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From: Desdmona22@aol.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Photographs and Memories by Desdmona (MF rom)
Date: Thu, 26 Oct 2000 02:10:03 -0400
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The following is a work of fiction. If you're not suppose to be reading it 
then don't. If you're allowed to read it then I hope you enjoy it. This 
started out to be my contribution to the Halloween theme, alas, the story had 
its own idea.


Photographs and memories
All the love you gave to me
Somehow it just can't be true
That's all I've left of you

     - Jim Croce, Photographs and Memories


Photographs and Memories
By Desdmona
Copyright October 2000

I stood at the top of Mrs. McBride's staircase, zipping and snapping my 
pants. Her son Kenny, at the foot of the stairway, hadn't seen me coming from 
the bathroom. I watched for a minute as he tossed coats aside and rummaged 
through the women's purses. I saw him pick up a brown purse. It was my purse. 
He opened the wallet and hesitated. He looked carefully at a picture, 
caressed it with the tip of his index finger. He saw himself, and he saw me. 
He saw what we looked like at age seventeen: he with dark brown hair, nearly 
black, cut in the popular bowl cut of the seventies, light blue eyes, 
sparkling at the photographer in mock annoyance, slightly crooked teeth set 
in an unembarrassed grin and I with long, golden brown hair, green eyes, and 
a playful smile. He was frozen in time, just like I was every time I looked 
at that picture.

His name was Kenny McBride. He had lived two streets over from me when we 
were teens, and we had been very close. Kenny would drive past my house in 
his midnight blue Chevy Nova and turn around at the end of the street. I'd 
race down from my bedroom and out to the street and we'd sit in his car and 
talk or we'd ride around our small town and talk. Kenny always told me I was 
easy to talk to. I always thought he was easy to listen to. The shame of it 
all was that we had drifted apart as adults.

He closed my wallet without removing any money from it - a courtesy for old 
time's sake, I suppose. He busily snatched up another purse and, without 
wavering, plucked out the cash.

I couldn't bear to watch him any longer. I went down the steps slowly, but 
without making any special effort to be quiet. When he noticed motion on the 
stairs he jerked with fear of being caught. He looked up at me with those 
cadet blue eyes, filled with panic, and I watched them soften with 
recognition. His serious face gave way to a happy grin. Then it disappeared. 
He looked down at the open purse and his big hand buried inside of it. As if 
it had suddenly burned his fingertips, he dropped the purse on the couch with 
all the others. Then he looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

"It's not what you think, Fannie." His arms stretched out, with palms up in a 
plea, asking me for something. Was he trying to make me understand?

"I think you're stealing the cash from these ladies' purses." 

I stood on the stairs, looking down at him. The implication of being on a 
higher plane than he was not lost on me, but I didn't like it. I stepped down 
into the room and walked over to him. Now he towered over me. 

"It's not what you think, Fannie."

"So, you're taking the cash, but you're just counting it, and you're going to 
put it all back when you're done?"

"It's not what you think ... it's not what you think ... think ... think, 
Fannie." 

Kenny's face began to smudge. His words echoed and lost their volume. I tried 
to look at him, tried to see his eyes, his smile, his hair tossed casually 
over his forehead. I tried to hear what his lips were saying. It all blurred 
together. I blinked, trying to keep the erased edges from disappearing. He 
was gone.

"Fannie? Fannie? Can you hear me?"

"Kenny?" I said. No, it wasn't Kenny. It was a feminine voice I heard. 

"Fannie darlin', what's wrong!"

"Where's Kenny?" 

I blinked and looked around. The room was hazy. The coats and purses lay 
undisturbed on the couch. 

"Where's Kenny?" I repeated.

"Fannie, please, you're being mean." 

"He was just here. I saw him."

"Stop this Fannie, you know Kenny is dead."

Her words blared through the fog that was dulling my brain. Oh my god, yes, 
Kenny was dead. He had been dead for three years. He had died of a heart 
attack, alone in his semi at a truck stop. Someone had found him the next 
morning. He was dead. He wasn't in this room, stealing purses. He wasn't 
caressing the picture of him and me that was still in my purse after all 
these years. He wasn't standing in front of me with those smiling eyes, 
asking me for something. I shook my head to clear it.

