Chapter 3

Thursday Morning

Closing the door and hearing it latch was evident that a switch opened something in Helen's expression, I noted. She watched me dress, followed me to the kitchen, watched me drink another glass of orange juice, and she never stopped chattering. She became silent when the door closed, or so it appeared. We were half way to the street and she continued with her silence, although she was clinging to my arm in the customary manner. I stopped walking, and she stopped. I saw sadness in her face when she looked up, as she held firmly to my arm. She was looking at me and I saw the sadness in her eyes.

"Something is bothering you. Is it the same problem you had last night?" I asked lifting her chin to face me when she lowered her head.

She wasn't crying however, I saw her eyes were tearing, her look depressing, and I could see she was in pain. Her head nodded slowly, and a tear formed in each eye. I saw the tears building, finally rolling across each cheek, and dropping to her blouse. I felt numb. I was aware of my faculties; however, they didn't appear to be functioning properly

I pulled her to me, wanting to comfort her, however I couldn't think of a consoling word. I waited for her to say something, anything; her only response was to put her arm around my waist and pull me closer.

We clung to one another a long while and when she spoke I pushed her from me in shock, dumfounded by her words.

"WHAT!" My voice was close to a yell. "What did you ask?" Her question shocked me.

Helen remained meek, her head lowered; however, she had to know the answer. The question, unanswered, remained paramount in her mind for two years. She was face-to-face with him and needed an answer.

"Are you a pedophile; did you have sex with that young girl?" She asked, breathing heavily, she had finally confronted him with the question. Looking up, and staring at him straight in the eyes, she hesitated, wanting another question answered, yet, fearing the answer. She was his favorite girl, or so he told her many times a day for years, but he had given her favorite gift to another girl.

"You gave her my favorite panties, why?"

I knew she could see the frustration in my face. It was evident she hadn't been informed, or either she wasn't satisfied with the answer she received. Two dozen times, I told the story, and she was asking again. I thought the situation had been laid to rest, although very apparent it wasn't as I looked into her eyes.

"NO, to question one," I said spitefully, answering the same for question two. "Your panties," I said and paused. She stared, her mouth agape, and it was the expression on her face that caused me to change the tone in my voice. I could see my tone upset her, although she couldn't be aware of my feelings, I was just as upset.

"Those were the panties in the top of your drawer. I laid them aside at first; picking them up when I remembered how much joy they brought you. She was hurting, scared, and extremely embarrassed. I thought they would be a small comfort to her, and they were. That is why I chose that pair, your favorites." I continued looking into her eyes; I didn't want to break the contact fearing she would doubt my answer. It was the truth, whether she accepted my response, or not.

"That damn bus," Jason said aloud as she turned and saw it slowing. Stretching to kiss him on the cheek, she turned and began running. He saw nothing in her face to warn him if she accepted his explanation. She did look back and wave before she stepped up into the bus, and she was smiling. He felt that was a positive, however had the bus arrived three minutes later she could have responded, hopefully putting the incident to rest.

I began walking slowly to the house, staring at the basketball backboard. Dad removed the hoop after the incident. "I'll put it back when I have grand children, not before," dad told mom the day he took it down.

It was a cloudy day, the sun popping through the clouds every few minutes for a few seconds, before it disappeared again. We were into summer break two weeks and the excitement was wearing off, boredom was setting in due to a lack of friends to joke and horse around. Many of my friends had summer jobs, and I was designated master of the house in the daytime with a primary responsibility of caring for Helen.

That wasn't a task, I watched over her during her entire life, especially after she started school; mom went back to work. Dad came home before mom every evening, however, by the time he came home we were ready for bed; home work completed, baths over and lunches made, if we were going to carry a lunch the following day.

I veered toward my old Ford; it would be hot later and I walked over to roll the windows down. I looked at the stereo system, still semi installed after two years, and I did not intend to complete the installation, although it was an early seventeenth birthday present.

I was installing the stereo, and half dozen boys were shooting baskets, boredom already showing in the ten to twelve year olds. I heard the girl calling her brother two minutes before I heard her scream.

"Bubba, you have to come home, we're getting ready to go."

"Sister, tell mom I don't want to go, I'm going to stay here and play."

"Bubba, mama said she wasn't going to stand for any excuses, you have to come home now."

