tagMatureConnie Panetta and Summer 1970

Connie Panetta and Summer 1970


In my youth...

Back in the late 1960's, I had as many hobbies as the typical American teenage boy. The Yankees, DC comics and James Bond movies were among my vices, and seemed they would always be my major interests until I started noticing girls. At that point, everything else took a back seat to trying to attract them, even though my awkward attempts at that would often fail miserably.

There were some really cute girls around there, but when it came down to it, my dream girl wasn't a girl at all, but a woman. I think I was always in love with her, even when I was a little kid, but it wasn't until much later that I realized that.

She was the mother of a good friend of mine, and to be honest, I know that I spent a lot of time around Leo just to be around her. If it wasn't for her, I suspect I wouldn't have been as close to Leo as I was. He was a year ahead of me in school, husky and not real popular, but I thought he was okay.

His mother though - now she was a goddess to my eyes, although that proves that love is blind, because to look back at the couple of photos I still have of her with me and Leo, you wouldn't call her a raving beauty. You wouldn't, most likely, but I did.

Leo's parents had both come here from Italy after the second world war, just after they married and a few years before he was born, determined to make a new life. They became citizens and learned the language, although Mrs. Panetta still had an accent that betrayed her roots.

Back in 1970 she was in her mid 40's. Mrs. Panetta - her first name was Connie which was short for Concetta - was about 5'6", and during the years I knew her I started out being a head shorter than her and ended up about that much taller than she was when I stopped growing.

There wasn't a Mr. Panetta around any more. He had been killed in an industrial accident before I started hanging around Leo, which had to be a bummer for both of them.

Mrs. Panetta wasn't a slender woman by the standards of that era, which would make her plump these days judging by the anorexic looks of many of the women considered beautiful these days. Solid, not fat, but thickly built.

Her face reminded me of the woman whose face used to be on the advertisements for Celeste pizza. She was Italian and truly looked it, with her rich olive toned skin and her jet black hair which was wavy and so thick looking that I always wanted to run my fingers through it.

Mrs. Panetta always wore these rather plain looking house dresses. To the casual observer, one would think that she only had one dress and wore it everyday, but I was such an a staunch observer that I knew better. She had at least a half dozen of them, even though they were pretty much the same style. Only the colors and the patterns were different.

They came down below her knees, which was a shame because I knew from the brief glances I would get that she had nice legs, more slender than you would imagine from the rest of her body. The dresses didn't flatter the rest of her either. She was what they used to call a "bosomy" woman. In our teenage vernacular, that meant Mrs. Panetta had big tits, even though she never flaunted them and almost always kept them hidden.

The one time I did get a bit of a look at them, the image was so strong that it remains burned in my memory even today. Leo had coaxed his mother into taking us to a nearby lake during a heat wave, and to my surprise Mrs. Panetta stuck around to take a dip.

Her bathing suit was very puritan even by the standards of the time, a grey fully cut one piece that she probably hadn't wore in years. It was snug on her, and she spent a lot of time fiddling with it as it rode up on her in a few places. When the leg openings moved up, I caught glimpses of her pubic hair peeking out at the insides of her thighs, which made my own bathing suit a bit crowded.

Like I said, it was a different era, long before women began waxing and obsessing about hair removal, so it wasn't all that unusual to get a peek at pubic hair like that. That was probably part of my being intrigued by natural women from the start.

Mrs. Panetta didn't shave her underarms either. This I already knew from getting frequent glances at her armpits courtesy of the house dresses she wore, which had these little sleeves that cupped the tops of her round shoulders but left her underarms exposed for my eyes whenever she would reach upwards for things in the cupboard or take clothes off the line.

We had a girl in our school, Fawn Monroe, who was a hippie before we even knew such a thing existed, and she didn't shave her pits either. A lot of guys made fun of her, and I admit that I laughed along with everybody else, but the fact was that it really turned me on.

With Mrs. Panetta in the bathing suit, there was no peeking necessary because it was all there for the viewing, and Mrs. Panetta was generously endowed. Her armpits were filled with thick tufts of jet black hair, so much so that even with her arms at her side some of the hair peeked out. Her legs were shaved, although she had some down on her thighs.