"I must have dozed off, Mrs. McBride. I don't remember falling asleep but I 
must have, he was here. It had to be a dream. I'm so sorry. Please forgive 
me, I didn't mean to upset you."

Daisy McBride smiled at me in her wide-toothed, friendly grin. She patted my 
shoulder and spoke to me in her familiar country twang.

"It's OK Fannie, honey. You haven't been in this house for a long time. 
You're bound to have memories. I do." Her smile was replaced with anguish, 
the anguish of losing her son.

Silence seemed the best response. An easy quiet slipped between us and, 
without thinking, I hugged her. I let her grief and mine snuggle between us. 
She sniffled and then turned away from me.

"Fannie honey, I'm awful glad you decided to join us old folk. These Harvest 
parties get to be a little dull sometimes."

Mrs. McBride rubbed her arms. Her eyes were still moist with tears.

"Thank you for inviting me." I meant the thank you. I hadn't spoken to her 
since Kenny's funeral. Life had found a way to move on, and our paths were no 
longer connected. Her invitation had truly surprised and delighted me.

"Honey, it's been so good to see you. I hope you won't make yourself a 
stranger."

Her words allowed  me to take my leave, as she had intended. I had always 
liked Kenny's mother. I still did.

Later, while driving to work, I thought about seeing Kenny stealing through 
the purses. It hadn't seemed like a dream at the time. I don't know when 
reality had faded into dreaming. I remembered going to the bathroom. That was 
real, but I don't remember closing my eyes in sleep. This wasn't the first 
time I had dreamed of Kenny since his death, but this was the first time it 
seemed so real. I could smell his English Leather. I could hear the little 
twang in his voice, like his mother's. I could see the scar on his eyebrow 
from an old baseball injury. I expected memories to haunt me while I was in 
the house he grew up in. I didn't expect the more sensory ones like the sound 
of his voice and the smell of his favorite cologne. But I was willing to 
chalk it up to the surroundings.

Except when I walked into work, Marge, our secretary, asked me, "Did you talk 
to him today?"

Marge was an older woman from Jamaica. No one knew exactly how old she was 
because she refused to tell us. She had an uncanny way of knowing things. She 
could explain your dreams or the weird things that happened to you. Of course 
her explanations were vague and said in a way to make you think about the 
possible meaning yourself. But she was very good at prodding your thoughts in 
the right direction. 

"Talk to who, Marge?"

"You know."

Marge talked in a singsong way so that when she said "you know" it came out 
in four long, drawn-out syllables and ended with a little giggle.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about Marge." The hairs stood up on 
the back of my neck, and my palms suddenly felt moist.

She smiled but never looked up from her work when she said, "He's waiting for 
you."

I tried to press Marge for more information, but she just repeated what she 
had already said. Marge and I had discussed my dreams of Kenny, especially 
right after his death. She comforted me with her idea of their meaning. She 
told me when I dreamed of him it was because he had something to tell me. But 
that was all she would say. That was Marge's way - she always left you with 
the impression she knew more, but she refused to tell. Maybe she was afraid 
of changing an outcome. 

I went about my nightly work in the ICU, and by the time morning rolled 
around and my shift was over, I was too exhausted to think about my 
conversation with Marge.

I started driving home in the murk of consciousness that night shift workers 
are famous for, making turns you don't remember and finding yourself home, 
wondering how you got there. It was through that mental fog that I noticed, 
on the left side, set way off the road, an old, large barn. I had been 
driving down these same roads for five years - I didn't think it was possible 
to see anything that I hadn't seen before. On the side panel was an 
advertisement for Swallow's Root Beer. I could barely make out the frosty 
mug. Years of weather had muted the colors.  I shook my head in disbelief. 
The company had gone out of business years ago. It was produced locally, and 
Kenny's father had driven a truck for them. Truck driving was a family 
tradition. Kenny always drank a Swallow's. I remember him holding up a bottle 
once and asking me, "Do you Swallow?" 

Tiny shivers quaked through me. The wood was worn, but the slats remained 
intact. Obviously, the barn had stood there for years. How could I have 
missed it before? I heard Kenny's words, "Think Fannie." But I couldn't 
think, I was too tired to think, I was too tired to wonder about the 
coincidence, I was even too tired to let the trembling in my body concern me.

