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Chapters 10, 11 and 12
by Branden Hart
There are three main places you touch a woman to get her off. I know this because it is what my foster mother tells me the first night we fuck.
Tits: you touch the tits how the woman wants you to.
"In fact," says my foster mother as she slides into bed next to me that night, "you do everything like the woman wants it. Let her tell you. As for you…"
I feel her hand on my crotch. My dick immediately leaps from the front of my open boxer shorts. She laughs.
"That's the thing about you young men—you're always ready for action. Now relax, and..."
I come. I come all over the place, all over her hands, the sheets, myself. She giggles--she stifles her giggles, they are so powerful--and just starts wiping me off on the sheet.
"Don't laugh at me!" I whimper, still conscious of the importance of keeping volume to a minimum while Edward sleeps below. I finally know what it is like to be on the other side of a conversation spoken in Hushedwhispers. I start sobbing like a baby, and she turns sympathetic, and holds me, lets me cry into her, and I don't know for how long, but by the time I am done, the film on the reel we'd been watching is flapping.
"Feel better?" she asks.
"I'm sorry," and I start to stand up and take the sheets off the bed.
"Wait," She orders.
"You haven't learned your lesson."
For a second I think she is going to spank me, and I try to decide whether that's something I want or don't want, but then I remember the three places.
"Oh," I manage.
"Now, for review," and she walks toward me, "What is the first place to touch a woman so she comes?"
"Tits," I smile.
"Very good. The second place is her love button, way up inside the pussy. Sit down, I'll show it to you."
She pushes me down on the bed so I'm laying down, then straddles my face and sticks her fingers inside her pussy. She separates the lips and asks if I see a little button. I tell her that it's too dark. She tells me to feel for it.
I probe softly, exploring. She lets me. I study the outside with my fingers for a while, and eventually go inside with one, until I find a small, hard nub in the soft flesh, and when I probe at that, she lets out a moan like I'd never heard on porns. She begins to buck against my finger, moaning in rhythm, until she bites her finger so the moans aren't so loud. Finally, she bucks so far forward that she almost falls. Holding herself against the wall, she makes a noise almost like someone choking, but inside out.
She looks down at me, a lone tear falling down her cheeks. "Amazing," she says, her hand finding my cock through my shorts, "You are a clever one," and then she gives up the search altogether, rips my shorts down my legs just past my knees with both hands, and starts sucking me off.
Right when I'm so hard I think I'm going to bust (except, after the initial explosion, I don't have anything to bust with) she takes her mouth off and jumps on my cock, and I feel myself in her, and she starts to buck immediately.
"You have a decent-sized cock," she says nonchalantly in the midst of moans of pleasure. "But that doesn't mean you can work it. You have to be able to feel where to put it in any woman to really get her off, and for me, its right here!"
She bucks a little bit farther forward than she had before, and then comes down hard. I feel the tip of my dick hit something, and on the second thrust I come, a flood of it from I don't know where, and the more there is, the more it seems to like it, and she bucks a couple more times, but by this time I'm done and so spent that just the feeling of being inside her has me shaking, and she gets off and collapses on the bed.
"I came too quick," I say.
"No, no, that's the beauty part!" She turns to me and puts her head on her hand. "You got me off before you came—that's the important thing! Because I told you how. But some girls, they aren't comfortable enough with themselves, or they just don't know their bodies well enough, but they won't tell you what it takes to make them feel special inside. So it's your responsibility to be able to figure out, instantly, how to get them off. And I'll teach you that while you're here, if you want."
I consider this for a millisecond and turn back to her. "I need a towel," I say.
"Use the sheet."
I need a towel, I want to yell. You don't fucking understand! I can't use a sheet that you are laying on naked to wipe off what I piss with. No way!
I stop then, realizing that, in the court of law, this is my mother telling me what to do.
A legal guardian can go a long way.
