My earliest memories begin as World War II ended in 1945. Born just prior to the war, I came along just as what has been called the Silent Generation was ending, the generation of those born during the Great Depression and after, before the Baby Boomers who followed World War II began coming on to the scene. Our distinction, the Silent Generation, is that we are the only American generation smaller than the previous generation.

The Great Depression stemmed the tide of new births. It was the same in my family; my parents had six children before the Depression and stopped, riding out the Depression years before having my sister Joy in 1938 followed by my birth in 1942. Today Joy and I would be termed "late life" babies: our parents were in their early 40s by the time we came along. Among my earliest memories are two of my brothers returning home from World War II when I was three years old. By the time I was seven years old, Joy and I were the only two siblings who had not married and begun their own families.

My generation has been called the Lucky Few, and that is how I feel about it. Those years following the war were incredibly permissive years for a kid growing up. We had just won the war, the economy was strong and growing, and an ebullient sense of onward-and-upward permeated the country. There were concerns over a war with Russia, but other than that there simply were none of the day to day fears parents suffer today. Crime certainly existed, but crime as such was never an issue. In our town, nobody bothered taking the key out of the car; nobody bothered locking their house. Home air conditioning was nonexistent, so throughout the summers doors and windows stood wide open with wire screens to keep out the flies. Parents literally had none of the fears from which they obsess today.

Back then, in the late 1940s and 50s, kids ran free; anyone from my generation knows exactly what I mean by that. Kids were expected to be outside playing, from morning to night. And kids played where they wanted to play; no permission was necessary to go to each other's house or anywhere else, for that matter. Kids were expected to be home for meals unless advising their mother of other plans, but when a kid forgot or had no opportunity to tell mother they would not be home when expected, it was never a cause for panic. After all, few telephones existed back then. If the excuse was valid, there was no punishment. Kids routinely roamed the neighborhoods, the parks, nearby wildlife areas, wherever they felt like playing.


The austere days of war had ended, replaced by high productivity and affordable prices. Women who had done without during the war were more than ready to get back to their normal role in society, that of wife and mother. This was, after all, decades before the movement began for equal rights for women; as soon as the war ended they tossed away the war image of Rosie the Riveter to get back to being cute and sexy, flirty and feminine. The war had produced synthetic, technologically advanced fabrics, which manufacturers found easily transferable to sexy fashion. Sensuous, smooth, silky, flowing blends of polyester and rayon, nylon and acetates, combined with the new, stretchable latex and spandex fabrics, shaped clothing to the full, healthy-looking bodies mirrored in the sex queens of the silver screen, actresses like Ava Gardner, Lana Turner and Jane Russell with their hourglass figures.

Underneath the satiny new dresses were undergarments, as they were called, and the most important undergarment was the girdle. Corsets and stays of pre-war times were replaced with form-shaping pull-on girdles of rubberized latex, often with sexy lace inserts, using fragrant talcum powders to disguise the rubbery odor. Women shopped at girdle salons for the perfectly fitted girdle to slim their thighs, lift and shape their butts, tuck in their tummies, and narrow their waist lines to accentuate their body's sexy curves. Modern women wore the new Playtex roll-on panty girdles with ventilated crotches and garter straps to hold up their seamed nylon hose. New seamless hose were available, but most women thought these made their legs look bare so preferred seamed nylons.

Advertisements told women that to feel sexy outside they must feel sexy underneath, and they had just the panties and bras to accomplish that. Thin, silky panties of nylon, rayon and acetate, often semi-transparent and accentuated with lace inserts, brought out that sexy feeling, along with lace-clad pointy bras which lifted and presented breasts for men to marvel. Before stepping outside, the proper lady slipped into her sexy panties and bra, often matching, followed by her lacy girdle belt to hold up her flesh-toned nylons before pulling on the tight, shaping girdle; slipping into her high heeled shoes to further tighten and lift her butt cheeks, she was ready for a brief inspection in the mirror, checking her figure before slipping into her lacy nylon slip to cover it all before putting on the dress chosen for the occasion.

It all worked its magic. The Baby Boomer generation was conceived in the backseats of cars, in haylofts and back alleys, anywhere private enough to get those sexy panties down for a throbbing cock to get inside. Girls got pregnant, and the boys who impregnated them were expected to marry and they did. Older ladies tittered about girls and their "6-month babies," but it was impolite to count months before the first baby arrived. Pregnant sixteen-year olds were common, and one wondered why when a girl reached her twenties unmarried and childless. It was frowned on but not uncommon for parents to give consent for marriage on behalf of their fourteen- and fifteen-year old pregnant daughters.


