It was the summer of 1948, a strange but exciting time in my life, in more ways than one. I lived with my mother and brother in the house I was born in, along the tree lined streets of Mayfield, Connecticut. Mayfield was a typical New England town, old and rich in history, but also left behind in many ways. The War had taken most of it's men; some had returned, ...others not.
One of those who would never come back was my father, killed in the Pacific, September 1st, 1945; one day before VJ Day. It would be nice to say that I had many fond memories of him, remembrances of my early childhood with him, but the truth was that I didn't.
He had signed up the day after Pearl Harbor, leaving his wife, my mother, home alone with my brother and myself. I was only 6 when he left, and although I knew something terrible was happening at the time, I had no concept of what his leaving meant, or understood the fact that he might never return.
He would only return home once during the war, a brief visit in the winter of 1943, just before we would be sent overseas to begin the business of war. I remember my mother crying for days when he left, but when I asked, she would only say that he would be back in a little while. But it was not to be.
Robbie, my older brother, and I, attended the Saint Mary's Catholic School down at the end of our neighborhood, the very same church our mother would faithfully attend every Sunday morning, along with many other times during the week. She was very active among the parish, helping with all of the church's functions and volunteering to do what she could, considering it to be her duty as a good Catholic.
And as you might guess, she tried to raise the two of us under the same guiding light; no drinking (other than wine at church), no swearing (especially taking if the Lord's name in vain) and proper behavior at all times. But it would be this summer that it would change. This summer would bring to me events that would forever alter the way that I perceived life, or perhaps how it perceived me.
It was Sunday afternoon, home after having attended the morning Mass as we did every Sunday, and I had been sent straight to my room to remove my Church clothes as not to dirty them. I fiddled around a bit in my room, thinking of what I might do that day, and after returning down stairs I walked into the kitchen. Mom was starting her cooking as she did every Sunday afternoon, and I asked her if I could go over to my friend Betty's house. I had seen Betty in church that morning and she had invited me to come over and play.
"Okay Dear..." My mother answered, "...but I want you home no later than four o'clock, I'm cooking a roast for dinner."
"I promise." I hollered to my mother as I raced out the back Kitchen door.
I had been late once, and only once, but remembered well how angry my mother had been. But the alternative was less pleasant, because being in the house on a Sunday afternoon meant that chores would be assigned, and I had no thirst for spending my afternoon cleaning around the house. And because of just that, when I arrived at Betty's house to find out that her mother had decided that they would be driving over to Betty's Grandmother's for the day and that she could not play, that my heart sank.
Robbie was already gone for the day before I had left, having grabbed his baseball bat and glove and gone to play with the other boys at the park. I had stopped there for a while to watch, and sat quietly hoping they might ask for me to join in the fun. But all of the older boys had no interest in asking a kid like me to play, let alone a girl.
So, again rejected, I walked around the neighborhood for a while, trying to find something to do to pass the time away, but eventually the day's heat and my boredom led to the decision to just go on home. Walking down the street, kicking little stones along the cracked sidewalk along the way, I turned the corner of our street and saw Father Paul's old car parked in our driveway.
It was nothing out of the ordinary, Father Paul, who was the priest at our church, would come by frequently to sit in our living room with my mother and talk about church business; who would do what for the upcoming bake sale, ideas for the school, and the occasional gossip of who hadn't been attending Mass lately.
Father Paul seemed to me to be a strange man, something I couldn't put my finger on exactly, but yet still there.
When in church, or standing behind the pulpit, he would talk softly of the words of God, but in school he was very stern.
No one, and I mean no one, wanted to be sent to his office.
For any reason.
But, whenever he was over at our house, he always seemed to be very pleasant and I liked him. He was what I had considered a handsome man for his age, always looking proper and sparkly clean in his suit. And as I neared the house, the thought occurred to me that as long as Father Paul and my mother were sitting in the living room, drinking their coffee, as they always did, the topic of how they all missed coffee so much during the War always coming up, that perhaps I wouldn't be asked to work cleaning the house if could only manage to sneak in and make it up to my room.
