index


Message-ID: <49539asstr$1098252601@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Laura Alban Hunt Ch 24 {Gina Marie Wylie} (Ff, cons)
Lines: 1282
Date: Wed, 20 Oct 2004 02:10:01 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d




_________________________________________________________________
On the road to retirement? Check out MSN Life Events for advice on how to 
get there! http://lifeevents.msn.com/category.aspx?cid=Retirement

<1st attachment, "Laura Ch 24.doc" begin>

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	The following is fiction of an adult nature.  If I believed in
setting age limits for things, you'd have to be eighteen to read
this and I'd never have bothered to write it.  IMHO, if you can
read and enjoy, then you're old enough to read and enjoy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	All persons here depicted are figments of my imagination and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly a blunder on my
part.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	Official stuff:  Story codes: Ff, Cons.

	If stories like this offend you, you will offend ME if you read
further and complain. Copyright 2004, by Gina Marie Wylie.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	I can be reached at gmwylie98260@hothothotmail.com, at least if
you remove some of the hots.  All comments and reasoned
discussion welcome.

Below is my site on ASSTR:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gina_Marie_Wylie/www/

My stories are also posted on StoriesOnline:
http://Storiesonline.net/

And on Electronic Wilderness Publishing:
http://www.ewpub.org/

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Laura Alban Hunt

Chapter 24 -- What Laura Read in the Good Book Part 1

	Call me Peggy.  I was born on New Year's Day, 1902 on the
kitchen table of a small ranch in Texas, near Brownsville, during
a winter storm.  I was the third of five children, the only girl
among them.  I was bright and quick, a cheerful child; so much so
that people would come up and compliment my mother about how
wonderful a daughter she had.   

	In 1918, when I was sixteen, my two older brothers were killed
within days of each other in France, fighting near Verdun.  These
days, families are spread out, decentralized; call it what you
will.  In those days, families were tight-knit groups.  It was
where social life began and ended.

	Both of my parents were devastated when my brothers were killed,
my father most of all.  His first reaction was to turn from the
light, changing overnight from a loving, caring father to a
sodden drunk.  Two months later he nearly died, passed out in a
puddle in the middle of the road.

	A day and a half after that he was standing in a Baptist church,
singing hymns and taking Jesus as his savior.  I was mostly
confused by all the changes.

	I had done well in school, so well in fact, that my father
suggested I attend the University.  Thus, in 1920, I commenced on
a course of study at the University of Texas in Austin, planning
on becoming a teacher.

	I grew up on a ranch with four brothers.  My school had only
twenty-five students in my age group, nineteen boys and six
girls.  I was considerably more athletic than most girls, and
even more so than most at the University.  I had played
basketball in school, but what I found at the University was very
different, at least for women.  But I enjoyed it, and kept at
it.

	I graduated with honors in 1924 and found a job teaching Social
Studies and English in Brownsville at the high school. 
Dissatisfied with that, I moved to a grade school the next year
and taught eighth grade.

	Looking back now, it was clear why I did not like teaching in a
high school.  The boys were Texans, through and through.  Brash,
loud, and not terribly respectful of their teachers, particularly
a woman.  Particularly a woman new to the classroom.

	It was 1926 when I began to realize my true nature.  I agreed to
coach the girl's basketball team for an extra ten dollars a year;
it might not sound like much, but in those days it was a princely
sum.

Dating was not what it came to be; society was very different
from what it became.  In those days if an unmarried woman became
pregnant she was faced with two choices: immediate marriage to
the first man who would say yes or social ostracism for the rest
of her life.  It was not a real choice.  There were no condoms,
no birth control... just fervent prayers.  All too many of my
peers ended up married, because fervent prayers are trumped every
time by raging hormones, wiggling sperm and welcoming eggs.

	 A lot of people would look at the picture I took of my
basketball team that year and not believe it.  I mean, it was
Texas, right?  Before civil rights and all that came with it. 
One of the girls was black, another brown.  And in that picture
are the threads that would string the rest of my life together. 
Nettie Jones had her arm around Clara Denham's neck in the back
row and Clara had her arm around Nettie's waist.  None of the
others are touching.