Sexual problems were not a concern in the 1940s and 50s, really a non-topic. Nobody thought about it, one way or the other. Should a mother see a man, a perfect stranger, pick up her little girl to tell her how pretty she was, she might feel pride, but not suspicion. People didn't think that way. Little girls born in the 1940s and 50s were taught to be cute and flirtatious, and for a man, any man, to say, "What a little cutie you are!" as he swoops up a little girl up into his arms was a coup not only for the little girl but her mother as well. This was the objective of motherhood: to teach her daughter how to become attractive and desirable to men so that when she grows up, she too may become a wife and a mother. Men were the head of the household, so a mother's job was to begin early teaching her daughter how to entice them. When men took notice, mothers felt pride that they were doing well at teaching their little daughters.

Accompanying this was a sexual permissiveness that pretty well seems unfathomable today. A mother would watch proudly as a man chatting with her daughter sitting on his arm would cup his hand around the little girl's butt cheeks and squeeze or rest his hand on her bare upper leg under her skirt. Today we would think of such actions as fondling the child, but then it was normal, even expected, I would say. The practice of the hand pushing between her legs for the fingertips to stroke the crotch went basically unnoticed by the child because it was common. Every little girl growing up back then was felt up repeatedly in this manner; if anything, she would have considered herself successful in her allure, and her mother would agree.

An example from my own family highlights the permissiveness of the era: My sister Hazel was a model example of a middle-class, well-respected mother whose life centered about her five children, four girls with a younger brother. One summer day Hazel was in the kitchen, hard at work on her sewing machine - she worked from her home as a seamstress - while the kids outside in their swimsuits played in the water sprinkler. Suddenly Laurie, the oldest who was 7 or 8 at the time, came bursting into the kitchen to tell her mother that she had seen the Mexican gardener behind the shed watching them play with his "thing" pulled out of his trousers.

Now, Laurie could be a little irritating at times. As oldest, she acted "prissy," as we called it, always bossing younger ones and tattling their misbehavior. So when she came running in this time, my sister, almost without looking up from her sewing, said, "You're making a mess in the floor with your wet swimsuit. You can see I am busy so get on back outside and don't pay any attention to that silly Mexican."

That was it, the extent of her concern. Had she not been busy, I think she may well have stuck her head outside to "shoo" the Mexican away, but at any rate her concern would never have exceeded that, telling him to leave.

A little later Laurie came bursting back in through the kitchen screen door. "Mommy, mommy," she cried, "Lynda, Lonnie, Lynn Ann and Joey all went behind the shed where the Mexican was and he splashed white stuff out of his thing all over them! I told them they better not go or you'd spank them."

My sister stopped sewing to glare at Laurie: "Laurie, stop being such a tattletale! You get back out there and tell them to wash it off, it doesn't hurt anything, and if you come running in here to tattle one more time I'm going to spank you good! I have to get this dress finished by 4 o'clock and I don't have time to be messing with you kids."

As unlikely as the story may seem today, it is a true story. My sister was not being a bad or careless mother; people just didn't come unglued back then like they do today, particularly over kids. No one was physically hurt; nobody needed to be taken to the hospital. I feel sure my sister told her husband to "have a talk" with the Mexican man, but it's doubtful that he ever did. Nothing "bad" happened, so why make a big fuss over it?

The old rule, "Kids are meant to be seen and not heard," was very much was in play. When company came to dinner, the adults sat at the table and the kids waited until they finished to be fed the leftovers. Kids were always secondary to adults. And if a kid misbehaved or did not heed an adult's command, sharp switches, belts, and paddles were everywhere, ready to teach: "I'll teach you to sass me!" "I'll teach you to come when I call you." "I'll teach you to do what I tell you to do." There were plenty of such teaching sessions.


One summer morning in 1946, 7-year old sister Joy brushed her hair all nice and pretty and we headed out for the park in town. We lived out on a county road west of town and it was a pretty good hike into town, especially for a 4-year old like me. As luck would have it, we had not gotten far when Mr. Goshen came driving by in his old pickup truck and offered us a ride.

Mr. Goshen was a rancher who lived on out from us, someone we often saw passing by on his way to town. He seemed a nice man, early 50s or so, who would give us kids a wave as he passed by, sometimes even pausing to watch us playing as we ran through the sprinklers in our underwear or whatever.

Pulling to the side of the road, Mr. Goshen sat smiling as he waited for us, his arm stretched out resting on the back of the seat as Joy got in first, scooting over beside him to make room for me to crawl in and close the door. "You sure look pretty today, honey," he said to Joy. "How old are you now?"

