A mysterious stranger assumes an important role in the lives of
the women of a remote town.
Hysteria (c) Dan Singer 2003
Uncle Louie was my mother's older half-brother. I had always been vaguely aware of him because he sent money on my birthday, lira, marks, yen and more obscure currencies, always wrapped in lightweight paper in an airmail envelope. The envelopes had postmarks from Shanghai, Lisbon, Odessa, Tashkent and other destinations on the the Trans-Siberian railroad and the Orient Express. Now, Louie had managed to get a Canadian visa and was planning to enter the United States and stay with us. I was 10.
My father was not happy about it. He and my mother argued for days until my mother promised that Uncle Louie would only visit us for 2 weeks, after which he could move to a hotel or rent a room. He could afford it. Louie always seemed to have plenty of money.
My father and I met him at the train station one freezing Sunday afternoon in February. Even inside the terminal our breath came out as steam, and we had to blow on our hands to keep warm. I don't know what I expected, but it was not the powerfully-built man of about 50 who descended the train. Louie had broad features and curly, black shoulder-length hair that made him look almost biblical. He was a large man. He had a cane and walked with a rolling limp, but his movements were graceful and his animation and energy seemed to warm everything around him. Louie clasped me in a bear hug. "So...zis is ze young man I haff been waiting zo long to meet." I nodded. He spoke in an accent I couldn't place, deeper, thicker than my mother's.
A porter soon arrived with a mountain of suitcases and packages and a large black trunk. While my father loaded up the car, Louie and I walked over to the newsstand. He bought every local newspaper and several bars of chocolate which we shared. Then he peppered me with questions. How many people lived in the town of L.? Were they young or old? How many families? What were their nationalities? His eyes roamed the station as he took in my answers.
My father need not have worried about Uncle Louie. By the end of the week he had rented rooms in the house of Mrs. P., an elderly widow for whom my father did occasional odd jobs. Louie bought furniture and rugs, he printed up business cards and he placed an ad in the local paper announcing that Professor R., formerly on the faculty of the University of Vienna, offered electro-therapy for women and men of all ages wishing to restore vitality, circulation and youthful vigor to their lives.
Uncle Louie was evidently some kind of physician. Over the next week or two, I helped him set up his office and unpack his equipment. He had a waiting room and a consulting room. He furnished the waiting room with chairs, a magazine stand and some landscapes for the walls. The consulting room was larger, and had a desk, some cabinets and a long examining table. The table was covered with cushions and had a headrest. There was a smaller table next to it with a number of electrical appliances of varying sizes and shapes that resembled hand drills or sanders, though their attachments were unlike any I had ever seen. They were shaped like cups, tubes and disks. Some attachments were flat while others were bumpy. "What are these for, Uncle Louie?" I asked. "Ze are for ze treatment," he replied.
Uncle Louie hung a diploma on the wall from a Viennese university. I hadn't realized that he was a fully-accredited doctor but my father dismissed him as a fraud. When he really wanted to annoy my mother, he would flap his arms and make quacking sounds.
But to everyone's surprise, Louie soon established a thriving practice. Women mostly, but also a few men scheduled regular appointments for electro-therapy and seemed pleased with the results. I overheard him being discussed down at the grocery and over at the pharmacy. My famously moody piano teacher, Mrs. B., mentioned to my mother how grateful she was to Uncle Louie, and she did seem to be in better spirits.
Since I was always looking for a way to earn a few dollars, I asked Uncle Louie if he needed an assistant. "I'm not zo busy yet, but who knows, perhaps eventually I vill take an assistant." He chuckled. "Ask me in a year or two." "What kind of treatment do you give, Uncle Louie?" "Zat," he frowned, "iss strictly confidential." And that was that.
Fortunately for me, Mrs. P., the elderly widow who rented Uncle Louie his rooms, was looking for help. She was a lively and curious woman but she was nearly blind and hired me to read to her one day a week after school. Mrs. P. enjoyed current events and wanted to hear the news from the local paper as well as articles from her various subscriptions which included the Scientific American and the New Statesman. We would sit next to the window, decide on an article, and I would read – or rather declaim, since Mrs. P. was deaf as well as blind – until the article was finished or she got bored. This went on for an hour or more. Occasionally, Mrs. P. fell asleep. Mrs. P.'s sitting room was located directly beneath Uncle Louie's office so I could see his patients arrive, clomp up the stairs, and then 45 or 50 minutes later, clomp down the steps and leave.