I zombie-walked my way into my house and dragged off my scrubs. I fell into 
bed and sleepily burrowed my way beneath the covers. 

His warm breath washed over my lips, tickling them. His tongue followed, 
tracing along the outer edge and then parted my lips to make his way between 
them. I moaned in pleasure. His mouth was humid. His lips were soft. His 
tongue wrestled with mine for space. A hand held my head in place with 
fingers wrapped in my hair. Another hand found its way to my thigh, warming 
my leg with the contact. The kiss succeeded in clearing my mind of 
everything, everything except that illicit hand inching its way up my thigh. 

It was hard to breathe. My pounding heart battled my lungs for freedom to 
expand. His kiss lengthened, leaving me completely breathless and unable to 
say a thing about his searching hand. That smooth hand inching its way to the 
top while his fingers toddled their way to the inside of my leg caused my 
muscles to tense. And still he continued, never slowing his kissing and never 
hurrying his hand.

With perfect timing, his fingers reached the soft outer satin of my panties 
just as his mouth drew me in deeper. He sweetly sucked on my tongue. My face 
heated. He had never touched me there before. 

"We shouldn't." I moaned, but I didn't mean it. I didn't want him to stop. I 
wanted to feel his fingers inside my panties. I wanted to feel his fingers 
inside of me. I wanted to feel his whole hand on my cunt. 

But it wasn't to be. The porch light flipped on. My parents were signaling 
for me to come in. 

I turned over in bed, shifting and sighing. It definitely wasn't a dream this 
time - it was a coveted memory. Kenny McBride had been the first boy to 
affect me so powerfully that I would have given myself to him, right there in 
his Chevy Nova, parking in front of my parents' house. But I never did. We 
got close several times but I always stopped it. As an adult, after we'd 
drifted apart, I regretted it. And when he died I mourned the missed chance 
even more. Regret gnawed at my gut now.

Sleep finally won out over the memories. When I woke, the bed was a 
disheveled mess. Usually after a long night at work I would climb into bed 
and sleep so motionlessly that the covers would look un-slept in. I must have 
been restless, but I didn't remember a thing.

The sun was dropping past the open window. The house was quiet with the 
exception of a soft breeze rustling through the curtains. It was a perfect 
autumn evening. I stretched in front of the window and marveled at the 
glorious orange and yellows of the huge tree in the side yard. Tears suddenly 
welled up in my eyes. I was reminded of a picnic. Through the blur of 
moisture I could see families gathered, children chasing one another, tables 
laden with potluck offerings. And Kenny and I huddled under a tree, side by 
side with our backs to the great oak. We sat with our knees up, allowing them 
to graze each other. Our shoulders touched, and our heads bent together, 
whispering. Mrs. McBride had hailed our attention and snapped a picture. 

I grabbed my purse and pulled out my wallet. The picture was still there. The 
edges were frayed with age. The colors were fading, but our faces remained, 
smiling, innocent and slightly annoyed at being disturbed. I had my hair 
pulled back at the sides and wore a favorite blue peasant blouse. Kenny was 
in jeans and a flannel shirt. And clasped in his hand that rested on his knee 
was a bottle of Swallow's Root Beer. 

I felt unnatural, haunted by memories of a young love that had never been 
consummated, almost obsessed with my past with Kenny. A tear dropped on the 
worn picture. I hurriedly wiped it off. "Oh Fannie, look what you're doing. 
You're going to ruin this picture with your blubbering." I slid the picture 
back in my wallet, reminding myself that the past was the past and there was 
nothing I could do to change it. 

Nighttime rushed over the sky, driving the sun to set. Clouds moved in, 
swirling in hazy shapes, blanketing the stars. The moon tried to peek 
through, but the clouds refused to allow it. As usual, because I had slept 
all day, I was wide awake. And I didn't have to work that night. The house 
was quiet. It made me feel antsy. I wanted to do something but I didn't know 
what. I wanted to go somewhere but I didn't know where. I fiddled around the 
house, making up chores. I finally decided to get out.