Under her advice, I wipe off with the sheet, three good swipes, and turn back to her, trying to avoid the wet spot. "What's the third place?"
"I thought you'd never ask!" she squeals. "Turn on one of your movies and I'll show you."
I stand and get out my favorite, "Surprise Party," and set it up on the reel. From behind me, my foster mother says, "And skip it to the juicy stuff, huh?" and I nod, not looking back, because I can tell she is moving around on the bed, and something tells me it would be wrong to look at what she's doing. It is only when I hear her squirting some of my lotion out that I turn around. She's in doggy position and reaching back, rubbing lotion all around her asshole.
"It's a fact of life," she says when she notices my shocked face. When my expression doesn't change, she says, "Trust me. You're going to love it. The guys on these movies do."
I look at the film. The surprise party is in full swing, and the host and guest of honor have just been matched for seven minutes in heaven, but decide to go at it in front of everyone. Right when everyone else joins in on the orgy I feel her hand on me.
She leads me to the bed and gets back into position. She pulls me further. I get up on the bed, awkward, almost falling, so she scoots up a little, and then I have plenty of room (I found out the next time she had intended me to stand, but didn't have the heart to say) and she guides me into her. I shiver at what I'm doing, but my 'mom' told me to do it, she said it's ok, and somehow, repeating that thought throughout the act, I'm able to forget about all the germs and shit and everything else and realize that what she said earlier, it's right.
I love it.
I know the girl sitting outside Mr. Granger's office the next day.
"Hey you!" she says. "Like Camus?"
Sounds a little rehearsed, I say.
"Well, it's just that I've been trying to ask you about it for so long, but you keep ducking me. I thought," she said pensively, "that maybe there was something wrong with the mirrors in my house."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I mean, I thought, maybe these mirrors are tricking me, you know? Like, maybe I'm not a beautiful girl after all. Maybe the mirrors are programmed or enchanted or something to show me a beautiful girl, when I'm really an ugly piece of shit. Then I thought, no way, what about all the other mirrors in the world, but then, what if there is a curse on me, so that every mirror I look into shows me what I wish I looked like, but then I thought no, what about my family and friends, they wouldn't lie to me, but maybe they would, you know?"
She stands there, as serious as possible for a second, then bursts out laughing. "Good one, huh?" she says.
I look at her, speechless.
"You know, you know," she says, waving her hands in the air and rolling her eyes. "I'm acting crazy? I kind of figured you thought I was waiting to see Granger and supposed I was crazy."
She sighs, gives me that oh-I-forgot-you're-new-here look. "The only people who see Mr. Granger are kids the teachers think are crazy. You know, nutballs?"
I nod. I know nutballs, alright.
She shakes her head. "Anyway, what are you here for?"
First thought that comes to mind. "Just passing through."
"It is a good shortcut," she says. "Walk me to class?"
She takes my hand and leads me off in the opposite way from where I was headed. I turn around to look at Mr. Granger's door, and he's standing there with one of those I'm-disappointed-but-that's-too-cute-to-get-mad looks.
"I want to see you sometime," she says as we file past the other ants on their way to second period.
Now I know she's asking me out, so I start counting steps, one, two, three...
"You know, a date. How about tonight?"
"Well?" she says after a while. She's still not looking at me.
"Yes," I gulp.
People are filing into the class, all seniors. She turns and looks me in the eyes. I'm trapped in her gaze.
"Here's my number," she says, pulling out a marker and grabbing my hand. When she's done, she caps the marker, and kisses me on the lips. Oohs and cat calls spring into the air around us.
"Shut up," she says to some of the passing people, laughing. Then she turns to look at me again.
"Call me after school," she says. "I want to see you."
She touches my hand and before I know it, my dick is standing straight on end. As soon as she's out of sight, I run, covering my crotch with my chemistry book, to the bathroom. I jerk off really quick in one of the stalls without a door before going to see Mr. Granger and try to explain to him why I missed our appointment.
I call Melissa as soon as I get home from school.