Although he said nothing and I never raised the subject either, my friend Leo was obviously embarrassed my his mother and her armpit hair, and I saw him cringe whenever she would raise her arms when somebody else was nearby. His shame did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm and adoration though, and all that day I was in heaven.

The only thing that distracted my attention from her armpits were her breasts. Even in the matronly bathing suit there was no hiding those beauties, and I know that I must have made her uncomfortable the way I kept staring at them, because she caught me drooling over her a number of times during the day.

42DD. That was the size of the bra she wore. I knew that from doing detective work at their house, finding one of the over-sized harness in the clothes hamper and examining the huge cups intensely, trying to imagine what the jugs that filled the bra looked like.

Seeing Mrs. Panetta's breasts swaying in that bathing suit all day drove me wild. Sadly, that was the only time I ever got to see Mrs. Panetta in a bathing suit, despite my suggesting another trip to the lake to Leo every chance I got. I suspect that my leering might have freaked Mrs. Panetta out, or maybe Leo might have even noticed my obsession with his Mom. It wasn't like I was all that subtle, even by a teenager's standards.

Becoming a man...

When Leo graduated from high school, he joined the Navy, which found me needing to think up reasons to visit the Panetta household. Going from a daily dose of Connie Panetta's magnificent assets to just random peeks on the street or at church would not do for a red blooded American 18 year old.

I started to make regular stops at Mrs. Panetta's house, just being a good neighbor of course, to inquire whether or not she needed anything at the store. Since I had been pretty much a fixture around the place anyway, Connie Panetta didn't seem to mind, and since college was a couple of months away I had nothing but time since my evening job stocking shelves at the supermarket was only part-time.

As a matter of fact, I think she might have been lonely since Leo had entered the service. Now with the house empty, my company seemed to lift her spirits. She began to cook again like she had when Leo was home, making big pots of sauce and rolling meatballs, knowing that I would stick around and eat with her.

One day Mrs. Panetta gave me a cooking class, showing me how to roll meatballs in my hands so they they would stay together as they cooked. I wasn't very good at it, but that was because I was busy watching her breasts sway around as she balled up the meat between her olive-toned hands.

"I'm gonna make a chef outta you yet, Jimmy," Mrs. Panetta declared in that lyrical voice of hers, with just a trace of an Italian accent left over from long ago. "Soon you'll be cooking for your Mom and Dad. You're gonna be a regular Chef Boyardee!"

I had little interest in cooking, because I was just there to be near Connie Panetta, but I laughed and told her that I was happy to learn.

"I'm a willing student," I assured Mrs. Panetta.

"Women love a man who knows his way around a kitchen," she said as she gave me a nudge. "You know, my brother has a daughter about your age."

Mrs. Panetta proceeded to tell me all about this girl that I didn't have the slightest interest in meeting, especially when she said she was 14.

"I just got my draft card last week," I told Mrs. Panetta, who laughed when she saw I was a little peeved at her. "I don't need to go to jail."

"I forget that you're a big boy now," she said, pinching my cheek.

Anybody else doing that would have gotten a different reaction than the shrug of my shoulders, but that was Connie Panetta touching me, and that made it alright.

"Son-a-bitch!" Mrs. Panetta suddenly yelled, jumping back from the stove.

The pot of sauce had started bubbling when we started talking and Connie Panetta had gotten spritzed by the spatter from the open cauldron, leaving the front of her house dress covered with drops of sauce.

"Stupid!" Mrs. Panetta said as she wiped the front of her dress with a dish towel, and for a minute I thought she was mad at me, but she was ticked off at herself.

I didn't know any Italian, but I could tell that the string of words coming out of her mouth were probably just as spicy as the sauce. I wanted to volunteer to help her clean the front of her dress, but kept quiet.

"Keep an eye on this for me, Jimmy," Mrs. Panetta said as she turned down the flame of the burner and left the kitchen.

I wiped down the stove-top and turned the burner down a little bit more as I watched Mrs. Panetta disappear down the hall. For some reason, I felt the urge to go to the bathroom, so I put a lid on the sauce and went down the hall to use the facilities.

On the way...

Connie Panetta was humming something unrecognizable when I reached the doorway of her bedroom. The door was half-open, and as I stood off to the side I watched Leo's mother reach back behind her neck for the zipper of the dress.