	And sitting in the front row, a small smirk on her face was Jane
Crawford.  In the picture, Jane's hair was shorter than most boys
in those days, and I was another month from learning why she was
smirking.

	We practiced often, usually twice a week and during our very
short basketball season, three and four times a week.  It did not
take me long to conclude that Nettie and Clara had what was
considered an "unwholesome" relationship at the time.  I was not
sure what to do, but one thing I was certain of: bringing them
before anyone official would be a terrible thing.

	Then, one afternoon after a practice, I found them kissing
passionately in a dark corner of the changing room.  I ordered
them both up to my office and told them that there were things
ladies did... and things they did not, ever, do.  And they were
far beyond the bounds of things proper ladies would engage in.

	Clara had always seemed like the smarter girl, but it was Nettie
who spoke, and spoke emphatically.  "You think that is so, eh? 
It is not!"

	"Girls your age should not kiss anyone," I told her, a little
angry, but more afraid.

	"Girls our age are getting married in places," Clara said,
belligerently.  "They get pregnant and that is that."

	"That is why you should not kiss anyone," I told them primly.

	"We do a whole lot more than kiss!" Nettie said, laughing.  "And
we ain't gonna get pregnant, not no how, not no way!"

	"I am not going to argue with you," I told her.  "It is simple.
Stop, or I will ask you to leave the team."

	The two traded glances.  "Just look the other way," Clara said
after a second.  "We will be more careful, too."

	"It is not right," I said, shaking my head.

	They traded glances again.  "You should talk to Jane," Nettie
said finally.  "You talk to Jane.  Then we will listen."

	"What has Jane got to do with this?" I asked, a little
exasperated.  It sure seemed like they were trying to buy time.

	"Talk to her, please," Clara pleaded.  "She explains things
better than we do."

	I had little more than a year of experience teaching by then; I
hated it when high school students had defied my authority; now
it seemed like it was happening again. At least they were more
polite.

	I did not want to remove two of my better players from my team,
and there was no doubt that if I said anything about this or
tried to make an issue out of it, a huge wall of mud was going to
dump on them.  So I temporized, and told them I would think about
it.

	That evening, Jane showed up at the rooming house where I rented
a room.  I walked outside with her, down to a small area of
trees, not far from the ocean.

	"We all been friends," she told me, "since we were little.  All
of us.  We made a pledge to ourselves; we were going to go to
school until they stop us.  We deserve an education every much as
boys do."

	I nodded and told her I had gone to the University myself, the
only person in my family to ever do so.

	Jane stared at me for a few seconds. "You got a beau?"

	"That is none of your business."

	"You are kinda old, you know?"

	Of course I knew.  I was twenty-four.  I was the only girl in my
high school class not married a month after we graduated and who
had not become a mother within a year.  Half of the women I
attended the University with were married already as well.

	"I am wondering," Jane said, her voice soft and mild, "maybe you
might not like boys that much."

	"I like boys just fine.  I just have not met one I want to
marry."

	"Been kissed?"  Jane asked and I blushed.

	"It is none of your business, girl!" I said sternly.

	She laughed at me.  "Nope, never been kissed!  Miss, before you
do anything about Nettie and Clara, think about one thing.  I
have kissed them both.  I have kissed every girl on the team. 
Every last one.  And I have had my fingers under their skirts
too."

	I was staring, stunned, while Jane continued on.  "And you know
what?  Every last one of them has had her fingers under my skirts
as well.  Inside, too.  That place."

	I blushed, turned and ran for my room.  I knew about fingers and
that place.  I surely did.  I had also heard often enough that
such things were the devil's work, self-abuse and worse.  None of
that had stopped me, though.  Late at night, many, many times I
found comfort and solace with my hand, so much so that I never
needed a man, I never needed to risk everything on something so
dangerous.

	The next day no one said anything and we did not have a
practice.  The day after that we did practice.  The girls played
very aggressively, easily much better than they had been playing.
 I applauded them all, afterwards, in the changing room.

	Jane stood up, and the others did as well, gathering around her
like a choir backing up a lead tenor.  "We took a vote.  Nettie
and Clara were wrong to be doing that, where you could find them.
 We agreed that you should give them six whacks on their bare
butts, each.  Then, since I am the ringleader, a dozen for me."