"That was fast!" she says.
I explain that I live really close to school.
"Me too. You aren't in the Contour complex, are you?"
I tell her no, I'm not sure what a contour complex is.
"My apartment complex. I stay here with my mom."
The way she says 'stay here' makes it sound like she's more tenant than daughter.
"Why don't you come over to my place first?" she says. "We'll have a drink or something before we go out."
I ask her how to get there from school. She tells me, says she needs to shower, cook dinner for her mom, who works nights, and eat with her, and then she'd be ready, probably around seven.
I'm pretty far from my house, and I only have enough cash for a taxi one way, so I slink around that part of town for a while, walking, counting, trying to find patterns of three in things around me. I have to stop every now and then to use a bathroom and wash my hands, though most of the places I stop are so dirty they leave me with a worse feeling of filth than I had going in.
I start walking to her place at about fifteen until seven, and by the time I get to the complex, find her building, and scale the steps to the third floor, it's three minutes after seven.
"Come in!" she yells when I knock on the door.
The apartment is nice, average. There is a light on under the door of a room down the hall.
"I'm back here!" she yells.
I walk back and open the door, then immediately close it. She is standing in her bra and panties in front of a mirror.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry. I should have knocked."
She pads to the door and throws it open. She stands in her bra and panties, staring at me like I'm an idiot.
"Come in here silly," she says, and drags me into her room by my hand.
She turns around, faces the mirror, and begins combing her hair.
"How's it going?" she asks.
Fine, I manage while I take in the contour of her ass.
"You get here ok?" she asks.
I nod as I trace the lines of her back all the way down her legs.
"Geez," she says, and I realize she is looking at me looking at her. "It's like you've never seen a woman before."
I instantly realize that I've been so nervous and concentrating on counting steps that I didn't enter any of the doors in her house three times and I jump up and yell that I'll be right back, and run out of the room, three times, and out of the apartment, three times, back in, three, in the room, three, and then I sit down on the edge of the bed and make an effort to avoid her gaze.
"You are truly bizarre," she says. It doesn't sound admonishing. In fact, it sounds kind of like a compliment.
She turns around and begins work on her hair again. She applies a small amount of makeup while she talks, but not too much.
"I was thinking about Campisi's," she says. "It's an Italian restaurant down the road, pretty nice. You like Italian?"
"Yeah," I finally manage to speak.
"Good deal. Let me put on my clothes," and she looks at herself in the mirror, licks her lips, turns to face me and claps, "And we'll be ready to go!"
I'm ready to go right now, I think, hoping my erection will go down before I have to stand up.
"Why?" asks my girlfriend, blood spurting from her mouth when she says it.
To answer, I point the gun at the guy lying on the ground next to her, but then I realize she can't see, what with all the blood in her eyes.
"Why did you fuck him?" I yell.
"Same reason I fucked you," she manages. "For fun. For the hell of it."
I ask if she had sex with him.
"They're the same fucking thing!!!" she screams. She's said it to me time after time; this is the only time she's mad about it.
"They're the same fucking thing," she repeats, coughing in the middle on a stream of blood shooting out of her mouth. "No matter how much they mean to a person, sex and fucking boil down to the same thing."
I put my head in my hands, let out a scream. "But they aren't—they may be the same physically, but even then, there are times..."
"Just because there is emotional meaning behind a sex act doesn't make it different than any other sex act."
I scream again, and, not realizing I have my finger on the gun trigger, squeeze, and fire a shot into the ground next to me. The mystery comes back then: how many shots do I have left?
"What the fuck!" yells the bastard. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck! What the fuck is going on?!?"
"We're dealing with a really messed up guy here," says Melissa. "Not only has he learned about sex..."
"Fucking!" she blurts, a bubble of blood forming around her mouth, and as she breathes out, it expands, and the portion of our world that it highlights turns a ghastly red. She breathes in and it collapses on itself and into her mouth, and she gags, then continues. "Not only has he learned about fucking solely through watching pornography, he's got some mental disorder."
