tagFirst TimeI See Brucey Knickerbocker's Dick

I See Brucey Knickerbocker's Dick

byEllenMelville©

Do you realize that I, one of the classiest girls you know—if not exactly a sex bomb—was once a Gestapo-class cock-teaser?

Ellen, what the FUCK does the "Gestapo" have to do with this? Do you have the faintest idea what you are saying, girl?

I was 18 years old and every school day I wore a navy blue skirt, white blouse, cream knee socks, a wilted red scarf, and a perky hat that I think was designed by a former WAVE. If you remember the WAVES.

Guys in our academy dressed in tweeds, charcoal grey slacks, and rep ties like forlorn miniature creative writing teachers from liberal arts colleges in Ohio.

Our teachers had more leeway. I guess the academy actually cared about the quality of its teachers and no self-respecting one would agree to dress like an organ grinder's ape. My teacher of English was Miss Knickerbocker, whom we called "clicking knockers," being VERY sophisticated. Or we thought so; by 18, I never had seen a live penis. Just some pictures in National Geographic and none too clear.

What? Not daddy's? Not older brother Eric's? No erotic tales of their peeping into my room while I was on my bed, tits no more than low hillocks with puffy pink peaks, fingers seeking truth between my long, pale legs?

No. And if you don't believe what the princess tells you, then she may hike up her short navy blue skirt, so you see right up her long legs, from where you are lying, to the tight small curls of her cunt, where a golden stream is starting that pisses all over you. I hope that gave you a shivery thrill to keep you reading. Wipe the piss off your face and follow on.

My brothers did not see my parts; I did not see theirs. We were a decent, Puritanical, seriously repressed, neurotic, normal American family. We were decent and so, by age 18, I was crazed to see dick. I hated it that there was anything I wasn't allowed to see—or anything I wasn't supposed to know. Inasmuch as half of everybody in my life reportedly had a dick, why should I be 18 and not have seen one? Or touched one? Or even played with one? Why was this whole thing being kept from me? Was it a national security issue?

Bruce, although we called him "Brucey," doing nothing for his masculine image, seemed my most promising target. He was two inches taller than I, which I already knew women found desirable, had glamorous blond hair compared with my short black hair and feathery bangs, and had an easy smile reassuring to a tight little repressor like me. Also, he had manicured hands with no bitten fingernails and no dried flecks of uneaten boogers. This was a classy young man. And on the basketball team, too.

He worshiped me. I knew. I sat three rows behind him in class, to his left, and he could not—could NOT-help, five times an hour, revolving his fine head almost 180 degrees to gaze with dumb longing at my pretty gamin face, stern brown eyes, faintly discernible tits, and long pale shapely legs, often crossed.

Flushed with this attention, the starlet might for one moment have considered that this was Miss Knickerbocker's class and my admirer Bruce Knickerbocker, her son. Were you not hearing bells, Ellen? No tocsin clanging a warning? No lighthouse monotonously bonging in the storm, moaning: You are about to come to grief on the rocks, you stupid cunt?

No, I did not hear bells. I, Ellen Melville, was the resident deity of Bruce Knickerbocker. I was certain I could COMMAND him to fish out his dick, so that at LAST I could see a real one, and I could refuse to let him see my barely pubescent tits and sparse pubic hair. It was the birth of a cock teaser, but surely you sympathize?

Problem was that this preppy hunk could not open his cute lips to speak a word to me. I could have kicked him on target in his the tight, well-fitted slacks of his uniform. I did not like to be frustrated. Not. Brucey Knickerbocker you are limp.

Not literally limp, and that infuriated me, too. Can you believe I was visually exposed to this cretin's penis under his charcoal grey slacks as he ogled me at the bus loading platform as I mounted the bus steps? There was an Appalachian ridge in his pants and a dazed look on his face. I was dying to see the thing, grab it, have a really good look, and maybe play with it. I hoped he died of mortification while I was doing it.

I was going to have to rope this dogie and drag him to the branding fire. I might brand my initials, EPM, on his enchantingly tight butt. I was of mixed minds about that. I would have to see if I even wanted to own him.

I brought him down in a romantic woodland clearing off a path from the back of the academy athletic field through the woods to Chapel Street, where the Knickerbockers lived. It was a soft autumn afternoon with a leafy, nutty odor in the air. The path was strewn with yellow leaves. My prey came scuffling along singing to himself, but all I heard was "And she was, she was my own dear love..." Obviously about me.

