Jennifer has been my fantasy and my inspiration since we were kids together. Except I'm not sure Jennifer was ever really a kid. She always seemed so much more mature than her peers (including, especially, me). I swear, at ten years old she was like a short adult. Not aloof -- just different. Our friendship was a coincidence. We were neighbors, and we were both loners, and that gave us something in common. But it was funny how we made such an odd couple; her, tall and dark and wild like a predator, and me, helplessly goony-looking with my palsy, wheelchair bound, forever a prisoner of my own body. And she was a turn-on, a junior Lolita. Her skinny girlish figure, unconsciously graceful, seemed over-anxious for womanhood, and was unnervingly capable of sending pangs of lust straight to my stupid youthful genitals. In fact, I distinctly remember the first time my loins were stirred to feel anything more than the urge pass water. I was ten years old and it was Jenny who had been responsible. And even though I hadn't understood at the time, I never forgot it. Never.
She and I are the same age. (She's an older woman by two months). And I recall when we were thirteen years old it happened; Jennifer became a woman, an earth shaking event, making headline neighborhood news the day her mother proudly stocked up on ``feminine needs'' for her at the local grocery store. There I was, still playing around with toy soldiers and model airplanes, and Jenny had gone the distance, she was a woman, and the things about her that had only made her different when we were kids playing together now made her mysterious.
It was during this time that we drifted apart and she became like a stranger to me. But still, my young fantasies about her evolved into masterpieces of erotic daydreaming. It's curious now that memories of my school friends, whom I associated with daily, are all forgotten or vague, while memories of Jennifer, whom I saw less and less of as time passed, still remain sharply detailed. (Reminds me how much her friendship meant to me -- and how impossible it has been to find another who could so effectively make me forget how different I am).
I turned inward, leading a basically quiet existence. But the summer of my thirteenth birthday really bowled me over. In the midst of my loneliness a spring of creativity had been tapped and was happily gurgling forth, and my sketches and doodles were developing into something that was beginning to look like art. I preoccupied myself with my creative discoveries for most of that summer, so it was August before I noticed that a landmark event was happening -- Jennifer Morrison was growing breasts! Her mother had strapped her into a training bra two years premature, and the early stages of development had gone unnoticed behind elastic-bound barriers of pure white cotton and lace. Then, one day, WHAM! Things had changed, and I was suddenly intrigued to say the least. And it immediately became a matter of artistic pride to render in drawings and sketches my young friend's recently acquired charms with all the imagined detail my budding talent could provide. I would observe her from a distance, in a crowd, shy, I wanted to assume our friendship had weathered our childhood intact, but she wasn't the same Jenny anymore. She was my inspiration and my model in absence. I remember back to that first incident when we were ten. We had been sunbathing with her older sister, Sharon, basking on towels on the patio. Nearby, a sprinkler watered a grassy area where Jenny periodically cooled off with a quick dash through the sparkling water. Once she returned on dripping tiptoes with a wet towel and doused Sharon. Sharon screamed, and, forgetting her unfastened bikini top, sprang up bare-chested. Later we dripped water on the playhouse floor and laughed about it, and Jenny asked, ``Did you see how big Sharon's boobies are?'' Reaching behind her back, unfastening the top of her suit. ``Mine will get big like that someday.''
I may have been too naive at the time to appreciate the potential lewdness of the circumstances, but I could hardly miss the distinct difference between Sharon's budding teenaged breasts, bobbing and jiggling, crimson capped and markedly white against her sun-bronzed torso, and Jenny's skinny little-girl figure, where cosy-pink nipples lay flat on a taught-skinned chest. She pinched her nipples and pulled them into little points -- it didn't appear very promising. I was relieved. Really, I had an instinctive fear of her growing up. Jenny, on the other hand, wasn't afraid of much of anything.
``Won't it be exciting when they start to grow?'' she said. ``I can't wait!'' Then she looked at me, asked, ``Won't you be excited when you become a man?''
Actually, I hadn't given it much thought. ``How will I know?'' I asked, puzzled.
``You know ... when you start doing ... you know, men's stuff ... when you get all hairy.''
``Hairy?'' She really had me going, now. It had honestly never occurred to me that I'd become hairy. My father was hairy as a monkey; but my father wasn't crippled. I mean, we were different -- in every way, it seemed -- so I don't remember myself ever expecting to be like him. I don't guess I ever really thought about growing up, or the future at all.
``Look,'' Jenny said, and before I realized what was happening, she had removed the rest of her suit and was tugging mine down around my knees. ``I'll show you.'' She stood like a young Venus, childishly naked, and I sat open-mouthed in my wheelchair and gawked. She may have been a little girl, but the way she moved and touched herself was entirely womanly, tracing curves that were yet to appear. She said, ``First thing, my breasts will start to grow.'' She traced the circular outlines of something not yet there on her girlish flat chest. ``Then I'll have boobies like Sharon's except better.'' She pinched the nipples until they were red and hard as BB's, pulling and cupping her hands under imaginary flesh. ``Sharon doesn't pinch hers enough,'' she said. ``She knows she should, but I don't think she cares.''
