Chapter 1

You’ve all heard the tale. You heard it as a wee child, no doubt, about how some beans got dropped on the ground and there grew from those beans a giant beanstalk, which Jack climbed up and so and so forth.

And some of what you heard was true. But there was much you didn’t hear, because the goodwives of the little village where Jack lived suppressed it ... censored it. They forbade that it be told.

Those frowning women enforced a ban on talking about it. They didn’t mind using the rod to enforce it either, which is why no one knew the whole truth of the matter ... until now.

You see, the only person they couldn’t control was Jack himself. And Jack, as it turned out, kept a journal of his exploits. That journal lay hidden, in a clay pot sealed with wax drippings, until, quite by accident, it was dug up by the plow of a farmer. That was many, many years later, after the land Jack had lived on changed hands many, many times.

That farmer had no idea that the ground he was plowing had once been the foundation of Jack’s house, now long gone. He was a simple man, who hadn’t learned his letters. When he found the pot, with the book inside, he thought only to keep the pot, which was fine work, and use the pages of the book to start his evening fire in the stove in his house.

How that journal was saved would make a story of its own, but we’ll skip over that part. Suffice it to say that the traveler who sheltered in the old farmer’s hut that night, and who saw the journal and glanced through it, took action. He would not allow it to be burned, and paid a full copper penny to procure ownership of it.

Now I, your humble author, have possession of the journal. And I paid much more for it, so listen closely, to the whole truth behind Jack and the beans that changed his life forever.

An admission is necessary, before we begin. Jack was a smart lad, but spare with the stub of pencil he had to write with and the few pages he had upon which to write. Some small license has been taken to flesh out his comments.

The first correction to the record is that Jack was adopted. The story has him living with his mother and sister, but they were not blood relatives. In truth, Farmer Spriggins was a man who hated farming. His wife wouldn’t do it, and she bore him only a daughter. So he and his wife took in a waif, a boy who could be made to do the heavy work. As it turned out, Farmer Spriggins wasn’t willing to do even the light work, and wasn’t willing to wait for the boy to get big enough to do all the work. He abandoned his entire family to go off and find his fortune. Since he was never heard from again, it is doubtful he found much more than he left.

At the time his journal begins, Jack was a lad of but sixteen summers. He lived with his mother, Elizabeth, and his sister, Coreen, who was two years older than Jack. They resided in a small village in England, far off the beaten path from anywhere, it seemed.

Jack had been taken in, as they call it, when he was eight. His new father had disappeared only two years later, and since then Elizabeth had eked out a spare living by doing the laundry of those in the village who worked from dawn to dusk in the fields and had no time to wash their own clothes.

Now Jack had all the interests of any young man. His problem, as it turned out, was that he had no way to pursue those interests.

For example, both of the women living in the house with him were quite comely. His mother had dark, almost black hair, that hung clear to her heart-shaped buttocks, when it was down at night. She had been blessed with full, firm breasts, upon which lay brown nipples that were stiff and erect at all times. Her skin, save that of her hands, was as pale as cotton. That her ribs showed was only because there was so little to eat in the house, and not a result of breeding.

Coreen inherited her mother’s body, if not her looks. Coreen’s hair was as yellow as barley ready for the harvest. She didn’t wear it up, like her mother, but gathered it behind her and tied it with ribbons, every six inches or so. Like her mother, she had wonderful, large breasts, but the nipples that graced them were of shocking pink. Her skin was darker, by a few shades, than her mother’s, and her ribs did not show, because Elizabeth, while she would deny her own hunger, tried never to give her children less than was needed for strong bodies.

That Jack knew these things is not so odd, by virtue of the fact that their hovel had but one large room, with one large straw mattress upon the old wooden bed frame. All in the house bathed in the big tub beside the stove, and modesty was a luxury they couldn’t afford.

The women were, in fact, so beautiful that they were outcasts in the village. Young men, by and large, did not stay in the village, always going off to find their fortune in a city, or adventuring, perhaps. As a result, the only men around were those who were married and anchored to the home, where their hardworking and well worn wives were their companions. Many a man’s eye wandered toward the hut of the Spriggins women, which raised the ire of their wives. An angry woman can make the life of her man a living hell, and it wasn’t long before men no longer looked ... nor talked to ... the Spriggins women.

Jack did not feel bad about lusting after his mother and sister, because they were not, after all, of his bloodline. On the other hand, most of his memories were of them as “Sister” and “Mamma.” Therefore, he felt it was uncouth to dream of doing the things with them that a young man often dreams of doing with a woman.

Jack was as uninteresting as his female relatives were spectacular. Though not slight of frame, the muscles he had were a gift of birth, rather than from using them often. He was of average height and average build, with an unkempt shock of brown hair that his mother cut at with a knife, every so often, but usually gave up on when he wouldn’t sit still.

And Jack never sat still for long. His mother and sister thought he was just full of energy, and bemoaned that fact on numerous occasions, when Jack got into trouble. He rarely helped out around the house and seemed always to be out getting into difficult situations, whether it be stealing an apple from Mr. Brimley’s orchard, trying to sneak a pie from the cooling shelf of the baker’s window, or chasing the girls and lifting their skirts.

But Jack wasn’t simply full of nervous energy. Indeed, the lack of modesty in the house left him full of energy of a different kind. As he grew, and viewed the private treasure that was so openly displayed in the house, he found that it caused ... difficulties.

Such difficulties began one night when he climbed into bed with his mother and sister and, to his unending surprise, the thing that usually hung limply between his thighs grew strong and straight, like a stick of wood. It being summer, and none of them having on nightclothes, this surprising development was impossible to hide.

