd gladly paint you. Just tell me a day when you have time."
"You would do that?" she asked, her eyes wide with astonishment.
"Sure. You're not exactly unattractive, you know."
"Even with ... it?" Rebecca asked with a mischievous grin.
"Well, the aesthetics of a human body are not decided by the genitalia alone, are they?"
"You're definitely not like most others," she giggled and placed a kiss on my cheek. "Okay, how about ... next Tuesday, and oil on canvas?"
"It's a deal," I grinned back.
We walked home, hand in hand. Franka had been awfully quiet all the time.
"Jarred," she said with her cute French accent that made my name sound like 'jar-rette' with a very soft J. "I've heard some of your talk with Rebecca. She was right. You're very different."
"Nope," I said. "I'm just like every other guy."
Franka snorted. "Every other guy today was staring at my pussy, trying to find out if I was shaving or didn't have any hair yet to begin with. You were the only one, who didn't."
I blushed slightly. "That's because I like hairless pubic areas," I admitted. "And besides, I was way too busy being furious about Professor Dumont."
"I'm really grateful for what you did," she said and looked down with a sigh. "But you're still doing the same as all others."
I stopped. "Franka, what did I do?"
She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. "Treating me like a child. I'm fourteen Jarred. I have the period once a month, like every other girl my age, I merely haven't got any boobs or an ass like a horse yet. I'm lonely, but nobody wants to be my boyfriend because they all say I'm not a proper woman. I'm horny, I'm sick of being a virgin, I want ... but nobody does. Just because my damn body doesn't know how it should look by now. Merde!"
She was crying hard by now and I gathered her in my arms. Following my instincts I kissed her and her mouth opened hungrily, almost immediately. We kissed each other greedily after I'd backed her into the bushes of the park. Yes, in that regard I was like everyone else, I was afraid someone would think I'm molesting a twelve-year-old. But I also wanted to make her feel better. On an impulse I slid my hand under her shirt. I felt the little bumps that once would grow into boobs. Now that I felt them, they did feel like a proper woman's nipples. I gently circled my finger around the left one and Franka sighed into my mouth. It ended up being the longest kiss of my life and I don't think her nipples had ever been as hard as they were after I'd played with them the whole time.
"Franka, I'd be more than happy to invite you to my bed, I don't care how well your puberty sticks to the schedule, but what you need is a boyfriend, not a fuck-buddy and I couldn't be more than that."
"You're in love with your mama, aren't you?" she asked me with a happy smile, still breathing hard from the unexpected intimate kiss.
"What? Franka!" I gasped and let go of her. She just smiled and took my hand.
"I may look like a little girl, but I don't have the brain of one," she giggled. "If you are as invisible to people as I am, you become a good observer. When you talked about your mama, your pupils dilated, you blushed, and your whole look became dreamy. It wasn't hard to work out."
"And you're not grossed out?" I asked, not even trying to deny it any longer.
"Are you grossed out?" she asked back with a smile. "You just shoved your hand under the shirt of a girl who looks like a twelve-year-old."
"No, I'm not," I admitted.
"Look, we can't change who we are," she said. "I'm old enough to have sex whenever I want, but I look like someone who needs to wait a few more years. And the woman whom you fell in love with happens to be the one that gave birth to you. Maybe it's not what society considers normal, but are we bad people because of that?"
I looked at her in astonishment. I hadn't expected such easy acceptance of my choices.
"I know why you backed me into the bushes and I agree, had someone seen us, you'd be in trouble, because nobody can know that I'm more than old enough for what we did. In fact I'll be fifteen next month. And your mama, she's a woman like all others, why should you not love her. Who could love a mother more than her own son?"
"You are a very special woman," I told her and I meant it. She became pensive, fidgeting. I had an idea what was coming. She had mentioned her age a few times too often and too obviously.
"Jarred, can you please make love to me? I know I cannot be your girlfriend, but I don't want to wait until my damn breasts decide to finally grow. It could be years. I don't want to wait for years."
"Franka, I didn't lie, I'd be more than willing, but giving up your virginity is not a decision to make just like that or out of desperation. How about this? You sleep over it for a night or two and you'll visit mom and I on Saturday. You'll model for me and I'll paint you how I think you'll look in a year or two just as a reminder of how beautiful I think you are and you'll only become even more gorgeous by the way. If you still really want to have your first time by then. I'll be there.
She gave me a beautiful smile and we took each other by the hand, continuing our way home.