During one of my first sessions, I was reading an article about European monetary policy when I saw someone walking up the path. I glanced up and noticed the wife of our grocer, Mr. D. Jane was a vigorous but somewhat chubby woman in her forties who worked the register. Although she was childless, she enjoyed kids and would give me donuts and ask about my homework. I heard the door close and her steps on the staircase. I wondered what her complaint was.
I returned to the article and forgot about Jane. It was Spring and a mild breeze blew in the open window and distracted me. The article was difficult and I struggled to make sense of it. Mrs. P. must have been struggling too because her head bobbed up and down until she finally gave in and began to softly snore. It was then I heard what sounded like the meowing of a cat.
I was not aware that Mrs. P. kept a cat but perhaps this was a neighborhood stray. The sound was rhythmic. I put down the Manchester Guardian and looked out the window. I couldn't see the cat, but the sound grew louder. At some point I realized that it was coming from Uncle Louie's consulting room upstairs and was drifting in the open window.
The meowing had become more insistent and more human. I recognized it as a human cry, a kind of "Hunh, hnnh, hunh," with an occasional "ooh," or "Oh!" and I realized the cries must be coming from Jane. They did sound a bit like her. I hoped Uncle Louie was not hurting her. And then the cries stopped.
After a long while, perhaps several minutes, I heard Uncle Louie's footsteps, some conversation and then silence. What was going on now? I was very curious, and I did something I shouldn't have. Although Uncle Louie's second floor apartment had its own outside entrance, I knew from having helped him set up that it was connected to the first floor by a staircase in Mrs. P.'s kitchen.
I checked Mrs. P. She was comfortably asleep. I took off my shoes, tiptoed over to the staircase and crept up the stairs. Uncle Louie's rooms were shielded by a curtain. I knelt at the top step, leaned over and parted the curtain.
Jane was alone in the office. She was seated in a chair next to the desk, buttoning the top button on her blouse and humming softly to herself. After a minute, Uncle Louie came in. He talked to her briefly, listened to something she said, and nodded, "Ya." Uncle Louie opened a thin black leather book and flipped a page or two. His fingers moved down to a place on one of the pages. He looked up and asked Jane something that sounded like, "Next week?" Jane nodded and he wrote something in the book. Then Jane reached into her purse, took out a small piece of paper and handed it to Uncle Louie. He put the piece of paper in his desk. Then they both rose and Jane walked out the door.
When the door slammed it startled me. I scurried back from my hiding place, terrified that Mrs. P. was awake. She was snoring peacefully and I had time to put on my shoes, find my place in the article and continue reading where I had left off, before stamping my foot several times. Mrs. P. blinked awake. "Oh dear, I must've fallen asleep. Was I snoring?" "No," I assured her. "We'll have to finish the article next week," she said. "Tonight's my bridge night. I'm afraid I have to get dinner started." She tottered into the kitchen while I gathered my things and said goodbye.
All that week, the mysterious sounds haunted me. I wondered if Jane had been crying, laughing or something entirely different. I listened to the sounds over and over in my mind trying to understand them. They were obviously connected to Uncle Louie's treatment, but how? By the time I saw her sitting at the desk, Jane had completely recovered from it, but her condition evidently required additional treatments, like the one she had scheduled for next week. I decided that I must not just overhear but actually observe that appointment to find out what was really going on.
When the appointed time finally arrived, I dashed home from school and was early for my session with Mrs. P. It was warm and muggy, and the air was still. I suggested we tackle a piece in National Geographic on Inuit communal celebrations. It was actually fascinating, but that afternoon, luck was on my side. Mrs. P. promptly fell into a deep, peaceful slumber. Perhaps it was my reading.
I had noticed Jane walk up the path to Uncle Louie's office and heard her climb the stairs. I was anxious not to miss anything, so I quickly put down the magazine, crept up the stairs and knelt by the curtain. I could hear the sound of a zipper being unzipped and clothes being removed, but I didn't know if Jane was facing the curtain so I waited. Then the room grew quiet. The only sound was Jane's breathing. I parted the curtain.
Jane stood in the center of the room dressed only in a girdle. The girdle has fallen out of fashion, but in its day enjoyed a wide popularity among women of all ages who wished to look thinner than they actually were. Jane's girdle ended at the top of her thick upper thighs, and a curly mass of black hair poked out from between her legs. The rest of her clothing lay neatly folded on a chair. Jane unzipped the girdle and stepped out of it. She stood there for a few moments and let her body assume its natural dimensions.