So, quietly I cut across our next door neighbor's lawn and made my way to the back of the house, ducking to avoid being seen through the front windows. Making my way to the back kitchen door, I peeked through the screen door and tried to see down the long hallway and into the living room at the front of the house. All seemed clear, they must have been sitting on the sofa I reasoned, and so slowly I began to open the screen door, careful not to open it too quickly as it might rattle or squeak, and stepping gingerly inside the kitchen I pulled the door gently closed, again as to make no noise. I tiptoed through the kitchen and made my way toward the stairs, stopping only to peek around the corner to see just exactly where my mother and Father Paul were, as I didn't hear them talking.
But to my surprise, they were not sitting in the living room as I had expected. I stood for a moment, puzzled, as I began to wonder where they were. I knew for certain that was Father Paul's car sitting in our driveway, I had seen it there plenty of times before to recognize it as his.
But as I stood there silently, slowly my ears began to hear faint but audible noises as they drifted down the stairs where I stood. They were not the sounds of voice, but strange and eerie noises, ghostly noises, and a chill ran down my spine.
And as I stood there, straining to make sense of the strangeness emanating from up the stairs, a sudden and loud moan echoed down the hallway and down to me, causing my body to clench in panic.
"What was that?" My mind raced.
It sounded like someone in pain. Was it my mother? Was she hurt? And I began to feel very afraid. But i couldn't just stand there, I had to do something, so I slowly and very frightfully began to climb the stairs, one step, then another, then another, still listening intently to decipher the faint noises.
It was then that another loud moan appeared, but it was followed by the distinct sound of laughter, faint but recognizable, and my mind began to spin yet again. Who was that? WHAT was that? And so I continued to slowly climb the stairs, halting only when I reached the top. I stood for a moment and it became very clear to me that the noises I heard were coming from my mother's bedroom.
Again I heard the eerie noises, growing louder as I continued to creep towards her door, afraid of what horror that might await. Mother's door was closed, but not entirely, left slightly ajar as we had always been taught to do. "Just in case there is an emergency..." My mother had always insisted. Slowly I took my final step toward the door and leaned my head toward the small gap, safe from view but terrified of what I might see.
I was immediately struck by what I saw, not in the room itself, but in the Mother's full length dressing mirror. Standing by Mother's bed was Father Paul, still dressed in his suit, but to my total shock, he stood there with his penis sticking straight out from his opened zipper. And if that were not terrifying enough, there was my mother kneeling before him ; her blouse opened wide and hanging off her shoulders, her brassiere pulled down but not off her chest, cradling her breasts and lifting them upward, her nipples exposed and looking large and hard, but shocking most of all was the fact that what I could see of Father Paul's penis was only the remainder of what was not inside of my mother's mouth.
Raised as I was, I will admit that I was very naive when it came to the subject of boys, but I knew what a penis was, or at least thought I had. I had seen one from an infant, Betty's little baby brother to be exact as he was having his diaper changed, but what I saw before me was so completely different as to scare me.
It looked absolutely huge, large enough that it strained my mothers lips to surround it as i t sat in her mouth, her spit gathered at the corners of her lips and running down her cheeks.
I was petrified.
But as the initial panic began to subside, I began to to notice in growing detail what was happening. Father Paul and his hands on my mother's head, his fingers gently woven into hair, it's loose bun hanging as it came unwound. As she knelt before Father Paul, I watched as mother's one hand slid it's way back and forth between her breasts, stopping at each one to pinch at her nipples, tugging and rolling them between her fingers, her other hand was buried down between her legs, tucked under her skirt and hidden from view.
