This is my first submission, (Revised to meet age requirements) and I do so only after much needed help from Paris Waterman, whom many of you know. With his encouragement I managed to keep my sanity and the story going. It is a long story, but can be read from almost any point. It will take Mr. Donald Clark through his senior year in High School and on to college.
Perhaps we will go further, but that will be up to you, the readers. At any rate, I thank you and wish you much enjoyment, and by all means, please provide your comments.
All Sexual activities occur between persons 18 and older.
Chapter 1
The Early Years -- Miss Ginger's Luscious Globes -- Becoming a Voyeur -- Caught Jacking off -- Boorish Behavior -- Birthday Presents -- The Vertical Smile - More Lessons in Love
In the beginning I was not known as 'The Sensualist,' I was, and in most quarters still remain, Donald Stevenson Clark. I was born to wealthy parents in the heart of Savannah, Georgia, with its charming period architecture, oak-lined streets and antebellum hospitality. Our home was located on Gwinnett Street, and sat across the street from one of the many small parks the city is famous for.
My greedy bastard of a father, Jeremy Stevenson Clark, was an affluent banker, well acquainted with other nefarious bankers, realtors and developers, who was kind enough to pass on after acquiring several million dollars during and shortly after the Second World War.
If you get the impression I didn't care for him, you're absolutely right. He was a miserable father. He flaunted his other women in front of my mother, sisters and I.
I detested him for the way he demeaned my mother and yet here I am, detailing my own many dalliances with the fairer sex most likely because I have his genes raging relentlessly in my testes. And I should add that because of his actions, I have never entertained the thought of marrying anyone, although I have met and bedded quite a few promising women of whom I have little doubt would have made me happy as a loving wife.
My mother, Hillary Margaret Bronson, was the daughter of a United States Senator from California. Her vivacity and wit made our home a place people wanted to visit.
I think, and there are those who support me in this, my mother possessed most of the intellect in my parentage, with my father having all the financial skill; both of which I apparently inherited and consider great gifts in helping me wend my way through a decadent lifestyle.
At any rate, there were three of us—-Maureen, the oldest--Ashley, the youngest, and myself. We were all partially home schooled as well as having matriculated at a nearby private school run by Jesuits. Mother had set her mind against sending us off to the local public schools because a friend's daughter failed to get into Harvard, thus the additional tutoring at home.
Needless to say, my sister, Maureen did not gain admission to Harvard either, and had to settle for her second choice, Vassar College.
My sisters and I were met each afternoon at approximately four PM, unless a particular school activity intervened.
My eighteenth birthday was four days away when my mother's health began causing her problems that would eventually shorten her life. She would ultimately succumb to the cancer that riddled her body, and was gone a week before her forty-seventh birthday. I was twenty-one at the time.
With the onset of mother's illness, a new tutor, a young woman, scarcely five or six years older than my sister Maureen, answered the ad mother had placed in several newspapers statewide. The young woman, named Ginger Robleski, was selected from a group of twelve applicants, and in two short weeks became one of the family.
I can still recall Mother telling Miss Ginger, as she came to be called by my sisters and I, not to spare spanking any of us if we presented her with a problem in obeying her instruction, regardless of our age. Mother made a show of giving Miss Ginger, a sturdily made pointer with which she was to apply any needed discipline. Needless to say, we were sufficiently cowed, well, Ashley was; I never felt threatened by the pointer, for I was in love with Miss Ginger from the first.
Not that any of it mattered, for we were all enchanted by her, and she proved to be an excellent tutor and prepared us all for our collegiate experiences.
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Now, with Miss Ginger Robleski on the premises, things began to change. Perhaps I wasn't in love with her, per se, but I was certainly in awe of her physical attributes.
Miss Ginger, while not a Miss America candidate, was possessed of as fine a figure as any young woman might wish for. That's polite English for telling you she had a great pair of tits and a fine ass.
As for myself, I was nudging six feet, while impersonating a rail-thin scarecrow. My body was actually lean and sinewy from all the swimming I did on a regular basis. On making the college swim team I would fill out from working on weights and other vigorous exercises.
