Lady Chatterly’s Gift

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When I was fourteen, the summer before my freshman year in high school, my family rented a modest house in Oak Ridge after we had moved to east Tennessee from my personal Shangri-La, Del Mar, California. The house had a single small bathroom, a family bottleneck, particularly in the morning.

For a week or so sometime that summer, my parents’ friend Susan Green, a buxom women the same general age as my parents (early forties). Ms. Green, like most every woman with a large bust, caught and held my testosterone juiced attention. Janet Pilgrim’s bountiful milky white breasts – I’d discovered them in an old Playboy I’d found in one of the houses our family rented in Del Mar – still fueled my embarrassing wet dreams.

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I have no real memory of the brief time Susan stayed with us. Except for five to ten shockingly vivid seconds. It must have been fairly early in the morning, but that’s really just a guess. Anyway, whenever it was, needing to pee, I went to the bathroom door and unthinkingly jerked it wide open. Standing at the sink, just three feet in front of me, in just her white panties and oversized white brassiere, Ms. Green was leaning over the diminutive white sink and peering into the small mirror as she  carefully applied her lipstick.

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I  instantly froze at the bathroom threshold. I felt faint, my face  was burning, and my dick sprang up amazingly quickly.  I’m sure my jaw was nestled somewhere at the level of my bare feet. Before any thought could push aside the steaming lump of lust filling my fourteen year old boy’s brain, Ms. Green whirled around and yelled at me to close the door. Paralyzed by the view of her now revealed ample cleavage, and the pinkness of her still damp midriff and upper thighs,  it took my a second or so to regain any ability to comply.

As best as I can remember neither Ms. Green, or either of my parents, mentioned my embarrassing voyeurism. I spent the rest of her visit conciously  keeping my eyes off her delicious chest. At night, when I was alone in my room, however, the memory of my brief glimpse of those breasts, and particularly that deep pink cleavage, kept me a little bit dizzy and my left hand busy.

I was, that summer, still relatively new to the forbidden joys of masturbation. While my younger brothers and I spent a month or so at my maternal grandparents’ home in southwest Virginia waiting for our parents to fetch us down to Oak Ridge, I’d found a dog eared paperback copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover half hidden in the den.  As I lay in bed reading a particularly racy passage of the book one night, I began fondling my cock. Not really knowing what I was doing, but encouraged by the magnificent sensation, I kept at it as I continued to read.

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Suddenly, and without any warning, the first orgasm of my life washed over me like some horrifying Tsunami. The feeling, which surged from my groin over most of my body,  was so intense and so prolonged my vision dimmed and I came close to fainting.  My semen, as if overjoyed to at last be freed, spurted out again and again, arched high over my stomach, then splattered down onto my chest and neck, leaving sticky white dime sized puddles on my skin. For a a terrifying  moment I feared  I might actually die or that I had at least done  some grievous damage to myself. I could hardly breathe; my body trembled like a small bird. When my passion at last drained away I felt weak and drowsy. I was so petrified by the experience  I quickly vowed I’d never ever touch myself that way again no matter what.

My fervent vow lasted not quite twenty-four hours. The second time, braving my anxiety, I brought myself  to an orgasm not quite as intense as the first. It was still magnificent and I savored the spread of joy radiating out from my cock. By the end of that week my fear had vanished and I was addicted. My grandparents became concerned as I went to bed earlier and earlier. The copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover grew a little bit more dog eared each night with a few more of its yellowed pages marked by fingertip sized stains along their outer edges.

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For credit click on each image – all subject to this creative commons license

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