Jane was plump and wide-hipped but not yet fat. The first thing I noticed about her was her breasts. Jane's breasts were larger than any I had ever seen. The women in my family tend to be small. Jane's plump tits flowed practically down to her navel, her areolae huge brown ovals surrounding a prominent even darker brown nipple. Her breasts looked positively alive, and looking at them made my heart pound in my chest. I believe they may have even awed Jane. She walked over to a mirror that stood against the wall and looked at herself, shaking out her long, brown hair. She pushed back her shoulders, stuck out her chest, and gazed at herself in the mirror, petting her nipples lightly and causing them to poke out.
Up to this point I had been fascinated, but as I watched Jane admiring herself, I became aware of another feeling, a sensation of wanting that made me almost weak, though I was not sure what it was that I wanted. Perhaps to hold Jane's breasts in my hands, perhaps to touch and squeeze her nipples. Certainly to continue watching her. But I also felt another feeling. This feeling was distinctly physical and was located in my groin which felt hot and tingly. My penis had become longer and thicker than normal and pressed up insistently against my pants.
Jane walked over to the chair, picked up a white dressing gown that was slung over the back and slipped it on. The gown hung down to her knees and tied in the back. She walked over to the table and hoisted herself up onto it. The table was covered with two sheets. Jane lay between the sheets and pulled the top sheet up to her shoulders. She lay back down and exhaled.
At this point my uncle came into the room. He walked over to the table, put down his cane and said a few words. Jane turned over on her stomach. Uncle Louie pulled the top sheet down to her knees and untied her gown, uncovering Jane's legs and back. Uncle Louie began to knead her shoulders and arms, gently at first but then with increasing force. I could see her skin turning pink.
He worked on Jane's back for several minutes, and her body seemed to gradually relax into the bed. Uncle Louie began to squeeze the fleshy cheeks of her bottom, and Jane sighed contentedly. He pulled the remaining sheet off Jane's legs and lay it at the foot of the bed. He rubbed her calves and worked his way up past her knees. As he touched her upper thighs, Jane gasped, "Ooh," and shifted her body, parting her legs to give him access to this area. For a few minutes, he lightly massaged it.
Now Uncle Louie said something to Jane and pulled the sheet back up to her waist. Jane turned over and lay on her back. I could see her breasts rise and fall in time with her breathing. Uncle Louie began to rub her arms and shoulders and the top part of her chest. This caused Jane's breasts to be pulled upward and I noticed her breath quicken. Uncle Louie lowered the sheet down past Jane's waist. His hands moved under the sheet and appeared to be massaging her stomach. He moved down lower on her stomach, and Jane's breathing became uneven. The sheet slipped down her thighs, and I could make out Jane's expansive white belly and the mass of black hair below. Beneath the sheet, her legs slowly opened and squeezed shut.
Uncle Louie pulled the sheet down to the middle of Jane's thighs. His hands moved lower on her stomach and rested on the little mound covered by a mat of dark hair. He let his hands rest there for a while, and then pressed the palms of his hands against the mound so that it was pushed upwards, exposing a fold of pink skin underneath. Uncle Louie rotated his palms and the fold of skin opened into 2 flaps that were stretched outward toward Jane's thighs and then inward again, in a continuous circular movement. Open and closed, open and closed. Jane's breath began to follow this rhythmic movement, accompanied by a kind of low moan, "ohh, ahh, ohh, ahh" and a liquid sound that came from between her thighs. She moved her hips in time with Uncle Louie's hands.
After a few minutes, Uncle Louie stopped and removed his hands. Jane raised her hips as if trying to recapture them. Uncle Louie reached over to the table that stood next to the bed and selected a tool that looked like a small drill. It was connected to the table by an electrical cord and had a handle about as thick as my wrist. At the end of the cylindrical handle, and perpendicular to it, was an attachment that looked like a rubber thumb. Uncle Louie flipped on a switch and the machine began to gently hum.
Jane spread her legs apart, exposing the entire area between her thighs. The two folds of skin stuck out prominently and were now a deep reddish pink. They glistened with moisture. Uncle Louie placed the rubber thumb just above the place where the folds joined and lightly touched the thumb down. Jane rose to meet it and let out a low groan, "Ohh." Uncle Louie moved the thumb around the whole area, to the top of the mound, below and along the folds. At times he brought it in between Jane's thighs and it seemed to disappear inside of them.
Uncle Louie now moved the thumb back and forth in between Jane's thighs, circling the area just below the dark hair and then plunging back down in a rhythm that gradually picked up speed. Now each time the thumb disappeared between her thighs, Jane lifted her hips off the table and squeezed her plump thighs together, trapping the thumb between them.