I hopped in my car and drove without a destination in mind. I found myself 
driving past Mrs. McBride's house. I half expected to see Kenny's Nova parked 
in the driveway. I thought about stopping but the house was dark. What could 
I say anyway? I couldn't tell Daisy that I was obsessing over her dead son. I 
couldn't tell her that I still remembered the way his lips would go soft and 
hungry when he kissed me. Nor could I tell her that I wanted to feel his hand 
on my thigh, or his body pressed against me, or more of him inside of me.

This was silly, and I knew it was silly. I turned to go home. The night 
remained black. The country roads were unlit. The oncoming headlights felt 
like eyes boring through me, seeing inside of me and exposing my obsession. I 
wanted the memories of Kenny to go away, and yet I held on to them, nursing 
them, replaying them over and over in my head. We were in a house, in a car, 
under a tree, touching, laughing, kissing, exploring. And stopping.

A faint glittering in the distance caught my eye. It wasn't a car. It was 
further off to the left. It came from the barn I had noticed that morning. 
Tiny flickers of light shot through the cracks of the wood. I thought maybe 
it was on fire, and my heart raced. Then I realized there was no smoke, only 
those brilliant flickers of light.

I pulled off the side of the road and sat there, staring at the barn. There 
were no houses around it. No cars near it. It was just a solitary building in 
the middle of a field. I was curious about the flickering. I gulped down the 
fear that climbed up the back of my throat. I had a cell phone in my purse. I 
could call for help if I needed it. 

I strapped my purse across my shoulder and started the hike across the field. 
The ground was soft from a recent rain, and my feet stuck in the mud, causing 
sucking sounds with every step. The brush was higher than it appeared from 
the road. It tore at my shirt and scratched my skin. I swatted an errant bug 
that had somehow survived the chilly autumn nights. 

I walked on. The barn was further away than I'd thought. My legs hurt from 
the constant pulling in the mud. My armpits itched with beads of perspiration 
forming. My skin stung from the open scratches. What was I doing? This was 
ridiculous. But I didn't want to stop. I wanted to see the Swallow's sign up 
close. I wanted to touch it. I needed to more than anything I could imagine, 
though I didn't know why.

The flickering seemed less brilliant as I got nearer. It dulled until it gave 
just enough light to outline the barn. The ground cleared and turned to soft, 
mowed grass. I walked to the panel with the aged Swallow's sign on it. Up 
close it was difficult to make out the picture. I raised my hand to touch the 
bottom of the painted mug. I could barely reach it. As my palm stretched out 
on the dilapidated wood, a tiny sputter of light shot through a crack and hit 
my hand.  

A shockwave rippled through me, and my mouth watered with the sweet syrupy 
taste of root beer brewed with hops, an unmistakable Swallow's taste. I 
pulled away and swallowed like I had taken a drink.  I imagined the 
carbonation burning my throat and tickling my nose. I closed my eyes and 
savored the memory.

I walked around looking for a way to get inside. A doublewide door with 
broken hinges slumped against the large front opening. There was just enough 
space to step under it. I wanted to go in, but I hesitated.  A faint glow of 
light danced against the worn door in broken images. I watched it. It was 
warm and inviting.

I ducked under the door to squeeze my way inside. My hair caught on a broken 
hinge, like a finger holding me back to give me a chance to reconsider. But I 
easily disentangled from it and stepped through.

The interior was washed with luminous light, but there were no bulbs. The 
space was empty. Solid beams supported the structure and were the only things 
disturbing the cleanly swept floor. 

But the walls were covered. Covered with photographs. Thousands upon 
thousands of photographs, lined side by side. They formed an enormous mural 
of images. 

There were portraits and snapshots, black and white stills, daguerreotypes 
and miniatures. There were wedding pictures and pictures of casual affairs. 
There were women and men, children and babies, and couples and families. 
Every emotion was characterized. A mother, with an infant on her lap, beamed 
with pride. A couple stared at each other dreamily. A soldier stood stiffly 
with a stolid expression. A bride smiled with hope filling her eyes. A family 
hugged with the joy of togetherness. There were so many I was overwhelmed. 

I reverently walked around, trying to see as many as I could. A child with a 
toothy grin sat waist high in scattered wrapping paper, holding up a toy 
train. A woman in black, with tear-stained eyes, cradled a flag. I could feel 
tears burning the back of my eyes. I didn't know any of these people, and yet 
I felt I knew them all. All these lives, connected and remembered through 
photographs.