"It's called OCD," I mumble.
She laughs through her blood. "It's called fucked, that's what it's called."
"It's called obsessive compulsive disorder," said Mr. Granger about a month before all this gunplay and attempted murder (at least up to this point) had started. Before the really intense fucking happened, before I got so deep into sex that I couldn't climb out, I went in to see Mr. Granger. This was the night after I fucked my foster mother.
"That sounds bad," I reply.
"It can be, if it isn't treated. It can seriously impair someone's quality of life and ability to think logically, to extrapolate the right data from erroneous conversations."
I nod, understanding what he's talking about, especially the last part. He stares at me. "What?" I say after a few moments. "Am I breaking out?"
"How did you understand the last thing I said, um, I can't remember it exactly..."
" 'Extrapolate the right data from erroneous conversations'? "
I shrug. "Well, I could be wrong, that could mean a couple of different things, but given the context, and some things I might have said to you before, I thought it was about me listening in on Hushedwispers conversations."
He nods. "It was. Those are just words that most people your age aren't familiar with."
He is careful never to say the word 'kids' or children. Always, 'people your age,' or 'people between the ages of x and y'. But never anything demeaning, patronizing, like kids, or my personal favorite, young'uns.
"I used to read a lot."
"But you don't anymore?" He begins to write again.
I shake my head.
Because in the life of a book, more than five hundred different people touch that book. More if you get it from a library or buy it used. Not to mention the number of machines that touch it when it's made, or the people who made those machines, the people whose hands they shook that day, and on and on until infinity. Touching books is just one more thing I can avoid, that I don't have to mess with, that life doesn't force me to mess with, and I let them go.
"No time," says Granger, and he flips back through the leaves of paper in my file, "and yet last Tuesday you said you had '...nothing but time. Time to count. Counting time fills it, and vice versa.' I'm still a little unclear on that last part..."
"Filling time counts it," I interrupt. "If you fill time with action, then dividing time between different actions is implicit. This is where you start doing one and stop doing another. Sometimes they overlap, but mostly it's a pretty clear start and stop. Counting is simply division of a whole into understandable parts; acting in time, or filling it, is the same."
"I see," he writes furiously, then looks up. "But that wasn't what I was going to ask—you interrupted me."
"That's ok. What I want to know is why you said you had nothing but time on your hands last week, and now you can't even pick up a book because you're so busy?"
"Things have changed in this past week."
He closes his file. "I think you should go see a psychologist. This obsessive compulsive disorder, I think you might have it. In fact, I'd bet my job on it. If you can get help there, things may start going better in other parts of your life."
"I don't believe in psychologists."
"Oh, they exist, I guarantee. I'm married to one. But you won't be seeing her. At any rate, this could help you immensely. I think you should go."
I stare at him.
"You realize I'm talking to you as a friend now, don't you? I can't force you to do anything. You can go or not go—it's up to you. And your foster parents, of course, but from what you said about them, I don't think they would care much."
That last part is almost hurtful. Then who?
"So you decide. Sleep on it—this isn't something that has to be taken care of overnight. But the sooner the better. Because when you let something like this get a hold of you, when it takes over," he sighs and looks down at his hands, "it can ruin a lot of different parts of your life."
He's still looking down at his hands when I decide to ask my question, the question that had been bothering me for years, but seems so much more important after I fucked my foster mother.
I sigh. I hope this isn't a question I should know the answer to. I don't feel like it is. "I've seen plenty of people fuck. I mean, I've watched the videos. And I fucked someone myself last night, and it was fun and all, but I'm waiting for this one great thing—sex—that everyone keeps talking about. I kind of think it's like fucking, but it's different, you know?"
He looks up from his hands.
"Mr. Granger," I ask, hoping I will leave here with more knowledge than I had when I came in, "What the fuck is sex?"