	"I should just go to the Principal and tell him about this."

	"You do that, and we all promised.  Each of us will name all the
others as being part of it.  You do that and you ruin all of our
lives."

	"And I am supposed to just spank a few of you and let it go?"  I
was dumbfounded at the arrogance in the girl!

	"Yep!" Jane agreed.  "Unless you want to lose us all, that is
what we decided."

	She waved and Clara put her thumbs in her skirt and pushed it
down over her hips.  A second later her undies and stockings
followed.  She turned around and grabbed her ankles, wiggling her
backside in the air.

	My throat had gone dry the instant I saw her sex; now it was
there, wiggling at me.  Her nether lips were clearly visible from
where I stood.

	"Go ahead, Miss, spank her.  A half dozen with your hand," Jane
reminded me.

	Dazed, unable to stop myself, I stepped forward and brought my
hand down on her bottom.  It was not a very hard blow, and my
hand rested on her warm skin for a second.  A second blow and I
was dizzy, my ears were ringing.  A third, and I saw a trickle of
moisture emerge and run down her leg.

	I knew what that was!  I got wet there myself when I used my
hand!

	The next time could hardly be counted as a blow, and I found
that she really was wet down there.  Very wet.  My fourth blow
was simply running my hand over her bristly fleece.

	The last two were more caresses and not blows.

	I stood breathing heavily, my face flushed with embarrassment.

	"Now you are getting into the spirit of things, Miss!"  June
told me.  "Now a half dozen for Nettie!"

	I had never seen a black person partially nude before; it was
not much different from Clara; darker skin, puffier lips, her
hair down there was softer than Clara's.  And she was nearly as
moist.

	I just rested my hand on her bottom, my fingers lying along the
crack in her lips.  I looked at Jane.  "I can not do this."

	"Go ahead," Jane said, "rub her.  You want to do it; you can not
tell me you do not.  Just pretend it is yourself.  You do rub
yourself?"

	I nodded, still numb.  My fingers had moved, lightly stroking
Nettie's pussy lips.  She wiggled a bit, getting more contact
with my fingers.

	I looked down.  I was about to do something unspeakable to a
thirteen-year-old girl; something I had trouble admitting I did
to myself, even in the privacy of my own room.

	Nettie spoke quietly, "Do me, Miss!  Do me!  I am dripping!"

	So, I did it.  My finger penetrated her, sliding inside her
moist tunnel, then I started rubbing.  After a minute or so,
Nettie let out a sigh and pulled away.

	"You do that good!" she said, a big smile on her face, as she
pulled up her skirt.

	Jane walked up to me and stopped, standing just inches away. 
Without a word, she took my hand, and led it inside her skirt,
where it turned out; she was not wearing anything under it.  "My
turn," Jane breathed softly.

	I was damned for all eternity; I knew it.  I found she was moist
and slippery and my finger fit inside her perfectly.

	Jane smiled and closed her eyes, but started talking as I
pleasured her too.  "We are like the ten musketeers, Miss. 
Today, you will stand in front of each of us and bring us off. 
Tomorrow, after practice, why, all of us will return the favor."

	It took about five minutes for Jane to achieve her pleasure.  
Then, one after another, I stood in front of each of the others
and did the same to them, including the twin seventh graders. 
The last was Arlene, the Mexican girl.

	Arlene was taller and huskier than the others, with wild curly
hair that sprouted in all directions.  Unlike her teammates, when
I started rubbing her, she reached out and cupped my breast
through my blouse and started rubbing it.  I found myself rubbing
her harder, my finger pistoning in and out of her.  In a few
seconds, both of us gasped at about the same time as we reached
our climaxes.

	When I turned, the others were all watching, eyes bright.

"Now you know our secret," Jane said calmly.  "Except if you
tell, you tell on yourself.  Tomorrow, we will take turns rubbing
you; and then none of us can tell, because we would be telling on
ourselves as well."