I noticed that the insides of Jane's thighs were shiny and wondered if the rubber thumb might have sprayed out some liquid. Her legs stiffened and began to shake, and then without warning, she groaned and sat up straight. I was afraid that Uncle Louie had injured her, but he seemed unconcerned, and Jane did not try to interfere with him. She sat up on the table completely rigid with her eyes closed, her trembling legs pressed tightly together while Uncle Louie held the rubber thumb between her thighs. Jane began to make those same strange sounds that I had heard the week before. Her breasts seemed to have expanded and her nipples poked out stiffly. Her cries got louder and Jane tossed her head from side to side. She pushed the palms of her hands into her breasts, pressing them against her nipples. Then she cried "Ohh, Ohh!, OHH!" and fell back onto the table, her feet drumming against it. I could see the muscles of her stomach clench and unclench. "Hunh!, hunh, hunnh!" she groaned. It sounded like she was asking a question but couldn't quite form the words. This groaning went on for at least a minute. The sheet beneath her thighs was drenched.
And then Jane began to pray. "Oh God, oh God," she cried, "Oh God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, God, God, God, oh God, oh my God, Oh, Oh, OH!" The "Oh's" and "Oh God's" continued for a while, building to a crescendo, them tapering off, then building again and then subsiding, over and over until Uncle Louie finally shut off the thumb. Jane relaxed and slumped into the bed exhausted. Uncle Louie rested his hand on Jane's cheek and gently stroked her hair, waiting for her to calm down.
Gradually, Jane's breathing returned to normal and I noticed another sound, like the cooing of a bird or the babbling of a young child. She was weeping. Her weeping continued for several minutes until her shoulders shook with sobs. Uncle Louie stayed by her side, stroking her face and hair. Up to this point I had observed the scene with a certain amount of detachment. It amazed and delighted me, my penis ached and throbbed insistently in my pants, but it was too strange and shocking for me to really know what to feel. Jane's tears changed all that; I knew what it was to cry. As I listened to her sobs, I seemed to feel them in my groin. But instead of sadness I felt a melting sweetness and heat that seemed to make my penis grow bigger than it ever had before, press up against my pants and ache ever so sweetly. My heart pounded in my ears and I felt an overwhelming sensation of bliss in my legs and groin. I had to struggle not to cry out loud. The overwhelming feelings continued for a while and then gradually subsided. I don't think I actually had a full blown orgasm but these feelings were stronger than any pleasure I had ever felt.
When I recovered I crept downstairs without looking back. I wondered if what I had felt was what Jane had been feeling. No wonder she wanted more treatments. The feeling was wonderful, but I had no idea how I could make it recur, except perhaps by observing another one of Uncle Louie's patients.
On Wednesday, I told Mrs. P. that I was now available to read on additional afternoons. She seemed pleased. "Whenever you want to come to me, dear." And so I started to attend her 2, sometimes 3 days a week. Since my plan would only work if Mrs. P. fell asleep, I was always on the lookout for long, boring articles, and thus formed a lifelong habit of reading the daily newspaper in its entirety whether or not there was anything in it to interest me. I read Mrs. P. articles about abstruse issues of fiscal policy, contemporary trends in veterinary practice, highway construction in Utah. I avoided anything that smacked of politics or real estate and I never even mentioned local marriages or deaths, which needlessly stimulated her. There were days when Mrs. P. managed to fight off sleep for the entire hour, and there were times when I myself dozed off, but occasionally, the gods smiled on me and things went as planned. What more can one ask?
Unfortunately, there were no more patients during the next 3 weeks, and I grew progressively more frantic. I was afraid I would never experience those blissful feeings again. And then one afternoon, when Mrs. P. went under rather quickly while I read her an account of weather conditions on Antarctica, I heard someone come in through the front door. I prayed that it was Jane. I slipped off my shoes and tip-toed up the stairs. My penis was already hard and sticking almost straight out. I crept to the edge of the curtain and peered through.
It was not Jane, and I practically groaned in disappointment. The patient turned out to be Mrs. Z., the wife of our family physician, Dr. Z. Mrs. Z was a charmless woman, detested by one and all, including, no doubt, her husband. She was also Dr. Z's receptionist and had managed to irritate everyone who had the misfortune to require medical attention. She was loud, coarse and abusive, but my mother had always said she had beautiful skin. I now saw that this was true. Mrs. Z's skin was indeed flawless, smooth and pearly white. Although she was thin, her legs were firm and muscled and her buttocks were suprisingly well rounded. She had a small clump of very dark hair between her legs. Otherwise, she was rather skinny and her chest was nearly flat.
I saw all this as Mrs. Z climbed onto the padded table and settled herself under the sheets. She did not bother to put on a gown. She closed her eyes, lay back and relaxed. She might have been taking a nap.
