Message-ID: <39259asstr$1037002206@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
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X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 10 Nov 2002 21:23:44 EST
Subject: {ASSM} (Song Fest) RP: Photographs and Memories by Desdmona (mf rom)
Date: Mon, 11 Nov 2002 03:10:06 -0500
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The following story contains scenes of a sexual nature. If you're not 
supposed to be reading this, then don't.

In honor of ASSTR's anniversary, I offer this story as part of the Song Fest.

********************************************************
Photographs and Memories
By Desdmona
Copyright October 2000


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


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."
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