I had considered standing in the path; beside the path; digging a pit trap with sharpened stakes at the bottom. But this yo-yo had to be clubbed upside the head. So I was lying away from the path on a sensuous mattress of red and yellow leaves, well within—inescapably within—view of the path. I had shed no clothing; get that right out of your mind, now. I wanted to see the private parts, the manhood of Brucey Knickerbocker; I was not yet seized by my later craving to expose myself.

I was lying on my back, legs crossed, holding a book—actually the poetry of Robert Browning—just above my modest bosom and reading it. Pretending to read it. Oh, my goodness, Brucey. Me? Oh, I just thought I'd take a nice siesta in the leaves.

No, I didn't say that. He came. He paused, struck dumb, I would imagine, and stared. He did not speak. This was a sorrowful wreck of masculine self-assertion. Good Christ, what had Miss Knickerbocker done to him? He was a bunny.

I did turn my face to engage his gaze, though languidly, as though with slight curiosity. And he looked at me for just a moment, then lurched forward, moving on.

What a useless, castrated little dwarf. No offense to dwarfs.

I cried out: "Hey, Bruce, I've had a back spasm. I'm lying here helpless. You could pull off all my clothes and rape me, and I couldn't do a thing."

I didn't say that. I said: "Hi, Bruce, aren't you going to say 'hello'?

"Oh... Ellen. I saw you."

No shit. You aren't blind, then?

"I thought you were reading."

"Just daydreaming about my favorite things."

"Oh... what?"

"Guys. Good looking guys who come onto girls. You know how we girls are."

Bruce Knickerbocker, if THAT isn't enough for you, you can wander off into the woods and get buggered by the witch in the cottage and then rammed into her oven for her dinner.

He started toward me. Yes, he did. Off the path, toward me. Brucey Knickerbocker checking out my sweet bait. I turned my face to him and smiled, and I meant it. You had to reward positive behavior. He had balls, little balls, but balls, and I was about to own them. I want to grab them in my hand and squeeze, watch him dance like a puppet. I was not especially nice.

"You look great lying there."

"Lying here thinking how great guys must look?"

"I guess." Weak, Energizer Bunny might be stalling.

"You know," I said, thoughtfully, "let's go a little more into the woods. If any of those clowns from class come along, they're going to laugh..."

A pause. Keep cranking, Ellen, he still might kick over. said: "You're the only real guy."

Yes, and there is one true prophet and his name is Mohammad. With that, I heaved to my feet, smiling, and reached out with my slender hand. If he takes it, I thought, his pants are gone, his underwear is gone, his dick is out, and I am the boss of Brucey's balls.

He takes it. I sway my hips a little and start walking deeper into the woods, shyly smiling back at him, my hand a vise on his. In a few yards, we are out of sight of the path; there is a clearing; nature's leafy bed freshly made for us. Our love nest, the scene of Brucey Knickerbocker deflowering.

I swoon, falling backward into the leaves; I give a realistic yip of alarm. I do not let go of his hand.

He is half down, panicked, and reaches toward me. "Are you okay?"

My hand still holds his. I lock on and pull him toward me.

"I guess... I just went down." Hint.

The guy is lobotomized. I am not dealing with normal frontal lobe executive functioning. But his face is as excited as puppy's. All but the drool—and that may be coming.

My smile is happy, passionate. I AM happy. It is happening. I will NOT go home, this evening, age 18, never having touched a real dick, no thanks to my fucking Benedictine Brothers who could have showed me one, after all.

He is down. Hit with bird-shot. Limp, warm, squirming. I turn my face to him, my lips widening into my most kissable smile. I give it all I've got.

Can he do this? He cannot. Watery eyes on me. I almost feel sorry for him.

No problem, I've got him. I command, he obeys. His will is not his own and pretty soon his dick and balls won't be, either.

"You know how you turn your head in class all the time, Bruce?" There, I have used his adult name; that is good for a few cc's of testosterone, isn't it?

"Well, I..."

"Don't piss me off," I murmur. "What do think about when you look back at me?" My arm is tired of cranking.

"Oh..."

"About kissing me, right?" I'm stronger than you think. Spent my whole girlhood competing with my older brothers. Running, climbing, wrestling. I have grown to keep up. I am one rugged tomboy.

My hand goes behind his neck and I haul him by main force toward me. His dithering is over. His face is six inches from mine. It is a matter of pride to me that he be the one to literally kiss me.

My smoldering brown, sexy, alluring eyes; my full pouting lips—well not so full. My restlessly stirring body... Are they up to the job?

