Dallas Mayo: Girl-crazy girl

Midway through the first chapter, my frustration started to fade slowly as the story took shape and showed signs of life. And pretty soon – what a surprise! – my disappointment turned to delight. In its own unimpressive way, this well-worn paperback might prove to be a real help to my education, an interesting supplement to the arty picture book, a kind of sequel almost. Some of the words gave me trouble and I thought about fetching a dictionary to work with, maybe even the fat one from my father's study. But I had a feeling those particular expressions wouldn't be listed anyway – and besides, it was growing easier to figure them out just from their repeated use. Even more important, I could feel myself getting all warm and tingly inside, quite familiar now, hardly the mood for looking up words in the dictionary.

I went on reading eagerly, stirred by the central idea and practically squirming around on the bed as the tale unfolded – all about a pleasure resort for women only, all lesbians, wealthy old guests served by lovely young girls. Or the other way around sometimes, whenever some beautiful waitress or bellhop got cocky and demanded service herself, sex-service from some worshipful old biddy who eventually wound up on her knees like a slave. Oh, it was weird! And even though I had all afternoon to finish it, the time rushed by so fast that Bernadette's clock seemed to be leaping from hour to hour. I had to zip through the last few chapters in a hurry, leaving a lot of blanks here and there – too great a hurry to get the full meaning and enjoyment out of those juicy end-scenes. And when the time finally came to play safe and tuck the book away, I was already impatient for my next chance to sneak back again, even more so than I'd been for the big one with all the naughty pictures.

Until then, though, I had plenty to think about – just as naughty and twice as shocking, it seemed like. A lot more educational, too, since most of the words had become pretty clear to me. I knew what a cuntlapper was. And I had a pretty good notion about sadists and masochists and that sort of thing. Like the rich bitch who couldn't be happy unless she was walloping some beautiful young girl's ass. Or the maid who turned around and began to dominate her mistress, getting her toenails polished and her feet licked just for an extra thrill. And more, so many more, all in this pleasure resort for women only, a luxury hotel that catered not just to lesbians but to perverted lesbians…

The next opportunity came sooner than expected. Or so I thought, anyway, having seen Bernadette go out to spend her night off with a relative who lived some thirty miles away, down in the farmland area. And when my father got tired of watching television and went to bed early, wel…

I waited awhile, making sure he was asleep, and then tiptoed downstairs in my pajamas. As always, the hall lamp was on, throwing enough light through the kitchen doorway so that I didn't have to click any switches. Not that it made much difference, considering what a sound sleeper my father was, nothing short of an earthquake would wake him up before morning. I felt guilty, though, a guilt mixed with excitement – after all, I was doing something naughty. I even had an excuse ready, just in case, an excuse about coming down for a glass of milk and then deciding to use the maid's bathroom first – not very farfetched really, just the sort of thing a kid my age might do. That way I could read far into the night, keeping one ear open in case of emergency. A perfectly logical excuse. I had to congratulate myself on my cleverness, feeling guilty and excited and a little bit smug too; oh yes, I had everything worked out just fine! Or so I thought.

Breathlessly, nearing my goal now, I glided across the kitchen floor, pausing only to check and make certain that no light peeped out from under Bernadette's door. Again, just in case! There was always the possibility that she had changed her mind and returned early, coming in quietly through the back-porch entrance. Possible but doubtful, and I only stopped for a quick glance – just to catch my breath mainly – before turning the knob and pushing the door open, eager to begin my night of grown-up fun. My night of grown-up naughtiness…

It was naughty, all right, only I sure hadn't figured on anything that naughty. Even the light seemed sinful, a single red bulb that bathed everything in a rosy glow, bright enough for vision but too dim to be seen through the crack underneath the door. She was bare naked, standing in front of the full-length mirror, angled so that I could see part of her for real and the rest of her as a reflection. I stood there without a sound, paralyzed, looking at those two rose-colored Bernadette's and wondering if it was all just a crazy dream. Only it wasn't, of course, and I didn't have to pinch myself to remember lying in bed and waiting for my father to fall asleep and start snoring. Besides, what dream could present such a strange sight, what kind of dream could make my eyes bulge like this?

I saw her big bare bottom and her big bare breasts, round and swollen and sexier than any picture in a book. It turned me all warm and shaky inside, that nice itchy-quivery feeling, and I had an urge to touch myself, to scratch the itch, the deep-down-inside place where it itched the most. And then her hands moved a little and I saw what she was doing with them – just a little, not much, just enough to prod my mind wide-awake and bring back memories of both books. It came in bits and pieces, the words, the pictures, all that storybook stuff; could it really be real?

Even my schoolbooks weren't about real life. Geography books were full of faraway names and places, never Springfield or Chelsea Hill or Oakwood Street. Never anyplace deep down inside. The same went for history books, all about things that happened long ago and far away. Like a lady named Betsy Ross who sewed the American flag. Never about old Mrs. Yates, the lady who sold dresses and did alterations in her shop next to the supermarket. And as for storybooks, well, Dick and Jane and their dog Spot weren't any more real than Hansel and Gretel and the wicked old witch running a gingerbread bakery in the middle of the forest. And now all of a sudden I was seeing storybook stuff come alive! I was even an important part of it – me, little Loi Morlock – standing there and watching our maid Bernadette frig herself…

Uh-huh. I had never seen Mount Everest or a lady flag maker or a gingerbread oven, but this was for real, and right in front of my eyes. Because that was what she was doing with her hands, frigging herself. I knew the word. Oh shit, I knew all the words. I wanted to say them out loud, to tell her how beautiful she looked with that big bare ass shining and those big bare tits shaking and shimmering, all rosy-red in the lamplight. Fingerfucking her own cunt, imagine! Was that how to scratch the itch, the itchy-quivery feeling, the horny feeling? She had both hands down there, down between her legs, working the fingers up and around inside her slit, the hairy cunt-slit that refused to show itself for more than a quick glimpse now and then, no matter how hard I squinted and strained for a better view. Each hand had its own job to do, I noticed, each with its own speed and style, the lower one always in motion, sliding in and out, fucking – while the hand above remained pretty steady, cupped and curved to give the fingertips a chance, caressing her clit, no doubt, the little love-button that was supposed to be hot stuff, at least according to most of the experienced lesbians in that book about the pleasure resort. Anyway, it was good to see a demonstration of something that I had read about with great enjoyment but not much conviction. (Let's face it, there are times when you gotta believe!) And it was even better to see how simple and natural it was, much easier to understand than all that silly nonsense about the birds and the bees and the flowers.