Mom knew immediately that some things were on my mind. She had waited for me stark naked, just wearing white thigh-highs and a garter, our 'secret signal' from the webcam chats, but she quickly threw on a large shirt that covered her body and hid the naked lower region.
"I was hell-bent on becoming your lover tonight," she said and hugged me. "But you look like you could use your mommy right now."
I nodded against her chest, burying my face in between her humongous breasts.
We sat down and mom handed me a beer. "Here, that'll make it easier to talk," she giggled. "You're blushing easily enough as it is, and I know that look, your confusion has to do with girls."
I described the day's events and mom listened carefully.
"That's quite a brave or a stupid thing to do," mom said with a grin.
"Huh?" I grunted – not a very sophisticated reply, but the only one that came to my mind at that point. Mom's response had not been the one I'd expected.
"We've only acknowledged yesterday that we love each other, yet you basically just told me you're going to have sex with two other girls."
I spluttered. "O-okay mom, I offered to take Franka to bed, because, frankly at some point she'll be desperate enough to go with the first one who offers and there's a good chance that it'll be some sicko like Dumont, who doesn't make love to her despite her young looks but because of it, but I have no intentions towards Rebecca. I merely offered to paint her because I ruined her modeling."
Mom laughed and clinked her bottle against mine.
"For a 'government agent' you're quite clueless, my dear. Do you really think Rebecca wants to get painted that badly? What for? Do you really think she's going to hang a naked painting of herself on her bedroom wall?"
"You mean she wants..."
"Yes, dear, she wants you to take her to bed, and if you're uncomfortable with the thought of sleeping with a girl who has male genitalia, you better let her down gently and very soon, because you could really, really hurt her. You've been one of probably very few people who accepted her the way she is. You even called her beautiful. I can teach you how to do anal sex properly, because, obviously that's the way it works with a trans woman, but you shouldn't go into that without being willing to give her a blow-job or perhaps even letting her do your rear-end."
"Holy shit mom!" I gasped, not so much about what mom proposed, but the sheer bluntness of what she was telling me. After all, a month ago I had still thought my mom was so prude she'd blush when seeing herself topless in a mirror. And here she was, calmly and easily telling her son to give Rebecca a blow-job as if we were talking about the weather.
Mom sighed and looked down at her hands.
"Just telling like it is, honey. Do you remember Becky from your dad's company? She is a trans-woman too. She's the only one I ever cheated on your father with."
I gasped even louder.
"I wasn't kidding, Jarred. I'm not proud of it, but yes, I was unfaithful," mom admitted, her voice braking as she poured her heart out to me. "Your father slept with me twice a year. How is a woman in her twenties supposed to be satisfied with that. Becky had the same problems that Rebecca probably has too. She could easily find a whole host of pervs who'd gladly do her ass, but would not go anywhere near her penis. She's a woman by identity, but that part of her body follows male rules, you need to suck it, stroke it or let her stick it somewhere to stimulate it."
I decided to hide my confusion behind a lame pun and a somewhat forced smile.
"I'm already looking forward to practicing anal with you," I grinned. "You're not jealous?"
Mom smiled back, but it was a sad smile.
"Honey, I love you more than anything, but we both know that we're a temporary solution. I'll gladly take any day I can be your lover, but in the end, you can't marry me and you can't have children with me. For that you need a wife, preferably one who accepts that you boink your old mother once in a while."
"You ain't old, mom," I complained. "By the way, Franka knows about us."
This time it was mom who gasped. "The other girl, the young looking one?"
"Young-looking is one way to put it," I snorted tapping my temple. "Yeah, Franka looks twelve, but up here she's more grown up than most twenty year old folk. She worked it out all on her own."
"Are you sure you really want to be her first?" mom asked. "She might be old enough, but can you live with it? No matter that she's almost fifteen, she doesn't look it."
"That's her problem, isn't it, mom? Is it her fault that her boobs only start to grow now? Is it an achievement that I have a bigger dick than most of my class mates? Certainly not. It's just genetics, and I find it unfair that other girls in her class can have fulfilling sex lives and she can't, just because her ass isn't bloated. I'm not saying it won't feel a bit weird at first, but just because Kathleen has C cups and Franka hasn't, doesn't make a difference. In fact, Kathleen is half a year younger, and nobody bats an eye that she's sleeping with her boyfriend. Franka can't even get one."
Mom was laughing hysterically. I had worked up such a passion I was breathing quite heavily. Well, perhaps I should have taken a breath in between. Then I wouldn't have been so out of such right now.