"YOU BETTER NOT," she yelled.

Seconds later, I heard her scream as the bicycle scraped on the concrete drive. I quickly slid from beneath the dash and looked over the car; she was lying on the drive, holding her knee and screaming at the boys.

I rushed over and saw the scrape on her knee. She was holding her knee and crying; I knew she was hurting. This girl was a tomboy and tough as nails, she'd never cry in front of the boys if she weren't in terrible pain. She had the ability to pin the ears on any of the boys I saw surrounding her. I saw the blood on her thigh and turned to her brother, "Bubba, run get your mother and bring her."

One of the boys saw the blood and yelled excitedly, "She's bleeding. She's hurt bad." That was a signal to the boys because they scattered, each grabbing a bicycle and shouting blame to one another as they quickly peddled up the drive. I rushed into the house, calling for Evelyn, our housekeeper, and returned to the driveway with a small wet towel.

I wrapped the towel around her knee, and it was swelling I could see. She continued crying as I tried to comfort her. The tomboy was missing I noticed as I stood close waiting for her mother. The ball hat and cut-offs were missing, as well the walking advertisement sweatshirt she normally wore. Instead, she was wearing a white blouse, skirt, and socks. Instead of the ponytail hanging out the back of her hat, her hair combed out, teasingly covering one eye, made her look older and I could see she was a pretty girl. Even while in pain and crying, she looked beautiful. There were crazy twelve-year-old boys in the neighborhood if they weren't attempting at courting her.

I saw the blood on her skirt when I returned with the wet towel and I knew what it was, Helen started her periods six months earlier and we were in the mall when she started. She was just as embarrassed as sister.

We waited more than twenty minutes and she continued sobbing as we waited for her mother to show. I saw her grab at her stomach, and she started sobbing harder. I was sympathetic toward her, and her feelings. Lifting her gently, paying attention to her injured knee, I carried her into the house and took her into Helen's bedroom. I sat her on the closed toilet, opened the closet door pointing to Helen's female supplies, and walked from the bathroom.

I was sitting on Helen's bed when she came from the bathroom, dressed in Helen's robe. She struggled to walk, and I assisted her to the bed. She was sobbing still and she told me her clothing was soiled. I walked into Helen's closet and searched for a skirt, finding one I thought she could wear. The panties were an after thought.

I chose Helen's favorites. She spotted them in a catalog and we sent cash in the mail to order them.

I was leaving Helen's room, where she could dress, when I heard the scream and felt the fists beating me on the head. Her mother was on a wild rampage, accusing me of assaulting her daughter.

When mom and Helen returned, the house was full of people. There were four or five police officers, paramedics, and reporters and photographers were outside the door. The paramedics took sister in the ambulance and when dad came home, after mom called him, they took me to the police station and asked a million questions.

Mom and dad brought me home, and dad took the hoop from the backboard that afternoon. I had to see a counselor twice a week the remainder of the summer; she studied me and said I had pedophiliac tendencies. If I had known at the time I would never admitted to washing Helen's back once or twice a week, or going shopping and helping her select clothing. Hell would have frozen over before I would have admitted ordering the panties for Helen, because I still hear one question, "Do you like watching little girls walking around in frilly, sexy looking panties."

I had my hands on the steering wheel and I was leaning, my forehead supported on my hands, while I stared at the odometer. The numbers were blurred and unreadable; I was looking past them.

Helen was sent to Europe for a year, to stay with friends. I heard the counselor tell mom and dad we should be separated, and I wasn't allowed to communicate with sister in any fashion. I did see her one last time, although only for a moment. Mom and I were shopping at Christmas time; sister and I saw one another and she started walking toward me. I heard her mother calling for her to keep away from me. Sister walked up to me, said hello to mom as bold as ever and turned to me, smiling.

"Thank you, I think you're sweet." She rose on her toes and kissed me on the cheek. I thought I saw a tear and she said, "I'm sorry," quickly turning and joining her mother.

A few days after school started back after the Christmas and New Years break, Bubba was sitting at the top of the drive, apparently waiting for me to come from school. I stopped, and he pushed his bike to the car, looking it over closely.

"One day I'm going to get me a mustang," he said. "This is a nice car." He continued looking at the car and then in my direction. "We're moving, but sister sent me to give you a message. I'm supposed to say it just right or she is going to brain me." He smiled and looked into space, apparently recalling the words.