As Connie reached back I savored the beauty of her bronze arm, the round curve of her bicep swelling as she strained upward. There she was, exposing all of her natural charms to my hungry eyes, and then the dress was coming up over her head.

It was even better than seeing her in the bathing suit that day. That bra I had held in my hands was now cradling Connie Panetta's breasts, which looked like rounded footballs as they tested the strength of the harness that held them,

Mrs. Panetta's panties were full cut, which managed to contain the hair that had peeked out the leg openings of her bathing suit that day, but I could clearly see the dark outline of her bush through the white cotton briefs.


That sound came from me, and even though I spun away from the door I was certain that Mrs. Panetta had seen me leering at her like a pervert.

What had caused the sound? My hand had somehow found its way down to my crotch, and I had been moving things around down there, because my underwear had gotten awfully crowded. I barely touched myself at all - never making actual contact with my dick except through my shorts and underwear, when it happened.

When I started cumming, it came over me so fast and so intensely that the force of my orgasm doubled me over for a moment. As my cock spat out a load into my briefs, I knew that I had to get out of there, so I staggered down the hall.

I didn't need to turn around to know that Mrs. Panetta was right behind me, and my the time I made it back to the kitchen she had me by the shirt.

"What were you doing Jimmy?"

"I - uh - had to go to the bathroom," I stammered while trying to hide the evidence of what felt like a hell of a mess that was probably leaving a tell-tale sign in the front of my shorts by then.

"How many times you come to this house?" Mrs. Panetta asked me. "All of a sudden you don't know where the damn bathroom is?"

I shrugged, knowing there was no use in playing dumber than I already seemed. I knew where the bathroom was alright, because I had passed it on the way to Connie Panetta's bedroom.

"I'm sorry," I said, and when I saw Mrs. Panetta looking down towards my crotch I knew I was exposed.

"Guess you do have to go to the bathroom," she said softly, and when I looked down and saw the massive dark spot on my jeans - the diameter of a baseball and getting larger by the second - I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. "Go clean up. You're not gonna go home like that."

Humiliated beyond belief, I slithered out of the room and to the bathroom, where I gingerly peeled off my shorts and briefs.

"Omigod," I muttered when I saw my underwear, which were saturated with what had to be the mother-lode of ejaculations, even by my lofty standards.

My pubic hair was covered with cum and was drying fast, and so when I saw that this was a job that went way beyond a washcloth at the sink, I stepped into the shower and sprayed my lower torso and did a quick cleanup before turning off the shower.

Outside the shower curtain, I heard the click of the door, and when I ducked out from behind the plastic I saw that my clothes were no longer on the hamper where I had left them. Everything; socks, sneakers, shorts, briefs and shirt were all gone.

That answered the question that I had pondered while cleaning up, which was what good was washing up if I had to put on the same spunk filled stuff. There was a big bath towel on the hamper, so I wrapped it around myself and peeked out into the hall.

Freshly out of the shower, the aroma of the spaghetti sauce was even stronger, but I had lost my appetite by this point so I stepped lightly down the hall and looked around the corner into the kitchen, where Mrs. Panetta was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in a bathrobe that she clutched around her neck when she saw me.

"Your clothes are in the washer," she told me. "You might as well get comfortable. I got your things set on quick wash but it will be at least an hour before they get dried after the wash."

Suddenly the towel that had seemed so big now felt small around me. Most of my legs and all of my above the waist was bare, and while I had been in a bathing suit in front of Connie Panetta before, I suddenly felt very naked.

"What's the matter?" she asked when she saw me hesitate. "You don't like the idea of somebody seeing you half-naked?"

"I'm sorry," was all I could think of saying, wishing I could turn back the clock and just have stayed at the stove instead of stalking her.

"Come in and sit," Mrs. Panetta said, motioning to the chair opposite her. "I'm not gonna bite you."

"I don't understand," Mrs. Panetta said after I slithered into the seat. "I never figured you for one of those - what they call them - Tom the Peepers?"

"Peeping Tom," I said, trying not to smile. "I'm not. I mean, it's not something I do. It's just that I couldn't help myself."

"Leo always said how much the girls like you," she told me. "He said you could have your pick of the litter."