The next day, when I rose to dress, I stared at myself in the
mirror over the dresser.  I was damned, I was sure of it.  All of
the sins and wickedness of the flesh my father had talked about
when I still lived at home did not begin to compare with what I
had done with those girls.  I tried to think, but pictures would
flash into my mind of Nettie, of Arlene and Jane.  I experienced
the same smells, the feeling of exhilarated excitement that was
beyond compare.

I knew the devil had me in his grip, that I was doomed.  All my
life I kept myself pure in the certainty that someday the right
man would come along and we would marry.  Then there would be a
small house, children, and a life like I had known as a girl,
stretching out into some distant, unknowable future.  And I had
thrown it all away.  For what?  A moment's pleasure that had not
even been mine?  The promise of pleasure to come?

I dressed more conservatively than usual; I was quite prepared to
let the girls practice as usual after school, then come back to
my room, without tasting any more of the forbidden fruits.

Jane was in my class; there was no avoiding her gaze all day
long.  Her smile, her dancing eyes.  At lunch I saw them all
sitting together at their two tables, pushed together. 
Chattering away as schoolgirls do, as I had once done when I was
their age.  Except when I was their age, I had not even
discovered pleasuring myself; that had come in my first year of
high school.

During practice, it was impossible not to see the smiles that
came my way, the whispers into a teammate's ear.  And when I
called on them to stop, they trooped quietly to the changing
room.

I went and leaned against a wall, unsure of myself, my heart
hammering.  And Jane and Arlene came for me and I followed along,
unsure why I was so docile.  Jane had me lift my skirts and then
put her hand there, rubbing me as I had rubbed her the day
before.

When my release would not come, she kissed me on my lips, full
and hearty and then I did come.  Nettie was next, and she too
kissed me full on the mouth; I had no trouble achieving release
almost at once.  Then Clara, who not only kissed me, but touched
my breasts.

After Clara, the two seventh grade girls, Jill and Lynn Holmes,
took their turns.  They were fraternal twins, different in many
startling ways.  Jill just kissed me and rubbed my breasts, but
Lynn was more aggressive, as she was when they played.  Lynn did
not put her finger inside me to give me pleasure, she sought out
the little nubbin that even the lightest contact would rouse me
to a great heights.  Which is what happened when Lynn rubbed me
there.

Arlene waited until last again.  I was breathing hard, still in
disbelief that I would permit such a thing to happen to me.  And
Arlene, as she had been the day before, was different than the
others.  She kissed me, unbuttoning my blouse until her hands
could roam free on my breasts.  I was beyond caring what would
happen if someone would come in; and when Arlene dropped and
kissed my breasts, I ran my fingers through her wild hair, and
felt wild abandon myself.

	She pushed my underwear down and then ran her fingers over my
sex, and I trembled with my release.  Then she sank to her knees,
using her hands to spread my legs a little further apart, then
kissed me where I had never imagined one person would kiss
another.

	Beyond where I was standing, Jane was kissing Linda Collins and
both had their hands down the other's skirt.  Shirley Wills was
kissing Lynn Holmes, while rubbing under Jill's skirt.  Clara had
Nettie's blouse off and was kissing her breasts.  Their other two
teammates, Joanna Ridge and Beverly Miller, were kissing
passionately as well.

	Arlene sucked on my nubbin, her tongue ran over it and I was
transfixed as my world shimmered in glorious lights and sound and
my legs nearly collapsed under my weight.

	It took another twenty minutes for everyone to become
presentable again.   I told them that they were to tell anyone
who asked that I had held them over for extra practice and a pep
talk.

	After that, the first practice of a month was longer than usual.
 I found that I could lock the changing room doors so that no one
could enter, without my unlocking the doors first.

	Arlene, even though she was not in my class, would stop in after
school on days there were no practices and we would talk about
our families and our lives, about goings on in Brownsville and in
Texas.  Twice that fall, Arlene and I were alone at something
other than a practice, where we kissed and touched.

	I had long since made peace with myself about the fact that I
enjoyed touching the girls and that being touched back was a
wonderful feeling.  Again, my realization was slow that there was
something different about the girls on the basketball team,
different than the other girls their age.  Some of the other
girls smoked and some drank.  Not my basketball team.  Other
girls got in trouble and mine did not.  Other girls in my class
laughed and giggled, flirting with boys.  My basketball team did
not.  They had better grades than most everyone else, too.