"Thank you for being nice," he said, pushing the bike to get it moving. I put the car in gear and he shouted at me, stopping about twenty feet from the car, "and understanding." He shouted, following it with a smile, raised his arm and waved, then pedaled off.

"Thank you," I replied although I knew he couldn't hear me.

"Thank you, but I don't know what for; I haven't done anything... yet." The voice surprised me; I hadn't realized I had spoken aloud. I saw the feet as I glanced in the direction of the voice, my forehead still resting on my hands. Rising to a sitting position, I turned to the voice and stared into a pair of barely covered tits.

"Hi," I muttered, my eyes remained on the breasts. "Helen just caught the bus. She has tests today."

"Heck, I hoped she would cut with me, and we could do something," Eleanor remarked frowning.

That was a lie. She wasn't knowledgeable of Helen answering the phone in my room earlier. I questioned why she lied and wondered what she was up to, however I didn't say it aloud.

"Where is Mrs. Michaels?"

"She is inside," I said and I saw a frown. "I don't think she is up however, she visited friends last night and came in late." The frown changed and became a smile.

"Pity," she said, I could have talked to her a while. "What are you doing out here? I have been standing here watching you three or four minutes, are you feeling bad?"

"No, I was just sitting here daydreaming."

"Were you thinking about your girlfriend?"

"No, I don't have a girlfriend; I was just sitting here thinking."

Placing a hand on his shoulder and brushing imaginary lint, she said, "You mean you don't have one special girl. What do the college girls do; do they date a different guy every night?"

"No, they don't date a different guy every night. Where did you ever get an idea like that; you don't date a different guy every night, do you?" She pulled her arm back and laid both arms on the car above the door, placing her forehead on her hands for padding.

"No, there aren't that many interesting boys in high school, there are many more to choose from in college."

Her smile was faint and she was purposely placing her breasts in my face, and I was enjoying the display of flesh. "Do you have one special guy?" I knew she wanted to appear older and I wondered what Helen would say if she knew her best friend was teasing her brother. I thought about it for a moment and began to wonder if the pair of them set this meeting up. I wouldn't put it past Helen.

"No, no one special, I think the boys in school are too immature. I like to go with older boys... men," she corrected herself.

"How old do your MEN need to be?" I asked. I dropped my smile and looked at her with a cold, somber expression before I spoke.

"20 to 25," she said without hesitation.

My dismal expression didn't change. "I'm disappointed," I said. "I don't fall in your group, I'm only 19."

The smile left her face and there was a long pause; she stood erect dropping her arms to her sides. "I thought you were older; there are always exceptions," she said softly, the smile returning.

I was no longer staring at her breasts, my eyes traveled to the four-inch span of bare skin between the halter-top and her short skirt. Raising my hand, I let a finger glide across her flesh just below her top, "I don't think I have the experience the MEN you are talking about. I'm positive I don't have the experience," I looked upward, letting my eyes lock on hers as I spoke.

"I didn't mean that... , " she stopped mid-sentence.

I slid from the car seat, causing her to step back. We both turned when the door opened and Evelyn called out. "Jason, I'm cooking waffles this morning," she said laughing as she spoke. She knew I thought her waffles were the best in the world, my favorites for the fifteen years she worked for our family. "Eleanor, there are plenty, come along," her tone was directive.

Evelyn didn't give us a chance to linger; she waited at the doorway for us to enter. I was midway through my fourth waffle, Eleanor was just finishing her second, and Evelyn walked into the dining room with her purse.

"I'm going shopping and if there is anything special you'd like now is the time to tell me," she said brushing across my head with her hand, an affectionate act she performed for years.

"Well if it's not too much trouble, the cordon bleu, pastrami and rye, and pork roasts I have been eating are not within your standards." I just smiled when I named my favorites.

"As if I didn't already know you wanted those," she said and ruffled my hair and then hugged my shoulder. "It's so good to have you home, and I know your father is at wits end. He has been strutting his 'stuff' since you said you wanted to work with him this summer. He may not tell you in words; however, he is very proud of you. I had better be on my way or I will be making myself cry." She gave me another quick squeeze on the shoulder and walked from the room.