"I don't know about that," I answered, because while I was nowhere like that, I guess compared to Leo I probably seemed a lot better than I really was. "You're different. You must know that I've had a crush on you for years."

"What would you want with an old woman?" she scoffed.

"I guess I don't look at you the way you look at yourself," I said. "I always hoped that when I got older, you would think about me like I do you."

"Jimmy, I got socks older than you," Mrs. Panetta said. "What am I gonna do with a kid?"

"I'm not a kid," I answered with a trace of annoyance.

"So you got a draft card," she replied. "Now you're a man? You probably wouldn't know what to do with a woman."

"I never had no complaints," I told her, although out of the two females I had managed to have sex with, at least one of them would probably disagree.

Bonnie Durren, the girl who took my cherry, didn't seem too thrilled with the 15 second ride I had given her, I had to admit. I did better with my second, Joyce Audi, but Joyce was no conquest because she screwed everybody in the neighborhood with a pulse.

"Like who?" Mrs. Panetta challenged.

"You mean names?" I said, flustered. "I can't tell you about anybody. That wouldn't be right."

"You don't fuck and tell, huh Jimmy?" Mrs. Panetta said, setting me aback with the use of that word, although I suspect I had hear the Italian equivalent of it many times before.

"That's right," I sniffed, figuring that taking the moral high ground was my only hope of saving face at this point.

"You know I never been with a guy since my husband," she said. "Is that why you're sniffing around here? Figure I'm so desperate that I'm easy pickings? The widow lady don't get any for a while so sniff around?"

"That's not it at all," I said. "All I know is that I've thought you were beautiful and sexy from the first moment I saw you."

"Beautiful?" Mrs. Panetta said with a laugh. "I'm 51 years old, for crying out loud! You need glasses."

"I want to - make love to you," I said, nearly substituting the word fuck. "I want to make you happy."

"That right?" Mrs. Panetta said, and I nodded while looking as defiant as I could manage while my knees were knocking.

Ten seconds later, I nearly knocked over the kitchen table when my knee accidentally smacked into the table leg, a spastic reaction to Connie Panetta standing up and letting the bathrobe she had been huddled under, fall to the linoleum floor.

Mrs. Panetta was wearing socks - little white ones that didn't even reach up to her full and shapely calves. besides that, she was naked.

"What's the matter, Jimmy?" Mrs. Panetta said as she stood there five feet in front of me with her right hand on her hip, barely flinching when I nearly sent the table flying. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Maybe I'm not so pretty now that you see all of me," she said as she looked at me sitting there like a zombie, my mouth open as I got my fondest wish.

It was a case of too much too soon, and it was nothing like I had fantasized about. I had pictured a romantic seduction like happened in the movies, even though I had no experience in that area either. So I sat there with my jaw hanging down, acting nothing like Omar Sharif seducing Sophia Loren, but instead doing a great impersonation of Goober Pyle leering at Juanita from the Mayberry Diner.

As I sat and stared Mrs. Panetta started to shrink, apparently realizing she was standing there naked in front of a kid - and let's make it clear - that right then although I fancied myself a man, when faced with a real woman I was exposed for what I was.

Mrs. Panetta started to reach down and pick up her robe, and that took me out of my trance. She must have mistaken my inaction for something other than it was. In fact, she was so much more incredible looking than my mind had pictured all this time, that I was speechless.

Connie Panetta wasn't anything like Bonnie or Joyce, or any of the women in the Playboy magazines I had seen. Mrs. Panetta was not an airbrushed Barbie doll, but a real live woman.

Voluptuous beyond belief, with an hourglass figure that was not perfect but was real. So real and so sexy and so right in front of me.

Connie's breasts were gigantic and bell-shaped, and hung down to her waist, which was thick but solid. Her nipples were a brownish-crimson in hue, thick stubs that were centered onto outrageously large pebbled aureoles.

Below, that glorious bush twinkled in the kitchen light. The hair, so black in color that it still managed to contrast boldly against the olive skin that surrounded it, was not a trimmed delta but a wild untamed forest. Connie Panetta's pubic hair grew thickly and densely, wide and high, and there was even a trail of hair that wound upward from the timberline to her navel.

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