Soon Uncle Louie came in. He walked right over to her and uncovered her feet. She lay on her stomach with her eyes closed, breathing evenly. Uncle Louie began to massage the soles of her feet. He did this for some time and I noticed that after a while Mrs. Z's breath deepened. Then he gradually worked his way up her legs until he reached her buttocks, which he began to knead, at first gently but then with increasing force and roughness. Soon, her behind was a deep pink and she began to gently moan into the cushion, a quiet "Oh, hoo, oh," with each squeeze.
After a while Uncle Louie motioned for her to roll over and helped her turn onto her back. Her eyes were still closed. He placed his hands on the mound just above the place where her thighs met. I realized that this must be a magical place, the place where these blissful feelings originated. The mound was covered with a small blanket of very dark hair. Uncle Louie massaged it and I began to hear a squishy sound.
Without removing his hands, Uncle Louie switched on the machine with the rubber thumb. He brought the thumb over to where his hand was. While keeping his hand on her mound, Uncle Louie touched the thumb to the area just below it and moved the thumb around and back and forth, down between her thighs and then back up again.
Mrs. Z. had begun to moan more loudly now, "Ooh," when he brought the thumb up, and "Ahh," when the thumb went between her thighs. Although the rest of her body lay still, her hips rocked back and forth in response. This motion began to speed up until her hips moved up and down, up and down in almost a blur, and her moans ran together as a single sound. I expected Mrs. Z. to launch into a crying and groaning fit like Jane, but she did not. Her hips continued to rock back and forth against the thumb until she was out of breath and covered with sweat. Finally, Uncle Louie withdrew the thumb and put it down. Mrs. Z. lay on her back breathing heavily, her hips still moving in response to the thumb that had been removed.
Uncle Louie reached under Mrs. Z.'s back and turned her onto her side, facing away from him. He selected a second appliance from the table. This was also connected to an electric cord, but its attachment was thinner and longer than the thumb, more like a narrow test tube. Uncle Louie spread some vasoline on the narrow attachment and then switched on the machine. He brought the tip of the tube to Mrs. Z.'s behind and placed it between her buttocks. Mrs. Z. pressed back against it and it went a little ways in. While Uncle Louie held the tube with one hand, he brought his other hand around to her front and placed it between her thighs. I noticed Mrs. Z. was pushing back against the tube, trying to get more if it inside. Uncle Louie worked it gradually in and soon the entire length of the tube was inserted in Mrs. Z.'s bottom. She groaned loudly and seemed to be chewing on the inside of her mouth. Uncle Louie replaced the hand between her thighs with the thumb. Then he began to slowly move the tube in and out of her bottom.
Mrs. Z. now began to grunt. The sound was actually more of a low pitched, "Oh, oh, oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," as Mrs. Z. grew rigid and her legs began to shake. By this time, my penis was so hard and throbbed so strongly that I wanted to grunt along with her, but I forced myself to remain silent and still. Nonetheless, the pleasurable feelings in my groin were so intense that I was afraid that I would begin gasping or crying uncontrollably.
"Shit, shit, oh shit!" Mrs. Z. cried, while Uncle Louie held both tubes in place. Mrs. Z.'s cries stopped for a moment and she caught her breath. Then she started up again. This happened 6 or 7 times. At last, she began to howl, "ow, ow, ow ow OW!" Finally Uncle Louie switched off the machine and Mrs. Z. lay still.
After a while, Uncle Louie gently removed the appliances from between Mrs. Z.'s legs. She curled up in a fetal position with her hands between her legs, cupping the now very prominent folds of pink flesh below the mound. She lay like that for several minutes, completely relaxed. Every minute or so, her legs would shake and she would shudder briefly, but this gradually grew less frequent and finally, she rolled over on her back. Her flawless skin was completely pink and she was covered in sweat.
Uncle Louie said a few words to her and left the room. I felt it was time for me to go too. The feelings in my penis had calmed down. I had left Mrs. P. alone for at least half an hour. I crept back down to the sitting room where I found her fast asleep and picked up reading where I had left off.
That night in bed I reviewed the amazing events of the day, trying to understand what had happened to Mrs. Z. and to me. I never imagined that doing something that resembled having one's temperature taken with an oversized thermometer could bring on such intense and pleasurable feelings. And Mrs. Z.'s feelings had been mirrored in me. I knew that whatever those wonderful feeings were, my goal in life was to have more of them, and I quickly formed a resolution. I would become a doctor like Uncle Louie and in the meantime, I would observe as many of Uncle Louie's treatments as possible.