Father Paul was slowly and gently pulling on my mother's head, first forward and then backward, each time his penis disappearing into her mouth further and then back out, but not enough as to see it's end. And with each tug of her head, Father Paul would let out a low grumbling moan, the sound coming from deep in his throat. His breathing grew deeper with each motion, until he began to speak. "Oh god... mfffff... oh, yeah.... that's it... keep sucking baby... mffff.... oh June, your so good..." He was moaning. "I'm gonna cum in that sweet mouth of yours..."
His words sent another chill down my spine as I stood there silently, calling my mother by her name, the same name she had given to me, and I felt my stomach twist. But I couldn't turn away.
My eyes were transfixed on what I was seeing, even though I knew they were not for mine to see. Mom pulled her head back and his penis popped out of her mouth, looking all red and slick, and even larger than I had imagined it to be.. She let go of her nipple and grabbed hold of his penis and started to slide her hand back and forth along it's length, all the while panting like she had just run up the stairs or something.
"Cum on my tits, Paul!" I heard her shout breathlessly, sounding in as much pain as Father Paul had, but she didn't wait for him to answer. She quickly stuck his penis back into her mouth and moaned, still sliding her hand back and forth on the part I could see with her hand.
"Mffffff..." I heard him groan again, "Oh yeah, I'm gonna cum in that sweet mouth of yours."
Mom moaned again and kept rubbing his penis as he grabbed hold of her head again and tried to stick his whole penis in her mouth.
I heard her choke a little, but she didn't stop, moaning again, and now her other hand started to move faster under her skirt. She pulled his penis back out of her mouth and shouted,
"No! Cum on my tits!", and then quickly stuffed his penis back in her mouth again.
"Mmmmm... you want me to cum on your tits?" Father Paul asked, like he was teasing her.
Mom just moaned and nodded her head a little, his big thing still stuffed in her, making all sorts of slurping sounds as she kept trying to swallow all of it.
"Is that what you want? Hmmm...?" He said again, " Tell me that's what what you want..."
She pulled her head back again, and panting even faster, she almost screamed out. "Yes, God damnit! Cum on my tits! Cum on my tits, Paul!"
And just as before, she stuck his penis back in her mouth and started rubbing it even faster than before.
"Mfff... Oh Yeah... Oh Yeah..." Father Paul moaned, "... here it comes.... here it..."
Just then, Mom pulled away from him and his penis popped back out of her mouth. She quickly raised up on her knees a little, and still holding the middle of his penis, pointed it's swollen end right up next to one of her nipples, and just held it there for less than a second.
Father Paul started grunting like he was really hurt, and then his knees started to bend a little, when all of a sudden he grunted loudly. "Ahhrrrrrrhhhhh..." He growled, and then all of this stuff started to squirt out of the tip of his penis. It looked white and milky, and it shot right out and splattered onto Mom's nipple. Mom just sucked in her breath when it hit, and then it happened again, and then again.
"Yes!" I heard her whisper, "Yesss..."
Mom just held him there a moment as his penis kept emptying onto her nipple, and Mom leaned forward and pressed the tip of his slippery looking penis right up to her breast, smearing it back and forth across her stiff nipple. Father Paul was standing there with his knees bent, his head thrown back, grunting each time he would squirt more stuff out
When it looked like it finally stopped, Mom shrunk back down and stuck his penis back in her mouth and put her hand back between her legs and under her skirt, rubbing real hard this time. In just a second, she started to moan really loudly with Father Paul's penis still in her mouth, like she was going to cry or something.
"Oh God June! Suck it! Suck it Baby!" Father Paul was yelling, his words sending yet another chill through me at hearing our name again.
And she was, just as hard as ever. Finally, Father Paul pulled his penis out of her mouth, and Mom was panting like before, but not so fast any more. And that's when she took her hand and scooped it up under her bra and lifted her breast up. She brought her head down and put her mouth to her own nipple and started to suck off all the gooey stuff that had come out of Father Paul's penis.