On the far right side, close to the front, I noticed an empty space. It was 
just big enough to hold a two-by-three picture. The picture of Kenny and me 
was just that size. 
I opened my purse and found it. The edges appeared even more worn. The colors 
more faded, and there was a graininess to it that I hadn't remembered. It was 
just a picture, like all the others surrounding me. I wondered if my picture 
belonged there next to a sepia-colored print of a stoic gentleman with a 
handlebar moustache. Somehow I knew that it did. My picture symbolized a 
moment of living, just as all the others did.

My eyes blurred with tears as I fit the picture in the empty space. The 
lights dimmed. I could hear children laughing. And smell barbecue. 

"Fannie! Fannie! C'mon, what are you doing?"

"Kenny?"

"C'mon Fannie, geez, it's hotter than hell in this barn. What are you doing 
in here?"

"I came in here to ... to ..." I looked around, a bit flustered. "I don't 
know why I came in here."

"Well let's get out of here."

Kenny grabbed my hand and pulled me along with him. He had the biggest hands. 
Mine were lost in his grip. I liked it when he held my hand like this. I 
could always smell his cologne on my hand later, after he let go.

I squinted at the bright sun when we left the barn. The church picnic was in 
full swing. The older men sat in lawn chairs while the younger men discussed 
sports. Everyone was surrounded by clouds of smoke from the open barbecue 
pit. The women were preparing the tables and ooh-ing and ahh-ing over 
favorite recipes.

"Let's sit under that tree while we wait, Fannie. You know they'll make us be 
the last ones to eat. They always do."

"Shh, someone will hear you, and they won't let us eat at all."

We both laughed. Kenny grabbed a root beer and then plopped down under the 
huge oak that provided the only shade. I eased myself down along side him. 
Our shoulders touched, and he leaned over close.

"I like that top you're wearing Fannie," he whispered. "I can see your 
cleavage."

I smacked him on the arm and looked down at the front of my top before 
saying, "You can't either."

"Yes I can. I can see right where the lace on your bra is too."

I flushed with embarrassment. And thrilled at the idea he was looking at me 
like that. I deliberately crossed my arms over my chest in an effort to hide.

"Won't do you any good to hide it now, Fannie, I done seen it. Besides with 
your arms crossed like that, it just shows it off more."

He was right of course. I harrumphed and jerked my arms down to my sides. 
Kenny took my hand, placed it on his thigh, and covered it with his.

"Hey, you two! Smile!" 

"Geez, Mom. Another picture?" 

Mrs. McBride took snapshots at every occasion. Kenny stuck his tongue out at 
his mother then reeled it back in when she gave him a motherly look that 
seemed to say, "I'll cut that tongue out of your mouth, boy." 

Kenny relented. "You might as well smile, Fannie. She won't leave us alone 
otherwise." 

He made sure he said it loud enough for her to hear, and then he cocked a 
playful grin. She snapped the picture and turned to leave, adding over her 
shoulder, "And I can be a pest too when I put my mind to it. Where do you 
think you learned it?" With that, she was off. There were other unsuspecting 
subjects waiting everywhere.

"I like your mom, Kenny. She's just so nice."

"Yeah, I do too, but don't tell her I said so. I like being the thorn in her 
side, as she calls me."

He absent-mindedly began rubbing his thumb along the side of my palm. I 
lightly squeezed his leg and could feel the muscle of his thigh bunch up 
under my fingers. He scooted closer to me in response. Our hips met. We sat 
quietly enjoying the closeness. 

The crowds at the food tables slowly thinned. I looked over at him and gave 
him a wicked grin before saying, 

"I'll race ya to the food." 

I jumped up and ran to the first table before he could answer. He followed 
close behind, hugging me from the back when he caught up to me. He pulled me 
to him, and I felt his bulge pressing into my backside. I blushed and quickly 
looked around to see if anyone was watching us. Luckily, we'd gone unnoticed, 
but I wasn't willing to risk it again, so I eased away and began to fill my 
plate.