My next opportunity occurred 2 weeks later. I climbed the stairs and found myself staring through the curtains at the completely nude figure of an unfamiliar middle-aged woman with straight dark hair. Her clothes were piled on a chair. She stood with one foot on the chair, smoking a cigarette. She exhaled and watched the clouds of smoke drift across the room.
The woman not especially attractive. She was pale and fleshy and her legs and thighs were veiny, her shoulders slumped. She looked tired. As she raised her cigarette to her mouth I noticed her long, delicate hands and I realized this woman was none other than my piano teacher, Mrs. B.
Uncle Louie came in and Mrs. B. took a last drag and stubbed out her cigarette. She lay on the table face up, hands crossed behind her head, staring directly up at Uncle Louie. He gave her a brief little nod and went to work, vigorously massaging her legs, shoulders, neck and sides. Then he concentrated on her thighs, which he rubbed in long strokes starting at the knees and going all the way to the tops of her legs.
At this point Uncle Louie removed 2 straps from a shelf under the table and fastened them around the Mrs. B.'s legs, binding them firmly against the table. This seemed to relax Mrs. B., and she closed her eyes and lay still. Uncle Louie switched on the appliance with the thumb and held it suspended over her crotch for a few seconds. Then he lowered it to the hairy spot between her legs, and, barely touching the skin, passed it over and just to the side of the slit in the middle. I could tell when the thumb actually touched her skin because Mrs. B. gasped. This continued for a while, as the folds between her legs grew puffy and reddish pink.
Although Mrs. B. tried to get the thumb inside her legs, the straps held her in place and Uncle Louie kept it away from the exact spot that she wanted. At one point she managed to push this spot against the thumb for just a second and cried "Oh!" whereupon Uncle Louie put the thumb down, turned back to Mrs. B. and massaged her face, her arms and shoulders and then her legs and tummy. This seemed to calm her down. Finally, he brought the thumb back between her legs. This was repeated several times: the squirming until the she managed to work her crotch into contact with the thumb, her cry and Uncle Louie massage.
Ultimately, this activity made Mrs. B. even more excited. Her breath had speeded up, the folds between her thighs glowed a bright pink and stuck straight out, and her enlarged nipples poked straight out. Uncle Louie reached his free hand down and rubbed the skin between her legs. In fact, he actually seemed to be putting his fingers inside her because they disappeared between her legs and then reappeared in a kind of rhythm, which she punctuated with groans that sounded like "Oh, gaah, no." Uncle Louie now brought the thumb back down and held it between her thighs, and Mrs. B. began to cry "Noo, no, noo." She lay rigidly still, her face locked in a grimace, barely breathing. Then she began to breathe loudly, more of a cry really, getting louder and louder until she cried out a final, "No, no, no," and finally, she sank back onto the table. I saw that Uncle Louie had withdrawn his fingers although machine with the thumb still lay between her legs.
Mrs. B.'s breathing speeded up and I saw her stomach moving up and down. Soon she pointed her legs and gripped the thumb between her thighs and now she exclaimed, "No, no, noooo." Her groans continued for perhaps a full minute, and then she lay back and relaxed.
Uncle Louie switched off the thumb and placed it back on the table. He unbound Mrs. B.'s legs. Her pale skin glowed a deep pink. Uncle Louie took a white towel and dabbed her thighs and crotch. He draped the towel over her middle and left the room.
Mrs. B. rose and dabbed herself dry with the towel. Her chest glistened with sweat and some other fluid was spread over her inner thighs. Her skin still glowed, her dark red nipples stood out.
Mrs. B. walked over to the side of the table and picked up the appliance with the thumb. She held it in her hand and examined it. She rubbed her hands lightly over the tip, brought 2 of her fingers to her nose and sniffed them. Then she smelled the thumb. I heard the soft hum of the motor as she turned on the switch. Mrs. B. cupped her breast in her hand and brought the thumb up to it, passing it lightly on the area above the nipple, circling around it, rubbing and squeezing her breast with the other hand. The nipple grew even more response. She switched hands and cupped the other breast, caressing and kneading it, keeping the thumb in gentle contact with the area around the hardened nipple.
Now she moved the thumb down her chest and then lower down until it rested on her tummy with its end pointing down, touching the area just above her triangle of dark hair. She kept it there for a while, and before long, her hips began to rock back and forth. This rocking motion brought the thumb between her thighs, where it brushed against those fleshy folds and then back up again. Her eyes were closed now, her mouth open, her entire concentration on the place where the thumb met her skin. Her breasts, which were quite small, had enlarged, and their nipples jutted straight out. My penis was harder than it had ever been, poking out against my pants. My heart pounded in my ears and I struggled to breathe. Mrs. B. stood completely still, the machine jammed between her legs, thighs locked together, and slowly, her heels rose off the floor until she stood on tip-toes, seemingly suspended on the thumb.