During Miss Ginger's early weeks of tutoring us, I noticed my older sister practicing her femininity on me, trying out expressions and posturing that had not occurred prior to our tutor's arrival.
Was it deliberate? Inasmuch as women practice every pose endlessly to see how they would appear in public, I think that, yes, it was deliberate. But my reaction provided Maureen with some means of gauging their effect on a member of the opposite sex.
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Time passed swiftly, I was now eighteen and Ashley had her sweet turned sixteen party, and like most girls, began talking about boys constantly. However, mother had other ideas and forbid my timid sister from any dating at all. This stringent position caused poor Ashley to spend many hours languishing in front of her mirror crying and wailing that she would be an old maid for the rest of her life.
I should add that this sequestering, having been applied to Maureen when she was sixteen and until she went off to college, probably caused her to become the campus slut she became when finally free of Mother's overly protective hand.
I'll discuss this at length later on.
At any rate, being raised with two sisters served to instruct me about the ways of women in general. I learned many things about them, such as their way of analyzing everything a person said in their presence, to their concerns, which to a non-observer would appear meaningless while the woman regarded them as important as life itself; if only for that moment. I was also able to see how they reacted under stressful moments, and more importantly, how they acted when they thought no man was around.
All of the foregoing was but a prelude to my entry into manhood, of which, Miss Ginger would play a most meaningful role. But lest I get ahead of myself, I should return to her earliest days as our tutor. ________________________________________
I became enamored of Miss Ginger from the first. She wore a certain fragrance, a not overly expensive lavender that I trained myself to sniff out so as to know if she were nearby. And being bolder now that I was a senior and eighteen, I attempted to make bodily contact with her by placing myself on the other side of a the door and trying to go through it as she was entering the room.
The first two times I became giddy after brushing against those magnificent breasts and almost forgot to apologize. I was blissfully unaware that Miss Ginger knew exactly what I was doing and chose to ignore it; but she was much more careful about going and coming from room to room after the second time.
I was never the wiser until she confided it to me sometime later.
After a week or so, I became frustrated at no longer having the opportunity to bump into those luscious globes of Miss Ginger's; I devised a simple, but feasible plan. I will digress for a moment to say that I never felt any compulsion to arrange similar collisions with either of my sisters, although the thought of incest being repugnant never entered my mind. In fact---well I won't go there for now.
The plan was to drill a small hole in the wall of my bedroom, for on the other side resided none other than the gorgeous, Miss Ginger. I did the deed when everyone was outside enjoying a sunny afternoon. I snuck into Miss Ginger's room, swept up the plaster that had fallen on the floor and left after sniffing several of her under things, but not taking any for future use in helping my masturbatory dalliances.
At eleven that evening, sweating like a pig, I camped out by my peep-sight, and watched as she undressed. She had her back to me as she took off her shoes, but turned slightly toward me as she rolled down her stockings, providing me with a long look at her lovely legs. My eyes widened as she removed her dress and stood before me in her bra and a half-slip.
I recall it as if it was yesterday. I remember wiping my eyes after a bead of sweat rolled off my forehead and into it, obscuring my heavenly vision for a long moment. By the time my eyes cleared she was reaching behind her back and unclasping the fastenings of her bra and exposed a pair of high rounded, creamy globes, the likes of which I'd tried to imagine for years. I tried to stifle a sob of joy, but couldn't and nearly fell to the floor from my suddenly useless knees.
That was all I dared to do that night, but from then on I remained glued to my peep-hole to watch as Miss Ginger removed her clothing each and every night.
Oh, I saw her hairy pussy too, but she never played with it, at least not while I was watching. Looking back, I realize that my mother must have been aware of my manhood's arrival from the seemingly perpetual erection I displayed and from the remains of all those nocturnal and other emissions on my sheets. But nary was a word ever spoken about it. Mothers tend to keep such things to themselves.
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Days passed, and to my smarmy, sex-addled mind it seemed that every other night Miss Ginger would present her body in a more provocative series of poses then she had the night before. Actually she was merely repeating her previous performance in that she was a very meticulous person, and seldom varied her personal actions.