``Pinch them?'' I was staring at her in shocked disbelief. She pinched and twisted her inflamed nipples harder and harder with her eyes closed and a smile crept on her face like she was eating home made chocolate ice cream. ``How do you know it's OK to do that?'' I asked.
``When my cousin, Glen, visited in June,'' she said, ``he told Sharon everything while I was hiding in the closet. And Glen told her that if she wanted to grow bigger boobies she'd have to pinch and pull on the nipples alot. So I pull on mine all the time. Do you think it has helped?'' she asked, thrusting her shoulders forward. Her assaulted nipples were blood-red and distended, but, to be honest, her chest was as flat as ever. She ran her hands across her tummy and down to her bottom, said, ``I'll be glad when I start growing a lady's figure. And hair will grow here,'' she touched her bare mons. ``Sharon has a little bit on hers,'' she said, ``And Glen had a whole bunch all around his cock.''
``Cock?'' I had never heard the word before. ``You don't have one yet,'' she assured me. ``You've just got a pecker. Glen said you're a man when you can make it hard. Then it becomes a cock and took my flaccid young member in her hand, squeezed it, said, ``Yours is soft. Think you could make it hard?''
I wouldn't have even believed it was possible. But then it happened. I was scared speechless as I felt myself stiffen and grow in the palm of her warm hand. And every time she squeezed it, it grew longer and harder. She was delighted. She squealed, ``Oh look! You do have a cock!'' I suppose I should have been delighted to hear it. But, instead, I'd never felt so embarrassed in my life. If it had been anyone in the world but Jenny whom I had trusted since the egg I would have died of humiliation. But Jenny was so excited by the discovery that I had a cock that her excitement eventually overcame my embarrassment and we took turns holding it while she gave me a guided tour of her naked pubis, explaining what I -- as a man -- would one day be expected to do. She even suggested we give it a try, but my glorious young cock returned to humble peckerhood before she could convince me, so we dressed and played Rook instead. But for weeks afterward I worried, checking myself out daily, expecting to see the first sprouts of a regular forest of pubic hair (that didn't show up for three more years).
The incident had faded in my memory until that glorious thirteenth summer when I discovered that Jennifer Morrison was growing her long-awaited breasts; little ones for sure, but the real thing none the less. And much more exciting than the fanciful mountains of flesh my imagination had conjured for my secret artistic renderings of which there were hundreds -- sketchbooks full of pencil sketches featuring Jenny connected to a variety of ample figures, (mostly copied from pilfered men's magazines and art journals). It was the same year that the old shed way back on the property line became my private studio after Mom talked my father into putting a new roof on it. And I spent larger and larger volumes of my time there until it began to isolate me from my family who had always been so careful and protective of me. Helped me feel independent -- something I had begun to crave; something I never could explain, but my resolve to have independence made me strong in my fortress of solitude.
There was a ladder at one end of the studio that led up to the loft and first inspired me to pull myself out of my wheelchair. That rickety old ladder probably did more than anything else to break the chains that had bound me all my life. I remember how much I craved to climb to the top of that ladder, and how much I risked every time I did, because, if I should lose my hold and fall, it would be hours before anyone would think to check on me there in my place. But it was my private goal and I worked at it daily, building my arms and chest in compensation for my unreliable legs.
Finally, one hot afternoon I made it to the top and collapsed in the dust, exhausted and ecstatic, and I was rewarded with the sight of my adolescent young life. There was a window at the top of the ladder that had a clear view of the Morrison's house, and as I was looking in that direction, Jenny entered the bathroom, and without remembering to close the curtain, she undressed, showered, and then dressed again. And as I watched shame and excitement rushed through my veins like hot synthetic Adrenalin.
Later that night, perspiring under my bed covers, I masturbated while I recalled images of Jenny's budding womanhood, remembering her growing sexuality. The real thing wasn't at all like my sketched fantasies, but it was the real thing and therefore much more exciting. I squeezed my eyes closed and recalled the way she had massaged and lathered each budding breast -- and pinched the tips, of course. Pinched them hard. No one could say Jenny Morrison didn't care; she was going to grow the finest pair of breasts in the county.
She had been too far away to see clearly through the bathroom window, but that wasn't important. I saw her sharply in my mind to the smallest detail. And I remembered that time in her playhouse and how little-girl flat she'd been, how she had pulled her nipples into pointed little warnings of what I presently witnessed. And I remembered the mysterious slit I'd been afraid to touch. The flower-like lips she had pulled aside to reveal the mysterious, forbidden place. I threw the bed covers back, was lying in a puddle of sweat, eyes closed, concentrating, pumping, my pulse pounded in my ears. Remembering. I saw her in my mind's eye, all of her like that day when we were ten -- except Jenny was all woman now, all curves and blushes and forbidden secrets, dark and mysterious, shadowed with a woman's fleece ... waiting ...
Then release came, panting and sweating and and sticky, and content at last in the humid August night.
An artist, Rod Lindsey looks at the callouses on his hands
with a certain detached resentment. And he keeps waking up in the
middle of a dreary pseudo-reality where he's a carpenter and
works too damned hard to earn his wage, has a mortgage, votes,
supports a family, etc. He writes to exorcise such demons.
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