By this time my penis was so hard that it hurt, my heart was beating wildly, and my whole body was coiled in a state of utter sexual tension. Mrs. B. brought one hand to her breast and flicked a finger rapidly back and forth across the nipple. When she began to gasp, "No, no, nooo," my orgasm began, deep wrenching spasms that made me rock back and forth as waves of blissful sensation passed over me. I heard myself crying out "Oh, oh, oh," and then my penis began to pump uncontrollably until my underpants were drenched. Mrs. B. staggered to her knees, removed the machine and shut it off. I struggled to catch my breath. Mrs. B. quickly got dressed while I made my way downstairs. I was dazed and my legs shook, but I felt strangely at peace. I knew that Mrs. B. had been satisfied too.
I was not able to read to Mrs. P for the rest of the week. Then, late one night, a terrible thing happened. Two men whom I did not recognize came to visit us. I was sent to bed while they sat around the kitchen table and talked to my parents. At first I thought they must have come about me. Someone had discovered my spying and I was going to be punished. But then I heard Uncle Louie's name spoken, and not in a friendly way. I knew that the men were warning my parents about Uncle Louie and giving them some advice.
After the men left my mother made a phone call, and later that night, close to midnight, Uncle Louie came over. Although I was supposed to be asleep, I was able to hear snatches of conversation. Uncle Louie had done something to make the men angry, very angry, and for everyone's good he would have to go away as soon as possible. I didn't realize how soon that was. The men had evidently thrown the fear of god into my parents, though I realize now that Uncle Louie was probably used to this kind of thing. He stayed up that night packing and by morning he was gone. He left an envelope for me with a 20 dollar bill, a fortune in those days. The envelope was addressed "To my assistant."
Uncle Louie's departure was a tragedy for me. The thought that I might never see another woman writhing in ecstacy and crying out her pleasure, that I might never have another fit myself, plunged me in despair. I craved that magical feeing, but I had no idea how conjure it up other than to return to Uncle Louie's office and watch Mrs. Z. or Jane or some other woman have another trembling and crying fit. Even the memory of it made my heart race and my breath quicken. It also made my penis hard, although I had no idea what to do about that, especially since I had been told that it was wrong to touch my penis unless I had a legitimate reason for doing so, like going to the bathroom or washing it in the tub, which gave me an idea.
What if I took a bath and in the natural course of things happened to wash my penis, and while I was washing my penis, I happened to think about what had happened to Mrs. Z? And what if, while I washed my penis imagining Mrs. B. standing in front of me on tip-toes suspended on the thumb, what if my penis got hard, and I continued to scrub it while thinking about Jane moaning and crying, even after my penis was clean? I had an idea that it might make the blissful feelings return. It was certainly worth a try.
So the next night, while my mom cleaned up after dinner and my dad read the paper, I climbed into the tub. After taking care of business, I lay back in the warm water and imagined Mrs. Z lying on the table in Uncle Louie's office. I visualized her lean, muscular body, her fleshy buttocks and little pointed breasts and imagined the grunting sounds she made as she shook and trembled against Uncle Louie's machines. Sure enough, my penis responded by growing bigger and longer, until it poked stiffly out of the water. For the first time, I noticed its skin had turned a deep pink and the purple head at the end had grown alarmingly large, larger than I'd ever seen it. All of this without my having touched it.
I wondered if it was safe for me to wash it in this condition. What if it kept growing didn't stop? How would I explain it to my parents? To Dr. Z? But an inner voice prompted me to continue. I had to find out if scrubbing my penis while it was poking out of the water would make those wonderful feelings return. Besides, I could always stop. So I went on. I applied soap to my hands and began to gently scrub the enlarged shaft.
As I rubbed up and down, it seemed to clench involuntarily and get, if anything, harder. It was a pleasant feeling, not overwhelming like with Mrs. B., but definitely good enough to make me want to continue. As I scrubbed in different places on the shaft, I noticed that my penis began to tingle and the purple head seemed pulse and expand. With each pulse a delightful surge of feeling traveled up and down the shaft. It was feeling very good now and I definitely didn't want to stop.
I realized that I hadn't yet washed the purple head, and since I was supposed to be washing the entire organ, not just one part of it, I left off what I was doing and started to rub the knob on top. This was a different feeling, delicious but almost too intense. I could only do it for a few seconds and then I had to stop. It made all the muscles in my stomach tense up and my penis clench inside too, and when I stopped I noticed I was breathing hard. But I wanted to do it again, it felt too good. And so I started rubbing the head again, for 3 or 4 seconds at a time and then stopping to catch my breath and let my muscles calm down.