No, they are not. My bunny hasn't received the signal from his mother to unfreeze.

You want to kiss me and you don't dare to do it, you unworthy shit.

I do not say that. Gazing up into his longing eyes, I murmur: "I would like you to kiss me, Bruce, but if you don't want to..."

Bang. Ouch. His teeth crush my lips. I may be bleeding. He is not kissing me; he is eating me. He is trying to rip off and eat my face.

I try to respond. Kissing. Smooching. Trying to turn this dive bombing into a KISS. But he is chewing me like a long string of tough meat. He doesn't love me; he is starving.

I must act or be disfigured for life. I shove my hand down into his pants, skimming under his belt, snaking beneath the band of his BVDs, and my hand closes around IT. Ellen Melville's hand is holding Brucey Knickerbocker's cock. I cannot believe how big it is. What do men DO with this?

Not put it in ME, that's for sure. It hurts just to insert my Tampons and this thing is ten times bigger.

I am delirious. I have no idea why holding this peculiar appendage obliterates my reason.

"Oh, jeez," he shrieks, but I am ready, my lips already pressed to his to muffle his cry. When he opens his mouth to yell, I jam in my tongue. Probably going to lose a few inches of it.

I risk unblocking his mouth. "Shut up, Bruce," I murmur, "Is it okay?

"Oh, yes, yes... I love you."

No, he has to beg. I say: "I don't have to. It's just if you like it..."

"I love you." He is sobbing. I don't listen. I know what he is saying. My hand is around his cock, larger and stiffer than I could believe, and is sliding up and down, and he is not saying, "I love you," he is saying "Don't stop."

"Take down your pants, Bruce."

"What...?"

"You didn't HEAR me?" He is getting wet; I don't understand what is happening, here. "Should I stop?"

"No, no..." And his hips are shoved up, hands at the top of his pants, underwear, shoving them down. I see it, now. The thing is so swollen. I see blue veins snaking around it. And somehow it has half unwrapped itself like an automated Christmas gift, the cap rolled down to expose the glistening red meat. THIS a dick. Wow. I think I may see what all the excitement is about.

Bruce is writhing in the leaves, sunlight streaking his body, hands on either side of his pants, now shoved to his knees, exposing it all.

"Okay?" he gasps.

It stands up not straight but curved back in an arch toward his belly. This is what I wanted. I reach out, careful not to rake my love's boner with my pink fingernails, and take his dick in two fingers. He softly wails. What is this thing, a mortar?

I try a wiggle up and down and Bruce is gasping. Is that good or bad? The way this thing stands up, the underside of the head is toward me. Like a weird pink face with two big cheeks. Cheeks wet with tears. After poking around, I find that when I rub right under the head, on a little tab of skin, his dick jerks, as though to get still stiffer, which is not possible. When I figure out I can take his dick in my hand, my thumb on the underside, and give that spot full attention, Brucey levitates, his dick thrust up at me like the nose of an eager collie.

"Now take all your clothes off. Okay?"

"But you..."

"Not today," I state peremptorily.

"But I want to see at least..."

Well, I probably am staining my navy blue skirt and white blouse. Pretty soon, he is stretched stark naked on the leaves and I am lying on my stomach at a right angle to him wearing my small white bra and over-sized white panties. My legs are bent so my crossed ankles are over my butt. My elbow rests on his knee, my chin in my crooked hand, my head tilted to gaze at my toy. Just a comfortable domestic scene in the woods behind the Academy.

I have been enjoying my toy for a while. I am teasing it. Without realizing it, I am tormenting his cock. That is why he is moaning as though I am removing his appendix without benefit of anesthesia. And stirring his hips as though fire ants are crawling up his ass. His dick is huge, dark reddish blue, hot, and now slick from top to bottom.

What next? Is this all? If you think for one MOMENT I am going to clamber atop this mighty spike, impaling my pussy, or surrender to my craving to put this greasy pop into my mouth, you are delusional. I watch Bruce's face and realize that like a goddess I have power over another person's soul and right then I become a cock teaser.

After 15 or 20 minutes, as I contentedly diddle with my toy, I hear gasps. I look. Oops, they are sobs. Tears are being pressed from under his tightly closed eyelids. I thought he liked this?

"Are you crying, Brucey?"

"No, no, not really." His voice is hoarse; it sure sounds like crying. Then, after a moment, "Ellen, do you think you could do that a little faster?"

"Why?"

A long pause. "I'm... erotically aroused."