"Well, I think she just got herself a boyfriend without knowing it yet," mom giggled. "Honey, you've always been a passionate boy, but I've never seen you so animated. You must really like that girl."
"Mom," I gasped. The giggles went away.
"Jarred, Franka isn't the only one who can read you. You like this girl, actually you more than like her. You went to bat for her against your teacher, even risking eviction. You promised her to make love to her, despite the inevitable uneasiness that comes from her body not matching her real age, and besides, whenever you talk about her, you grin like an idiot and I wonder if I need to buy a Hilti hammer to chisel the smile off your face. You badly fell in love with her today or perhaps you already loved her before and only now realize it."
I shook my head in disbehlief. "But what about us, mom?"
She shrugged. "If Franka is as grown up as you make her sound, she'll probably understand our situation better than you do. She already worked out that we love each other more than a mother and son pair should. She seems to be accepting of that. And should the day come that she wants you to herself, I'll be gone. We'll probably hurt for a time, but we'll always be mother and son. We'll never be far from each other."
I looked into her eyes and our faces edged closer and closer to each other. We ended up sharing a kiss that was hot, but to my surprise it was not nearly as hot as the one I'd exchanged with Franka earlier that day.
"Shirt off mom, I want to show you how much I love you," I whispered breathlessly.
With an angelic smile, she removed the shirt, leaving just the garter and the stockings. Positioning herself on her back she made an inviting gesture and hovering above her, I gently inserted myself with a little help from mom – there went my virginity.
God this was much better than I had ever imagined what it would be like to have sex. The soft, warm feeling of mom's pussy engulfing my erection, the warmth of her large soft breasts as I buried my face in between them. This was pure heaven and I slowly and steadily rocked my hips, sliding in and out of mom's greedy opening.
Like probably all first-timers whose idea of sex came from questionable clips on YouPorn, I had started ramming into her at the frequency of a jackhammer until mom had pointed out to me that the point of the exercise was not starting a fire, but rather making each other feel good. Not that I would have managed to keep it up for any length of time anyway. Even at this rather pedestrian pace, I could feel muscles I didn't know I had, and mom still hadn't climaxed despite the fact that I was just in the process of emptying myself into where I had once come from for the second time already.
Finally mom cried out and with an almighty shiver, clutching me to her chest, she came explosively.
And then she wept.
"Oh shit, mom, have I hurt you?" I asked in panic, but she just smiled through her tears.
"No honey," she said. "I lost my virginity twenty years ago, but this is the first time anyone made me cum so hard, I can't help but cry. God, this was amazing..."
I held her as mom was crying so hard it nearly scared me. It took her nearly ten minutes to calm down. We had rolled over and I was holding her
"Jeez, those girls are in for a treat," she muttered with her head resting on my chest, and then she fell asleep sated and smiling, in my arms.
I walked out of my apartment and found Franka lurking about in front of our house, waiting for me. Her face lit up when I walked up to her.
"Just ring the bell next time?" I told her. "Mom would always welcome another fan of her cocoa mix."
Franka giggled happily.
We walked hand in hand towards the bus station and got on once it arrived. We sat down and I gave her a kiss – perhaps a little too exuberant for it to look innocent."
"Do you know no shame, young man! This girl is a child," an older citizen in the row behind us said, and not knowing where my sudden rage came from, I just turned around and punched him into the face with all my strength. I felt a searing pain and heard the sickening crunch of the bones I'd just broken in my hand. He fell to the ground, unconscious.
"So you punched the man after he alleged that you were acting inappropriately towards a child?" the cop asked while the doctor put my hand in a cast.
"Yes," I answered, hissing in an attempt to take the pain 'like a man'.
"It is a serious allegation, I agree, and a wrong one at that," the policeman said. "But Mr. Harris, that doesn't warrant the use of violence."
"Oh doesn't it?" I asked, my nostrils flaring in anger. "First of all, it's not Franka's fault that she looks younger than she is, it hurts her, actually, and gramps calling her a child hurt her even more. Nobody hurts my girlfriend without taking some pain in return."
I heard a gasp from behind the privacy screen, but I was too enraged to think about its meaning. "I'm not a violent man, but at the time I saw now other way. And second, go out there and accuse someone of rape or child abuse. Even if there is absolutely and fucking nothing to it, it can ruin and quite likely even end a guy's life. It's the one thing you can practically not defend yourself against. Some lingering doubt will always stick to you, no matter how innocent you are. I know what I'm talking about. Just yesterday I reported a teacher of ours who really fantasizes about children."