This building tension felt different from anything I knew. It seemed as if something might break if I continued rubbing, but the rubbing begged to be continued, for each time I left off I found myself needing to rub some more. I looked down at my penis. It was very hard and very big. It glowed a deep pink. It was also very clean.
I applied myself to cleaning the engorged purple head and the tension rose to an unbrearable level, my knees began to shake, I couldn't stop the rubbing as my hands moved out of my control and then something seemed to surge and the feeling inside my penis exploded in a burst of incredible energy, and then the pumping began, a strong muscular pump, pump, pump as my penis shot out bursts of white liquid, a different feeling from peeing, opposite almost, and infinitely more pleasant. The pumping went on for some time and then gradually subsided. My cock was still hot and every so often pumped another involuntary spurt until it gradually returned to its normal size and shape. I sank back into the tub and found myself completely relaxed and filled with a sense of well-being and calm. So that was it. I had finally made myself come.
Although Uncle Louie only stayed for a few months, his effect on the town of L. was profound. Many of the formerly somnolent residents seemed to have revived and there was a burst of cultural and commercial activity. New shops opened. A community theatre started up. Romances blossomed. Even Mrs. Z. was a little nicer. For a while, the town seemed vibrant. But eventually, the effects of Uncle Louie's electro-therapy wore off. Mrs. Z. began snapping at the patients, Mrs. B.'s moods returned and Jane became withdrawn. She no longer gave me donuts or asked about my school work. As time went on, she spent less time in the store. Eight months after Uncle Louie's departure, she stopped coming in altogether.
I saw her a few months after that. My mother had sent me out to buy some groceries and Jane was at the register. The change was striking. She was pale and drawn and stood slumped over, gazing dolefully as she rang up the items. She handed me the change, and without meeting my eyes, murmured, "Do you ever hear from your Uncle Louis?" At first I didn't know who she was talking about. I had never heard him called Louis, only Louie, as well as a variety of derogatory terms. But then I realized who she meant. "Every so often," I lied. "He writes about once a month." As far as I knew he had never written. "How is he?" she asked. "Fine." She was waiting for me to tell her more. Finally she asked, "Do you know his address? I'd like to send him something." I had no idea what his address was, but I knew from my mother that he had settled somewhere in South America. "He's in South America." "South America?" She looked deflated. "Maybe you could call information," I suggested. She stared at me dumbly, in no mood for wisecracks.
After that, Jane dropped completely out of sight. My mother said she rarely left the house and sometimes remained in bed for days at a time. I decided I wanted to do something nice for her.
"Do you have Uncle Louie's address?" I asked my mother one afternoon. "Why?" "I want to write him." She looked at me skeptically. "Maybe he'll send me something for my birthday." My birthday was a month away. "I'll see if I can find it," she said, and sure enough, later that day she produced a small piece of paper with an address in Lima, Peru.
That Saturday I walked over to Jane's house. It was on the wealthier side of town, a 2-story colonial with a long curved driveway. It was incongruously grand for a grocer, especially one with no children. Some dogs barked as I crunched up the gravel. I rang the bell and waited. More barking. I rang again. Nothing. At last, footsteps and then the door opened. Although it was 4 in the afternoon Jane wore a rumpled house dress. She looked like she had just gotten out of bed, but she invited me in and led me into the kitchen which looked out on the backyard. Three large german shepherds romped in the yard.
I handed her the paper with Uncle Louie's address, and Jane read it silently. I visualized her in Uncle Louie's office, gown hiked up, feet drumming on the table, gasping and shuddering in ecstacy. This made my penis very hard and it stuck out visibly in my pants. Perhaps Jane read my mind or maybe just my crotch because when she looked up her from the paper, her face was flushed. Jane was not wearing any undergarments. I could make out the curves of her body underneath the house dress. I also noticed the circles under her eyes and her yellowing teeth. She smiled and mussed my hair. I shuddered, my knees buckled and I almost came.
Jane slipped the paper into the pocket of her house dress, walked to the refrigerator and took out a container of chocolate milk. She poured us each a glass. We sat at the table and drank while my hard penis tingled and throbbed in my pants. When we finsished our milk, I said goodbye and left.
Later that year, Jane and her husband took a cruise to Peru. When they returned 3 months later, Jane was transformed. Whatever Uncle Louie did this time seemed to last, and for the next few years, when Jane and I met in the store, we would exchange a secret glance.
Dan Singer