Oh. Actually, yeah, there is some stuff about suddenly... And, of course, about putting it IN. We are not doing that, today. Maybe never. Everyone knows that is big trouble.

"BRUCE!"

It is the yell of warning two seconds before the truck hits you. All in the same instant, my body freezes in panic, my heart takes off like a pheasant breaking cover, and I give a yelp of terror. My head is turning, my half-nude body curling in on itself in desperate defense, and my legs churning as though I am running. Scurrying bare-ass, bent over in terror, into the woods. But I am not.

In the half second between the cry and my turning, I realize, of course. She is standing there in classic pose, legs braced apart, hands on hips. Please don't make me think about that face. Please. It was bright red, that's all I know. I think snakes might have been writhing around it like the Gorgon Medusa.

Miss Knickerbocker, of course. Why isn't there an easy way to die, when it's time? Like just saying, three times, "die, die, die," or murmuring "cash me out?"

I am staring in absolute, soul ablating, bladder cramping, infarction-inducing horror. Where did I drop my gun? Could I reach it, stick the barrel in my mouth, and blow out my brains before I am taken captive? I would rather kill myself than die at the stake with live rattlesnakes swinging from my nipples and giggling women stuffing hot coals up my ass. I do not have a gun.

Why had I used up that third wish when now I really needed the Winged Monkeys?

No gun, no Winged Monkeys. No more ideas.

I start to cry. In shameful cowardice, I cover my face with my hands. A lanky, stringy haired, pale little girl in trainer bra and panties sitting in the leaves blubbering. Where would I go to school? How far would I have to move away from this town? When would they parade me down Main Street, nude, with crowds on both sides spitting at me, "whore" scrawled in Magic Marker over my belly, and lock me in the stocks?

I tend to be a little over-dramatic and self-absorbed.

I hear Miss Knickerbocker's voice, but not what she was saying. I am sure it is something like "We will give her 500 lashes between her spread legs."

Oh, God, poor Brucey. I got him into this. He must have melted into a puddle in the leaves.

Not really. I hear him because his voice rings out, deep and commanding. "Mother, I hardly can believe you would follow us here and burst in on our love making."

"I didn't..."

"But you did, Mother, and right now you are risking your relationship with your son."

"What about me? Did you ever think..."

"Ellen and I are adults, IF not legally, then certainly in every other way. One of our rights is to privacy."

I let my hands slide away from my wet, crumpled face. I lift my face. I see him. Turn not thy face from the living god.

He is standing straight, stark naked, still with an erection, though, admittedly, not as erect as before, and he is facing his mother. With a stiff dick he is calmly confronting his mother and...

That holy light is falling upon my uplifted face.

"Now, I am going to ask you to leave, immediately. If you do, then we can talk later. If you don't, I won't be coming home."

"All right, all right, but you wait..."

"And if you make any trouble, any trouble, for Ellen Melville, who is a woman I love and brought here..."

"Ellen..."

I turn my face. The snakes have been subdued into a permanent. I hear my little far-away voice,

"Yes, Miss Knickerbocker." And then, in a rush, "Oh, Miss Knickerbocker, I..."

"No, Ellen. It's settled. Bruce wants to take responsibility for being a man and that is his choice." She adds, "Don't let this affect your work in class. I have not changed my opinion of your considerable command of the English language. And I've always liked you."

I am nodding, my skinny arms wrapped around myself, just under my breasts. I am nodding even though I do not understand Swahili. I just know she is saying something in a nice tone of voice.

"I will see you at home, Bruce." She has turned, leaving.

Bruce calls, "I love you, Mom. You are doing the right thing."

"I hope so," she calls back, without turning. In a few years, as it turns out, I will remember this moment with a distinct compassion for Miss Knickerbocker.

I kneel in a woodland glade in the presence of the deity. I gaze up into his more than humanly beautiful countenance. I am wearing only my training bra. My face is stained with tears. I think some kind of bugs are biting my legs.

The calm voice intones: "I'm sorry that happened, Ellen. Next time we'll be sure we have our privacy."

"Narwarg upjurl?"

"What did you say, Ellen?"

He was still naked, like Apollo, although he had lost his erection. Too many distractions. My heart is a hand ball whacking around the court. I heave up to my knees and shuffle across the distance between us. I stop, kneeling before him. He is looking down with a half-smile, a half-baffled frown.

"Are you still...?" My voice tiny in the cathedral forest. A little creature of the woodlands addressing its Maker. I found the word: "aroused?"

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