Joy was cute, and she knew that she was. The Nelson men, the family of our father's mother, had played with us our entire lives so we were comfortable around grown men, and nothing was more fun to Joy than flirting and enticing them. "I'm 7 now," Joy said, looking up with her happy, charming little girl face. "I'll be in 1st grade this year."

"Is that right?" Mr. Goshen laughed, shaking his head. "Time sure does fly by," he said as he looked Joy over. "You sure are getting to be a big, pretty girl, honey."

"Mommy says I'm tall for my age," Joy bragged, laughing and giggling enthusiastically for him, her open, innocent face with her sparkling eyes inviting him on. "She says I'm going to be really tall when I grow up."

"I just bet you will, Joy," he agreed with a chuckle, moving his hand from the steering wheel down to her legs. "Just look how long these pretty legs of yours are getting to be," he said, stroking his hand from her knee up just under the skirt of her play dress and down again.

Joy laughed, almost vibrating with excitement as she beamed up at Mr. Goshen. This was a game to her, and she knew what he was doing. "You really think so?" she asked teasingly, pulling the hem of her play dress up higher so she could get a better look at her legs. "You really think my legs are pretty?" she asked in her innocent little voice. I knew my sister well enough to know she was teasing him on purpose, egging him on.

"Oh yeah," Mr. Goshen said, breathing harder as his fingers tightened around her leg while his hand stroked up and down, each stroke rising higher up under the hem of her skirt. He was getting turned on, and Joy knew it. "You've got really pretty legs, honey."

"Really?" Joy asked, pulling the skirt even higher, up to her crotch, and opening her knees to make room for his exploring hand. "You're not teasing me? You really think they're pretty?" she asked, her pretty eyes sparkling with excitement as they moved from his hand on her legs up to gaze innocently at him.

By now I was up on my knees facing them, excitement coursing through me as I watched my big sister go to work on Mr. Goshen. This was a game I had seen before, a wildly exciting game.

"I really do," Mr. Goshen said, letting his hand take more liberties as he realized it wasn't bothering the little girl. His fingers caressed up and down the soft, smooth insides of her thigh, allowing his hand first to touch against her crotch and then to push into it as he saw it not only didn't bother her but she seemed to enjoy it. His tongue flicked over his dry lips and he said, "I really like your pretty legs." It was all he could think to say as his breath was coming deeper with his rising lust.

Joy laughed, swinging her legs playfully as she watched his hand while she slowly continued pulling up her skirt. "I've got new panties on," she said, "want to see them?" she asked, lifting her skirt up around her waist. "Aren't they pretty?"

Joy watched Mr. Goshen's hot eyes stare down at the yellow nylon panties with white lace around the legs and a band of matching lace crossing from the waist on one side down to the leg. It excited her to see the effect she could have on grown men. She loved this kind of teasing and practiced getting better at it.

"They're new," she said. "I picked yellow ones to match my dress, see?" stretching the skirt across her tummy above the panty waistband so he could see how the colors matched. "Do you like them?" she asked, blinking up innocently at him. "You can feel them if you want to," she said. "They feel really nice."


This event I'm describing occurred in 1946, just as affordable clothes had begun to flood the market. A little girl like Joy, born only a few years before the war, had never known new store-bought clothes and she was proud of them. Every little girl was proud of her new clothes. Girls had never known anything but hand-me-downs, perhaps a few plain dresses made from the material which sacks of flour came in, and droopy, plain cotton underwear. Suddenly, all this changed with the ending of the war.

Mom took Joy into town shopping and when they got home, the wardrobe in Joy's bedroom was emptied to make room for brand new, colorful clothes, girl clothes with laces and bows, puffed sleeves with pleated skirts, and exciting, vibrantly colored, silky smooth nylon panties, adorned with lace and rosettes, so fancy and so very feminine.

What may be my very earliest memory is of the day when mom and Joy came home from shopping with 10 new pairs of panties for Joy. Joy was so excited she ran to her bedroom to strip naked and put on one pair of panties after the other, running into the kitchen each time to show them off.

All little girls were this way: they loved showing off their fancy new panties. So when Joy lifted her skirt for Mr. Goshen, it was not uncommon. Little girls did that in those first years after the war, showing off the first fancy panties they had ever had. This time, though, we were sitting inside the cab of Mr. Goshen's pickup truck parked alongside a lonely country road. No man could have resisted.