The eating tables were nearly full, so we had to sit across from one another 
and squeeze in. People were talking all around us. Boisterous laughter rang 
out as someone told a corny joke. I glanced over at Kenny. He smirked at me, 
and rolled his eyes at something someone said.

When the meal was finally over, the sun was setting. Kenny winked at me and 
tilted his head to the side, motioning me to leave. I couldn't wait to be 
alone with him again, so I hurried to tell my parents I was going with Kenny. 
They nodded their approval.

I met him at his car, breathless from running. He opened the door for me, and 
I scooted into the middle. He got in after me and, before turning the key, 
kissed me quickly on the mouth. I slumped down in the seat and lay my head on 
his shoulder. His hair swept over my nose. I could smell his Herbal Essence 
shampoo. It smelled good.

Kenny drove through town and went right on past the turn-off to my street. I 
didn't ask him where he was going. I wanted to be with him, so it didn't 
matter. When he pulled off into a hidden drive on the side of a cornfield, my 
nerves began to prickle. Before turning the engine off, he revved it loudly. 
My heart accelerated with it.

He didn't say a word; he just turned his head and pressed his full lips to 
mine. We kissed closed-mouthed, letting our lips slide across and cast 
together. His tongue wedged in between and parted my lips. My stomach jolted. 
I was jittery. His hand dropped to my thigh and I gasped.

"Kenny ..." My words were muffled between our mouths. He kept kissing me, 
licking my mouth. I kissed him back. His fingers began to move up my leg, 
beneath my scooter skirt. I breathed deeper and felt my chest expand so that 
my nipples grazed his chest.

"Mmmmm. Breathe like that again Fannie!"

I couldn't breathe any other way. His fingers were touching the inside of my 
thigh, and they were climbing higher.

"Kenny, you ... shouldn't, I ... shouldn't."

"Yes Fannie, this time we should. Let me Fannie. This time let me."

His words were soft and pleading. But his mouth was demanding and cut off any 
objection I might have made. He slipped his hand up to my panties. I 
shuddered and pulled my mouth away to bury my face into his shoulder. His 
middle finger dug beneath the elastic and furled its way through my pubic 
hair. I should have made him stop, but I didn't want him to. And he didn't. 
His finger traced up my slit and then poked between.

"Geez Fannie, you're so wet."

"I'm sorry, is that bad?" I refused to lift my head up off his shoulder.

"Hell no, Fannie! It's the best thing I ever touched. Let me touch more, 
Fannie. Please. Take off your skirt."

"I don't know, Kenny. I'm scared."

"Don't be scared Fannie. I won't ever take nothing from you that you don't 
offer me."

I pulled back away from him and shakily undid the button at the back. I 
couldn't look at him when I slipped off my skirt. I couldn't believe I was 
doing it. We had never gone this far before. I still couldn't look at Kenny. 
He cupped his hand over the cotton panel of my underwear between my legs.

"God Fannie, you're so warm. I can feel heat all over my hand."

I looked at him then, his eyes were glossy, even in the dim light of evening. 
He was excited, I could see it on his face. He held his hand motionless for a 
second, and then grabbed the edges of my panties in his fist. His knuckles 
slid over the ridge of my groin. Cool air rushed in, over my exposed pussy. I 
trembled and fell forward against his chest, burying my face again. It felt 
so terrifyingly good.

"I want these Fannie, can I have them?"

"My panties?"

"Yeah, can I?"

"Uh ..."

"Say I can, Fannie."

"All right. You can."

He immediately grabbed the top edge of my panties and drew them downward. I 
closed my eyes, feeling but not looking.

"Lift your hips."

I did as he asked, and the fabric slipped along my thighs and stuck 
momentarily between my legs. He tugged a little and they popped free. He hung 
them on his rearview mirror. I was naked from the waist down and shivered 
with the thought of it. I closed my legs in a feeble attempt to conceal my 
nakedness.

"Don't hide from me, Fannie, let me see you. I want to see you so bad."

His big hands gently touched my legs and persuaded them open. 

"Damn Fannie, I can see you. I can see you and I can touch you and I can 
smell you."

As he spoke his fingers slipped beyond the pubic hair and into my core. I was 
slippery with moisture. He petted me up and down in feathery strokes. His 
fingertips found the nub and pinched it lightly. It burned and I moaned.

