Chapter 1

Sometimes the most minor of events have effects that far outlast what you would think they would.

The first event happened to me a couple of months before my sixteenth birthday.

My name is Steven Conner. At the time of this tale. I was a regular kid. A boy scout working on my first aid merit badge. A good Lutheran boy growing up in a strict Lutheran house in a God-fearing Midwest town. Until one summer afternoon—after that I was a most sinful boy corrupted by base desires, wallowing around like a hog in the heady voluptuousness of lust. Women, short ones, or tall ones, fat or slim, teens or housewives. The secrets they hid under their clothing bewitched me. I masturbated to them all—not without guilt, mind you, but to a repressed religious boy the guilt added a dash of spice.

As Adam had learned all those many years ago, you can’t un-bite the apple.

I became a peeping tom. One of the bad boys you hear about with an addiction right up there with crack cocaine. Give me a chance to look up a girl’s skirt to see creamy plump thighs and a white panty covered pussy or down an old lady’s blouse at a pair of ripened woman’s tits and I would take it no matter what the risk.

All it took was to keep an eye out for the main chance. A good glimpse was good for a week’s worth of as Pastor Richardson liked to call it—”the sight destroying sin of self abuse”.

Here is my story.

Harken back to 1973. The place is a small town in Ohio. Despite all the big talk of free love in the sixty’s, for most adults, talk of sex issues sex was still uncomfortable. Boys still learned about sex from whispered tales in locker rooms and girls from shocked giggles at sleepovers. Adults were titillated by apocryphal stories of wife swapping at “key parties.”

But things were changing even in small town America. A lot more than breasts were being freed as women burned their bras. The sexual revolution started by the pill was accelerating. And as men watched in puzzled befuddlement, the disruptions in mindset caused by women’s liberation movement accelerate through all levels of society.

I was clueless about all this hullabaloo. I was a regular kid. Terminally shy around girls. Good at most sports, excellent at baseball (I played third base). A good student. Kids my age worked, unless you were one of the lucky ones who had rich parents. My father had passed away from lung cancer a year before. His passing left his second wife of eighteen months and me, his fifteen-year-old son.

On his deathbed, Dad had made me promise to take care of my new stepmother. I was determined not to let him down. As the Man of the House, it was my job to keep the yard up, the house clean, and the meals cooked. I also kept up the house and yard of her sister Jean, a divorcee who lived next door.

Both jobs kept me busy. I counted myself lucky to find time for baseball.

My step-mother and her sister were staunch church going Lutherans, sprung from a line of stern dry-land farmers. Any sort of frivolity was frowned upon. Bad behavior was judged right quick.

I was also an avid reader. In fact, one of my jobs was to go to the library with a backpack and pick up the titles my step-mother and her sister were ashamed to be seen checking-out. Their taste ran to torrid romances. I favored westerns and science fiction.

The only complaint I had about my life was that my best friend Billy had moved away last spring, leaving me to spend the summer as a loner, taking care of the houses of two women so they could do their jobs and take care of other people.

The day things changed for me, I was taking a break from lawn mowing, reading an Edgar Rice Burroughs’ John Carter Adventure under my aunt’s latticed-in front porch. It was cooler there and after I cleaned out all the spider-webs and such; it was a great hiding spot. It was the one place where I get away from my step-mother and aunt. Both had annoying to-do lists a mile long.

The sound of women’s voices broke through my concern about John’s girlfriend, the buxom Dejah Thoris’ current predicament. Two women were talking to my aunt on the porch right over my head.

Curious about who it was, I looked up through a crack in the porch floor and right up the white dress of the one who was talking. I recognized the nasal voice of Annie Morris’s mother. My eyes followed her bare legs all the way up to her crotch. Sweat dampened, snow white panties! I could see the black hairs of her pussy curling around the edge of them.