Do you realize that I, one of the classiest girls you know—if not exactly a sex bomb—was once a Gestapo-class cock-teaser?
Ellen, what the FUCK does the "Gestapo" have to do with this? Do you have the faintest idea what you are saying, girl?
I was 18 years old and every school day I wore a navy blue skirt, white blouse, cream knee socks, a wilted red scarf, and a perky hat that I think was designed by a former WAVE. If you remember the WAVES.
Guys in our academy dressed in tweeds, charcoal grey slacks, and rep ties like forlorn miniature creative writing teachers from liberal arts colleges in Ohio.
Our teachers had more leeway. I guess the academy actually cared about the quality of its teachers and no self-respecting one would agree to dress like an organ grinder's ape. My teacher of English was Miss Knickerbocker, whom we called "clicking knockers," being VERY sophisticated. Or we thought so; by 18, I never had seen a live penis. Just some pictures in National Geographic and none too clear.
What? Not daddy's? Not older brother Eric's? No erotic tales of their peeping into my room while I was on my bed, tits no more than low hillocks with puffy pink peaks, fingers seeking truth between my long, pale legs?
No. And if you don't believe what the princess tells you, then she may hike up her short navy blue skirt, so you see right up her long legs, from where you are lying, to the tight small curls of her cunt, where a golden stream is starting that pisses all over you. I hope that gave you a shivery thrill to keep you reading. Wipe the piss off your face and follow on.
My brothers did not see my parts; I did not see theirs. We were a decent, Puritanical, seriously repressed, neurotic, normal American family. We were decent and so, by age 18, I was crazed to see dick. I hated it that there was anything I wasn't allowed to see—or anything I wasn't supposed to know. Inasmuch as half of everybody in my life reportedly had a dick, why should I be 18 and not have seen one? Or touched one? Or even played with one? Why was this whole thing being kept from me? Was it a national security issue?
Bruce, although we called him "Brucey," doing nothing for his masculine image, seemed my most promising target. He was two inches taller than I, which I already knew women found desirable, had glamorous blond hair compared with my short black hair and feathery bangs, and had an easy smile reassuring to a tight little repressor like me. Also, he had manicured hands with no bitten fingernails and no dried flecks of uneaten boogers. This was a classy young man. And on the basketball team, too.
He worshiped me. I knew. I sat three rows behind him in class, to his left, and he could not—could NOT-help, five times an hour, revolving his fine head almost 180 degrees to gaze with dumb longing at my pretty gamin face, stern brown eyes, faintly discernible tits, and long pale shapely legs, often crossed.
Flushed with this attention, the starlet might for one moment have considered that this was Miss Knickerbocker's class and my admirer Bruce Knickerbocker, her son. Were you not hearing bells, Ellen? No tocsin clanging a warning? No lighthouse monotonously bonging in the storm, moaning: You are about to come to grief on the rocks, you stupid cunt?
No, I did not hear bells. I, Ellen Melville, was the resident deity of Bruce Knickerbocker. I was certain I could COMMAND him to fish out his dick, so that at LAST I could see a real one, and I could refuse to let him see my barely pubescent tits and sparse pubic hair. It was the birth of a cock teaser, but surely you sympathize?
Problem was that this preppy hunk could not open his cute lips to speak a word to me. I could have kicked him on target in his the tight, well-fitted slacks of his uniform. I did not like to be frustrated. Not. Brucey Knickerbocker you are limp.
Not literally limp, and that infuriated me, too. Can you believe I was visually exposed to this cretin's penis under his charcoal grey slacks as he ogled me at the bus loading platform as I mounted the bus steps? There was an Appalachian ridge in his pants and a dazed look on his face. I was dying to see the thing, grab it, have a really good look, and maybe play with it. I hoped he died of mortification while I was doing it.
I was going to have to rope this dogie and drag him to the branding fire. I might brand my initials, EPM, on his enchantingly tight butt. I was of mixed minds about that. I would have to see if I even wanted to own him.
I brought him down in a romantic woodland clearing off a path from the back of the academy athletic field through the woods to Chapel Street, where the Knickerbockers lived. It was a soft autumn afternoon with a leafy, nutty odor in the air. The path was strewn with yellow leaves. My prey came scuffling along singing to himself, but all I heard was "And she was, she was my own dear love..." Obviously about me.
I had considered standing in the path; beside the path; digging a pit trap with sharpened stakes at the bottom. But this yo-yo had to be clubbed upside the head. So I was lying away from the path on a sensuous mattress of red and yellow leaves, well within—inescapably within—view of the path. I had shed no clothing; get that right out of your mind, now. I wanted to see the private parts, the manhood of Brucey Knickerbocker; I was not yet seized by my later craving to expose myself.
I was lying on my back, legs crossed, holding a book—actually the poetry of Robert Browning—just above my modest bosom and reading it. Pretending to read it. Oh, my goodness, Brucey. Me? Oh, I just thought I'd take a nice siesta in the leaves.
No, I didn't say that. He came. He paused, struck dumb, I would imagine, and stared. He did not speak. This was a sorrowful wreck of masculine self-assertion. Good Christ, what had Miss Knickerbocker done to him? He was a bunny.
I did turn my face to engage his gaze, though languidly, as though with slight curiosity. And he looked at me for just a moment, then lurched forward, moving on.
What a useless, castrated little dwarf. No offense to dwarfs.
I cried out: "Hey, Bruce, I've had a back spasm. I'm lying here helpless. You could pull off all my clothes and rape me, and I couldn't do a thing."
I didn't say that. I said: "Hi, Bruce, aren't you going to say 'hello'?
"Oh... Ellen. I saw you."
No shit. You aren't blind, then?
"I thought you were reading."
"Just daydreaming about my favorite things."
"Oh... what?"
"Guys. Good looking guys who come onto girls. You know how we girls are."
Bruce Knickerbocker, if THAT isn't enough for you, you can wander off into the woods and get buggered by the witch in the cottage and then rammed into her oven for her dinner.
He started toward me. Yes, he did. Off the path, toward me. Brucey Knickerbocker checking out my sweet bait. I turned my face to him and smiled, and I meant it. You had to reward positive behavior. He had balls, little balls, but balls, and I was about to own them. I want to grab them in my hand and squeeze, watch him dance like a puppet. I was not especially nice.
"You look great lying there."
"Lying here thinking how great guys must look?"
"I guess." Weak, Energizer Bunny might be stalling.
"You know," I said, thoughtfully, "let's go a little more into the woods. If any of those clowns from class come along, they're going to laugh..."
A pause. Keep cranking, Ellen, he still might kick over. said: "You're the only real guy."
Yes, and there is one true prophet and his name is Mohammad. With that, I heaved to my feet, smiling, and reached out with my slender hand. If he takes it, I thought, his pants are gone, his underwear is gone, his dick is out, and I am the boss of Brucey's balls.
He takes it. I sway my hips a little and start walking deeper into the woods, shyly smiling back at him, my hand a vise on his. In a few yards, we are out of sight of the path; there is a clearing; nature's leafy bed freshly made for us. Our love nest, the scene of Brucey Knickerbocker deflowering.
I swoon, falling backward into the leaves; I give a realistic yip of alarm. I do not let go of his hand.
He is half down, panicked, and reaches toward me. "Are you okay?"
My hand still holds his. I lock on and pull him toward me.