"Oh, what was that? It feels so good. Do that." I lay back on the car seat. 
My hand hit the door above my head and I grabbed hold of the window seal. He 
ran his finger down and around the rim of my pussy before sliding up and 
pinching me lightly again. I felt like begging.

"More, I want more Kenny, please, I want to feel you inside of me."

"Are you sure, Fannie? Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm sure ... I'm really sure, please just do it."

Kenny fumbled with his jeans and then his briefs. I didn't watch. He propped 
himself over me and leaned his face down to mine.

"Are you really sure, Fannie?"

"I promise I am, Kenny. I promise. I want more. I want it. I want you."

Kenny eased further down on me and pushed my leg off the car seat. His hand 
reached down and I knew he had grabbed his penis. He ran the tip of it along 
me and I nearly bucked him off when it touched my clitoris. He groped around 
for my hole and finally found it. He shoved against it and I felt the head of 
his cock pop just inside. His hips pitched forward. I felt the tearing and 
the burning so quickly it was too late to stop it from happening. I screamed 
without meaning to. He stopped immediately and held still.

"Oh, god Fannie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I didn't mean to."

I forced back the tears. "I'm OK, Kenny. I'm OK"

"You want me to stop?"

"No, don't stop, just wait a second."

Kenny held himself perfectly still. His arms wobbled and sweat beaded on his 
face. I moved a little. The pain had lessened. I raised my hips up to him, 
allowing his penis deeper inside of me. I felt so full. He slowly moved his 
hips away and then towards me again. His cock slipped down and back. He 
repeated it. Again. Then again. And still again. I could feel the ripples and 
contours of him, slipping in and out. The pain dulled to nothing. Then 
nothing turned to yearning. Each forward thrust caressed me. Teased me. I had 
the urge to spread my legs as far apart as they would go. I wanted to be 
open. I wanted him to be in me as far as he could go. And he was. He was 
buried in me, swashing my pussy.

I tried to savor every detail. The way his penis expanded and touched deeper 
inside of me. The way his face contorted in concentration. The way his skin 
gleamed with sweat. And the way his shirt flapped between us. The way my body 
shook with my climax. The way it quivered to my toes. The way it strengthened 
with his thrusts. And the way it deepened when he delved inside of me.

"Fannie, I'm going to come Fannie, I'm going to come." And he did. I could 
feel warm flushes of something coating me, then balmy fluid trickling out 
around him, between us. He sank onto me, sucking in air.

"Man! Think Fannie, think, we finally fucked."

I couldn't help but think. Feelings rushed through my head with sparkling 
speed. We had fucked and it felt so right. It hurt but it wasn't too bad. 
There was a smell to fucking that I hadn't expected. I was a slippery mess. I 
never knew I could get this excited. I wouldn't get pregnant this close to my 
period. Oh my god, Kenny and I had finally fucked. 

"We did it Kenny, we did it and I'm so happy we did."

He didn't answer. The weight of him shifted. I didn't feel warmly cocooned 
anymore. I tried to see his face. I tried to smell him. I tried to hear his 
breathing.

"KENNY!"

"Fannie? Fannie, can you hear me?" 

"Kenny?" No, it wasn't Kenny, it was a feminine voice speaking.

"What's wrong with you, Fannie?" 

"Kenny, where's Kenny?"

"Fannie honey, don't be mean."

"He was here, I was with him. He was just here."

"Fannie honey, you know Kenny's dead."

I looked around the room. Purses and coats lay undisturbed, on the couch. I 
could hear murmured voices from another room. I looked at Mrs. McBride 
hunkered over from the passage of years. Her features tightened and her eyes 
misted over. I could see her suffering in the way her mouth twitched at the 
corners.

"I'm so sorry." I touched her hand and she grasped on to mine, squeezing it 
gently. Our eyes locked. Pictures of Kenny flashed by. And the moment passed. 
Her features softened. She cleared her throat and released my hand before 
saying,

"It's OK Fannie, you must have been dreaming." 

I responded without hesitation, "No Mrs. McBride, I wasn't dreaming." I 
smiled knowingly. "I was remembering."

The End
Photographs and Memories by Desdmona
Copyright October 2000

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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