Eleanor and I were on our last bites of our late breakfast when she looked at me and grinned. "I think Evelyn is just as proud as she claims your father is." Pushing her plate back, she said, "Those are about the best waffles I've had, and I don't like waffles."

I stood, gathered my soiled dishes and walked into the kitchen. Eleanor was close behind, took the dishes from my hands, and pushed me aside, rinsing the plates and placing them in the dishwasher. I stepped back and studied her as she busied herself. I paid particular attention when she leaned over and arranged the plates in the dishwasher; her skirt stretched tight across her ass.

Eleanor was tiny in frame, barely five feet tall and not weighing a hundred pounds, if that much. I judged her shape to be above average, comparing her to other girls of sixteen, however she had the majority beat in the tit department. Her breasts had to be at least a 'C' cup, and I could see where my sister could be envious; they were well shaped. The bra she wore had to be thin because her nipples remained erect since the moment she walked to my car earlier. I had an urge to ask if blondes really had more fun, however I refrained. She straightened and turned, and I smiled as I studied her face. She was very attractive, not what you would call beautiful, but elegant. Her thin face and high cheekbones reminded me of Audrey Hepburn, although my movie idol would look terrible with blonde hair. That was just my opinion.

"What are you smiling about and what are you thinking?" she said almost breaking into a laugh.

"I was thinking how nice it would be if I were in that 20-25 year old group."

The semi-laugh disappeared and she stepped close, concern was expressed across her face. "I didn't mean it exactly as it came out earlier; I just meant the boys my age don't have a clue about treating a girl the way we like to be treated." Placing her hands on my waist, she pulled my body against her thin frame, "You fit in any girls group." I felt her breasts press against the upper part of my stomach and her warm body caused strange things to happen rather quickly, "Mr. P" began rising as he stiffened. I didn't have time to debate the question; that being whether it was the contact of her warm body pressing against my prick or her firm breasts causing the commotion inside my brain.

I was trying to think of a number, one-hundred, two-hundred, three-hundred; I didn't know and had no idea. How many times had I looked at a girl and desired her, yet in my arms I held one which looked two or three times better than any I lusted for. The majority didn't have as fine a shape as Eleanor and I was holding her. I did not intend to kiss her; I was complacent just holding her close. That changed when she looked up into my face and I saw she was poised, expecting me to kiss her. I lowered my head and our lips met. Very quickly, I realized she was more experienced in one area than I was; her tongue slipping into my mouth was a complete surprise. I saw her a half dozen times in the past few days and thought of her as a sixteen-year-old girl, All of a sudden I had a lot to learn.

Our tongues twisted and wrestled and I thought I was in heaven. I realized I was only on the threshold when she covered my entire oral cavity, not missing a centimeter. I felt as though I was melting when she sucked my tongue and I began copying her moves, touching the inside of her mouth in its entirety. I tasted the syrup on her lips and began sucking, covering each particle of skin as she taught me. I had her bottom lip in my mouth for the second time when her hands pulled my hands under her halter and pressed them against her soft mounds.

"It clips in the front," she said pulling her lip free. I didn't understand the meaning of her words and a minute later, her hands joined mine momentarily, long enough to unfasten her bra. I trembled and had to catch my breath, I was almost to the point of shooting into my trousers. I could feel her hardened nipples pressing against my palms and I felt as proud of myself as the night I first touched a breast.

I remember I was in the seventh grade, I was playing with a half dozen friends, and we were in the barn. I was helping the girl to the ground when my hands slipped under her blouse. She didn't have breasts; they were just nubs however, when my hands cupped them the nipples was hard. She pressed my hands firmly against her body and I massaged them for four or five minutes, and all the time she was smiling at me. I hated it when one of our playmates called because she quickly pushed my hands from her. I tried four or five more times that evening to touch her; however, she rebuked me each time.

Eleanor wasn't denying me; she was urging me, actually teaching me how to caress the breasts of the fairer sex. Our lips met again and as I massaged her breasts, our tongues were busy working with and against one another. I was nearly a foot taller than she was and I became uncomfortable bending, and I knew she was tired of stretching. I lifted her and sat her on the butcher-block table; she was nearly weightless I thought. Our lips and eyes were almost level and there was no longer a need to bend, and it was much easier to keep my hands on her breast.