Now, all the time I was watching this, my body felt like it was frozen. I couldn't move at all, but at the same time I felt tingly all over, especially down between my legs. It was a new and strange experience for me and I didn't understand what was happening to me, but when I realized that Father Paul and my mother were done doing whatever it was that you called what they were doing, I started to feel very dizzy and strange, my knees weak and wobbly under me.
But as Father Paul began to stuff his still enormous but shrinking penis back into his pants, I began to panic all over again. I had to move, and move fast, or they would know that I was there.
As quickly and quietly as I could, I retreated down the stairs, making sure to miss the steps that I knew to be squeaky, and quickly dashed out the back door.
However, I had forgotten to hold the screen door, only realizing it too late as it snapped shut. I dashed around the corner of the house and cut across the neighbor's lawn as I had before and ran down the sidewalk as fast as my legs would carry me.
Turning the corner, I quickly ducked behind the tall hedge that lined the sidewalk, feeling as though I couldn't breath any longer. For what seemed like a lifetime I crouched there, breathless, my heart beating up in my throat.
But eventually, I began to realize that there was no one behind me, no one had seen me, and slowly I mustered the courage to poke my head around the corner of the hedge and look back down the street toward my house. As I did so, I saw the front door open and Father Paul step out onto the porch. Mom followed behind him, her hands clasped in front of her politely, as Father Paul turned to her and said something, then put his hat onto his head and walked quickly to his car.
I again crouched back as his car drove by, barely stopping as it came to the intersection, before disappearing down the street. My mind continued to whirl. What was I going to do? I couldn't go home, I knew that much. But I couldn't just sit there, crouching behind the bushes either. And so gathering my feet back under me, I began to run again, this toward the park and safety. I was so confused, filled with so many conflicting thoughts of what I'd just seen and heard. I just needed somewhere to sit and think.
Nearly a three week had gone by, twenty one long and confusing days, since my jolting experience from childhood into adolescence. And not one of those days had passed without me thinking endlessly about what I'd seen. I thought about it all through school, staring out of the window and watching some of the kids who went to the public school and had the summer off, I thought about it at home, I thought about it at night as I lay in bed.
And I particularly thought about it on Sundays. Sitting in the second pew as my mother always insisted, staring up at the Father as he would softly deliver his sermon, it all seemed surreal. It was so hard to match the Father that stood before us all, talking so calmly, so... godly, with the person I saw in my mother's room that fateful day. There was one moment, while sitting in church, that I watched him speaking and suddenly found my thoughts drifting, imagining him standing there at the pulpit, but hidden from view was the thought of his penis sticking out of his trousers as I'd seen before. And as I daydreamed, I began to feel that strange tingly feeling again and it frightened me to death, as if God himself knew that I felt that way right in His house.
I had to close my eyes and imagine ugly thoughts before I could open my them, straining not to look at the Father again for the rest of Mass. But all of that time, I never once dared say a word of what I'd seen. The mere thought of telling another soul scared me to death. But it seemed the longer I held my silence, the more I thought about it, the memories growing stronger with each passing day.
And accompanying the thoughts were other things, other secret things.
For the first time in my life, I began to notice things about myself, about how I looked, about how I felt.
One night, laying in bed past midnight, and somehow sensing everyone was asleep, I found the courage to close and lock my bedroom door, to strip off my nightgown and look at myself in the dressing mirror. I mean to really look at myself. I wanted to know what I looked like, did I look like a woman? Like my mother? I noticed that some things had changed, if only slightly.
I noticed that my breasts had changed, that they'd grown, not like hers but also not like a little girls any more. And tracing my fingers along my skin, and daring to touch them, I felt the tingling feeling again. It felt wonderfully sinful and exciting all at the same time. But as I closed my eyes and began to let the memories of my mother and Father Paul fill my thoughts, daring finally to let my fingers pinch my own nipple like Mother had, I felt an electric shock run from my nipple right down to between my legs, down to... there, and it frightened my so much that I immediately jumped back into my bed and put my nightgown back on under the covers.