"He has a point," the second cop said. "Just think of the Jarson vs. Henderson case. Guy killed himself and a month later it was clear that his ex-girlfriend had just made up all those rape allegations. Didn't bring him back, and even now that he's dead, people still say 'well maybe something was still right about these allegations'."
The first cop nodded. "After being made aware of the circumstances, the victim of your punch decided not to press charges, Mr. Harris, but we will still have to impose a one-thousand dollar fine and you'll have to pay the costs of his treatment. You get off lightly."
"May be I did get off lightly," I said. "Franka didn't. She was hurt for no good reason, over a problem that she's having a hard time with as it is."
"She'll live," Franka said and walked out from behind the privacy screen. She fixed the cops with a confident glance. "If you would excuse us officers, I'd like to do my Florence Nightingale bit for my poor injured boyfriend, but in privacy please?"
The two men laughed and the second cop looked back at me. "Take good care of her. She's a keeper."
"Sorry, Franka," I said, feeling contrite.
"What for?" she asked, holding my uninjured right hand. For some reason I had ruined my left one and I wasn't even a left-handed person.
"I called you my girlfriend and I never even asked you if you would want to be."
"Do you really think I would say no?" she giggled. "I had thought clutching your hand all the way home yesterday and waiting in front of your home this morning would give you the idea? Jeez you're bad at reading a blatant hint."
We both chuckled and sealed the deal with a very hot kiss.
"Darn, now I really need to find a way to let Rebecca down gently," I said and seeing Franka's confused look, I told her of mom's theory about Rebecca's likely motivation to get painted by me.
To my surprise Franka wasn't upset. First I thought our time as boyfriend and girlfriend would end again after just two minutes when she stood up, wordlessly, but she merely looked around the privacy screen if we were alone. Then she came back.
"Jarred, do you think you can do it with her, properly I mean?"
"Mom offered to teach me," I said with a chuckle. Franka giggled as well, but turned serious again.
"Rebecca is in my class," she explained. "Being different herself, she's the only one who doesn't treat me like I'm still playing with Barbie dolls. I wouldn't say we are best friends, but we get along very well. She comes across all butch, but it's a facade. She's just as insecure as I am. Jarred, if you do that you could bolster her self-esteem a lot, but do it wrong and she could be badly hurt."
"You think I should still do it?" I asked, astonished by her suggestion.
"If you are as considerate in bed as you are in other things, at least when you're not punching people," she started and giggled about my guilty blush. "Anyway, you are one of very few people who take a person how she is. I could think of none better to be her first."
"I thought she..."
"She's been with a few girls, but never with a guy. They all run screaming when she undresses and they see that she's different," Franka said. "A month ago was her fifteenth birthday. Rebecca was the first ever person to invite me to a birthday party, and there wasn't a single guy. We ended up talking and she told me how much she hoped to be selected for modeling one day, because she thought that perhaps at least one guy would see past what's between her legs and make a move on her. That's why she was so angry when you crashed Dumont's lesson."
"She's hiding it well behind all that bluster, doesn't she?" I asked.
"She has to Jarred," Franka said. "You think I have problems? I might be ignored by the males of the species until I've spent a few more years on the pasture, but at least I have a 'cute factor', she gets to see people being appalled. She once nearly got to be taken to bed and when the guy saw what she had, he actually vomited. Have you any idea how much that must hurt?"
"You would have asked her to be your first if I had said no, wouldn't you?" I asked her.
Franka sighed and blushed.
"Jarred, I'm not a social butterfly, in fact I'm very shy. I walked home with you so often, because I could tell you're different. I've wanted you to be my first since the day we met. When I was told to model for art class, I was considering to leave the school to avoid it. But then I remembered that you are in that class. That's the only reason I did it, and even then only because I knew Rebecca was with me. The day after her birthday party she ... um ... she taught me how to give a blow-job. She offered to take my virginity, but I wanted to wait and see if I get a chance with you. But yes, had you said no, I would have asked Rebecca."
"Wow," was all I could say.
"Oh my GAWD!" mom cried out and collapsed to the bed. Feeling that I was going soft, I gently slipped out of her ass. I grabbed the wet cloth she'd put on the bedside cabinet and cleaned my still semi-erect gentleman sausage. I bunched the rag up and threw it through the open door into the bathroom. It landed in the sink.
"Three-pointer," I announced and mom cackled, still out of breath. I gathered her in my arms.