Not that he would have hidden it. He was fascinated by it, actually, and placed his hand upon it as a natural result of examining it.

“What are you doing?” asked Coreen.

“Look at my pecker!” gasped Jack. “It’s gone rigid!”

“What!?” yelled his mother, who was on the other side of Coreen.

She sat up and viewed the subject under discussion.

“You stop that this instant!” cried the poor woman.

“Stop what, mother?” asked Jack, his hand gripping the stiff column of flesh that jutted from his loins.

“Stop touching it!” she wailed. “You’ll go blind as a bat!”

“Keep that thing away from me!” shouted Coreen. “It’s bad enough there are no men to marry in this horrid place. Be careful where you aim that, lest it get me with child and I remain unwed my entire life!”

“Go outside and make it go down!” ordered his mother, who, truth be known, had not removed her eyes from it since she first sat up. It had been many years since she had seen a thing such as had brought her the only pleasure she could now remember in her sad, hard life.

Poor Jack. He had no idea of how it had gotten this way, much less how to make it return to normal. He did get up, and he did go outside, but his penis remained as rigid as ever. Finally, he went back in.

“Mother, I don’t know how to make it go away,” he moaned.

Elizabeth covered her eyes with a hand. “Well I certainly can’t help you. Coreen! Help your brother!”

“Me!?” squealed the girl. “I’ll not touch it. I’ve never touched one in my life!”

“Well, then,” said her mother, “it’s high time you did so you’ll know what to do with one should you be so lucky as to find a man.”

“But I don’t know what to do with it,” moaned Coreen. “All I know is how dangerous they are!”

“Oh all right!” snapped Elizabeth. “I’ll show you, but one time only!”

What transpired then was to change Jack’s life in many ways. He was made to stand beside the bed, where both women knelt in front of him. The first touch of his mother’s hand on his prick was electric in its intensity. Then he almost swooned as that hand slid ... inward, stretching the loose skin around the tip until it seemed almost to break. Surprisingly, it slid effortlessly past the crown, before she pulled it back toward them, covering the tip again.

She did but three short strokes in the time it took Jack to suck his lungs so full of air that they felt like they’d burst. Then she turned it over to Coreen.

“Like that,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. It had been some time since she’d touched one herself, and she found it entirely too much to her liking.

Coreen’s hand had a completely different feel. Coreen’s hands had not yet suffered from immersion into harsh, soapy water, like his mother’s, which were rough to the touch. Coreen’s hand was soft and warm. She gave the thing three or four tentative strokes.

“This isn’t so bad,” she said softly. “I rather like its feel.”

“You’ll like it a lot more in another...” Elizabeth’s lips sealed tightly, before she could utter the final word: “place.”

“When will it stop being so long ... and warm ... and hard?” asked Coreen, as her hand seemed to get the hang of stroking smoothly.

A long stream of white jetted from the tip of the organ, splattering all over Coreen’s pale breasts. One nipple all but disappeared in the deluge, as another spurt followed the first, and then two more followed that one.

“About now,” sighed Elizabeth, who had not had a man, nor seen sperm in more than five years.

Jack sat down hard, on the dirt floor, which hurt his naked buttocks quite a bit.

“Oh my!” he sighed, ignoring the pain in his behind and concentrating on the delicious feeling in his penis.

Elizabeth’s hands darted to press against her daughter’s chest and came away thick with white spunk. She rubbed her hands together industriously.

“Tis excellent for the skin, as I recall,” she said, wiping her hands against her breasts for good measure. “Rub it in, dear, but keep it away from between your legs.”

“Ooooo,” complained Coreen, who looked down at the mess on the front of her body. “It’s warm, but looks loathsome.”

“That, my dear, is what makes a woman’s belly swell until it fairly bursts with a child in it.” Her mother’s voice was heavy with the gravity of her warning.

“Seems a messy way of making a baby,” complained Coreen, who was trying to wipe the stuff into her skin, with little success.

“It’s not messy at all, when a man spurts it up inside you,” said Elizabeth, remembering the feeling of that.

“I don’t see how that could be.” Her daughter sounded unconvinced. “Surely that thing wouldn’t fit inside a woman.”

“When the time comes, daughter, it will fit. Believe me. You’ll find that it fits well ... and often if you’re lucky.”

Then they all went back to bed, and finally to sleep.

That incident changed things in the household. Not that there was any increase in modesty. Things went on as usual in that way, and Jack was exposed to the naked bodies of his mother and sister regularly.

What changed was that his reaction to that, which was just as regular, got him tossed outside, where he was expected to deal with the problem himself. Coreen said it was too messy, and his mother refused to touch him. He was told to handle things himself ... quite literally ... threat of blindness or not.

And so Jack learned to get himself off, which some scholars credit for the invention of the term “jack off,” though this author views that theory with some skepticism.

All things considered, it wouldn’t have been a miserable life, except for the fact that Jack found himself needing to jack off rather more frequently than once a day. All he had to do was look at his mother or sister and imagine it was bed time and ... presto.

It was for this reason that Mrs. Twilby, the candle maker’s wife, was exposed to the sight of Jack ... jacking off ... in the middle of the day ... as she brought her laundry to the Spriggins house.

Well, to say that things went suddenly downhill is shortchanging the vituperative manner in which Mrs. Twilby described the incident to her friends. She claimed the boy exposed himself intentionally. Somehow, in the telling, she came to describe the frantic avoidance of the lusty young man, and the frenzied actions she took to preserve her virtue from the slavering satyr she described the boy to be.