Mr. Goshen was on fire with lust as his hot eyes looked down. "Oh yes, those are really pretty panties," he said, breathing hard as his arm dropped down from the back of the seat to circle around Joy's shoulders while his hand came up to feel over her tummy and hips underneath the panties. "They feel really good."

"I know," Joy laughed, rocking her hips to pull the skirt from under her so she could hold the entire play dress up above her waist, completely exposing the bright yellow panties to entice Mr. Goshen. She giggled and squirmed as he pawed at her. "Don't they feel nice?" she asked, her sparkling eyes gazing up at him, her pretty, innocent, little girl face enticing him on.

"Oh yeah," Mr. Goshen groaned, his chest heaving as his arm circled Joy, pulling her up off the seat and into him while his fingers clenched and pawed over her hips and legs and butt cheeks.

Joy squealed with glee as Mr. Goshen lifted her, laughing as his hot hands clawed over her butt and crotch. It was a game to her and she kept up her innocent, little girl chatter. "I've got lots of new panties, you should see, Mr. Goshen," she said, laughing and grabbing his shoulders as he rolled her toward him and pulled her bare leg across his hips and grasped into her wide open crotch. "Don't they feel nice?" she asked as his big hand clutched firmly around her pussy mound.

"I've got red ones and green ones and blue ones and all kinds of colors," Joy continued chatting in her little girl voice, holding his shoulders and laughing as Mr. Goshen settled her on top with her knees splayed to each side of his hips.

With her arms wrapping his neck, little Joy watched the lust in Mr. Goshen's flushed, hot face while his big, rough hands clutched at her, squeezing into her butt cheeks as his hand clamped around her pussy mound, laughing as she felt his fingertips digging up into her pussy slit. "Do you like how my panties feel?" she asked innocently. Joy may have only been 7 but she knew exactly what she was doing. "Don't they feel good?" she teased.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Mr. Goshen moaned, clawing at his belt buckle to get his pants undone, and Joy laughed as she watched, glancing at me to make sure her audience saw what she had accomplished.

"Oh God, oh God," Mr. Goshen moaned, and we both squealed with excitement at the sight of his throbbing man-cock, laughing as his big hand wrapped the cock to begin furiously pumping it.

To kids, men are funny when they get like this, and Joy and I were laughing and hopping with excitement as we watched Mr. Goshen moan, one hand jerking on the man-cock with the other digging at Joy's pussy. Tensing up, he just had time to groan out, "I'm cumming," before the first load of hot, white cum exploded from the big cock and splashed into Joy's new yellow panties, bringing a scream of triumph from both Joy and me.

As he finished, Mr. Goshen was embarrassed. "Sorry, honey," he said, his chest heaving as he worked to get himself covered back up. "Guess I got carried away. You kids don't mind, do you?"

"It's okay," Joy laughed, still sitting astride him with her dress lifted high. "It was fun. We don't mind, do we, Jimmy?" and I shook my head no. Looking down at her panties, Joy laughed again and said, "Your stuff is all over my panties!"

Mr. Goshen blushed as he reached under the seat for a rag. "I'm sorry, honey, let me wipe it up."

"It's okay," Joy laughed as she watched him mopping the cum from her panties. "I don't mind," she laughed, "that was fun!" Her pretty eyes sparkled with excitement. "Mommy's at work all the time so you can come look at my other panties if you want." She laughed again. "You're lots of fun, Mr. Goshen! We like playing with you, don't we, Jimmy?"

When Mr. Goshen stopped by our house the following morning, we ran out to greet him and it wasn't long before the three of us were naked in Joy's bed with me down between his legs sucking his cock while Joy let him tongue fuck her mouth and fondle her pussy. From then on, Mr. Goshen stopped by regularly, and we liked seeing him come.


Pretty much every little girl I knew had her own stories like this to tell. Since originally posting these stories, I've had the good fortune of talking with any number of ladies who grew up in the same period, and each lady has her own fun stories to tell. It's just the way things were back then, particularly in the decade following the end of the war.

Modern news stories of men abducting and molesting kids didn't exist then. Why would they? The kids were right there, and if a man wanted to put his hands on your body, that was his prerogative. It was simply part of being a kid in those days. A man might scare a kid when he was too rough with us, but it was always exciting stuff, something to tell our friends about. The thought we might be carried off and raped never occurred to us because it never happened.

The pent-up sexual frustrations that drive men to do that today didn't exist then. Kids were everywhere, and it would have been unthinkable to tell a man no if he told you to go with him. Such impertinence might well result in a slap or spanking. You minded grownups; you were expected to mind and you did.

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