"That was amazing mom," I said with a grin. "Now I understand why so many guys like anal."
"No you were amazing," she said and sat up. "Yes, anal is something that many guys like, but it's difficult to make it good for a woman too. Most don't have the patience to properly open up the girl before sticking it in, especially if they're as big as you. You did that very well, even with one hand only, and you'll have it easier with Rebecca."
Mom nodded. "Remember, even if her mind and identity are female, her anatomy is mostly male. That means she's got a prostate. We used the doggy position for a reason. Becky taught me that this way she got a prostate massage from the penetration. Granted, I had to use a strap-on for obvious reasons."
"Jeez, this sort of sex-ed is much more entertaining than it was at high school," I cackled.
Mom giggled too, but she turned serious again. "I'm not kidding, Jarred. You were good, but remember, before you can have the fun, there's a lot of hard work to do. Never, ever, get impatient, or the girl will feel nothing but pain, and always stimulate her to offset the initial discomfort. You're a boobs man, so I'm probably preaching to the choir."
We both laughed.
"In Rebecca's case there's an obvious, different form of stimulation, and please, don't try it with Franka? She's impatient herself, and no matter how old enough she is or how much she wants it, she is simply still too small and fragile for someone as big as you. You'll have enough of a challenge making 'regular' love to her without hurting her."
I nodded my agreement.
"Now come, let's cuddle," mom said with a smile.
News travel fast in our school and I expected trouble when Jean-Deniz Dumont, the son of our (now former) professor walked up to me the next day. He was a sophomore at Hundertwasser School.
To my surprise, he reached out his hand. "Thank you for standing up to my father. He's finally getting help."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He indicated Franka and me to sit down with him on a park bench.
"My mama and I knew about his ... interests. He never acted on them other than collecting all those pictures from students. As long as it was like that, mama lived in denial, but after he'd lost his job over it, she put her foot down. Either go into therapy or she'd file for divorce."
"Jean, don't be angry with your dad," Franka said. As she was French-speaking as well she could have used their native language, but she didn't, for my sake. "His is as much a sexual preference like being fascinated by women with large breasts. The problem is, pedophilia are illegal, that's why he has to learn to cope with the fact that he must never act on it."
Jean nodded. "You know, my dad isn't a bad man. He really loves mama and me. Way too few children can say their father never raised his hand against them. But what he did was still wrong. He never touched any children inappropriately, but he fantasized about it, and that's still disgusting me. My mama and I have collected all those pictures and burned them, except for the few where he'd selected girls that really looked old enough and trust me that were very few."
Franka said something to him in French in a very soft voice. They hugged and with a final nod he left.
I didn't ask what she'd said and she didn't seem to volunteer that information.
When Franka slipped the bathrobe off her shoulders, I was still torn. Before me stood a naked girl, who to anyone who didn't know her, looked like someone attending sixth grade of elementary school. But she was a freshman at high school and at that very moment she was wishing for nothing more than being taken to bed, and not for sleeping either.
For the moment though, I needed to concentrate on my painting. Since this was the first of two private painting session in the space of a few days, I had opted for oil and canvas today as well. We didn't practice that technique very often at school and I wanted to get some practice in. It wasn't made easier by the fact that I could barely hold the palette in my left hand, due to the cast. At least my thumb was unbroken.
It was a bit strange to paint a model, who now and then left her position to come standing next to me to give me advice, but Franka was better at painting than some of our lecturers, so it would have been ridiculous not to take pointers from someone who could make professional art critics gush with excitement. I could tell she was definitely pleased with how I envisioned her looks at the time she would graduate.
I had make her hips a bit wider without making her lower half look like the rear-end of a brewery horse, and – I couldn't fight my own preferences – I had left her pussy bare. Franka had snickered about that, admitting that she actually would have had some blond fluff down there had she left it unshaven. Now that was a surprise. But she said the pattern of growth looked a bit strange and now that she knew what I preferred, she'd stay that way.
As for the boobs, I opted for modest A-Cup size. Someone who had barely started to blossom a month from her fifteenth birthday would never end up with massive jugs like mom's. I chose an almost perfect cone shape. Although she would be nearly eighteen by the time, her likeness ended up looking like most girls the age she was now. I could have gone for a more mature look, but Franka would always look a few good years younger than she was. I gathered by the time she was thirty, she would probably be happy about it. I had a mother, who looked fantastic for a thirty-four year old, yet was frequently complaining about being too old.