	In short, I realized one day in the early spring, they were head
and shoulders more mature than their peers.  And that spring
something else happened: we won our games.

	In those days, there was serious concern, particularly from
older people, that girls should not compete, that it was not
feminine or ladylike.  But there were already women athletes that
were famous in tennis and golf, figure skating was an Olympic
sport, and women's basketball had been a demonstration sport in
the 1924 Olympics.  The team wanted to win, I wanted to them to
win.  We practiced as hard as we could and by the end of March we
were the girl's basketball champions in the area around
Brownsville.

	There was no state competition that year, not for grade school
girls, so that was that, pretty much.  The high school coach,
Mrs. Gillespie, had been to several of our games and was eagerly
awaiting their graduation.

	Howard Holmes, Jill and Lynn's father, offered us a special
treat.  He had, he said, a small lake well stocked with fish.  We
could come up on a Friday after school, he would supply barbeque
fixings and then we could spend the next two days, relaxing. 
There was a cabin at the lake, he told me, and it would easily
sleep a dozen people.

	There were no problems arranging things, and one day after
school we boarded Mr. Holmes' stake-bed Ford truck and rode out
to his ranch and the lake.  It was a nice cabin, and there really
were a half dozen bunk beds in each of two bedrooms and a full
sized bed in a third.

	After showing us the cabin, he told Jill and Lynn they were to
be the hostesses and left in his truck.

	We ate barbeque beef and fresh-caught bass and catfish from the
lake; we even played a little basketball on the hard clay
driveway that led to the cabin, which had a basketball hoop
placed off to one side of the main door.

	By the time the sun was down, everyone was tired, but happy. 
Instead of sleeping in the bunks, we spread blankets on the
floor, and as soon as the lights were out, people were kissing
and touching.  That night was the first night I made uninhibited
love to Arlene, right next to Clara and Nettie.

	By the time Mr. Holmes fetched the truck on Sunday afternoon,
there was not a girl on the team I had not brought to orgasm, and
who had not returned my attentions in full measure.  I spent more
than my fair share of time with Arlene, but there was no one I
slighted.

	After that the school year seemed to blur by like lightning. 
The school board offered me a nice raise, by their standards, to
return and I agreed.

	Twice during that summer I spent time with Arlene; the last time
on a weekend visit to the ocean, where we stayed in a hotel.  We
made love often that weekend, but at the end Arlene told me that
in high school things were going to be different.  I understood
and while I felt like a lot of joy and pleasure had gone out of
my life, at the same time I felt a small burst of relief that
there had been no indiscretions.

	In the fall, I had five new eighth-grade girls join the team and
three new seventh graders, only Jill and Lynn returned from the
prior year.  I talked to each of the girls before the first
practice; both of them were unhappy, they really missed the other
girls and were not in the least ashamed to tell me they missed
the sex they had the year before.  The new girls, Lynn told me,
were not like their older friends.  They were still seeing the
others, but they were going to miss the "extra practice"
sessions.

	One of the new girls was Jenny Curry, a slender but tall girl
(for those days, she was five eight) with flaming red hair and a
face full of freckles.  Almost at once, Lynn fell madly in love
with her and the two of them became good friends.

	Jill fell in with Anna Brown, one of the seventh grade girls. 
Anna was a little on the heavy side, but she had more spirit than
most of the other girls.  One of new eighth grade girls was
Patrice Jones, Nettie's sister.  Nettie told me that her sister
did not even seem interested in masturbation.

	We went on a class outing, walking about a mile to the
newspaper, where for most of the day we were shown the presses
and typesetting equipment, then allowed to visit the reporters as
the premier event of the day.

	When we finished, school was out for the day, and most of the
class evaporated there downtown, a lot of them to go window
shopping.  Patrice stuck next to me, as I made my way slowly back
towards the school.

	"My sister says, if I have a problem.  That I should talk to
you."

	"If there is anything I can do to help, I will.  Not just for
girls on the team, but anyone in school," I told her.

	She lowered her voice.  "I have this itch," she waved in the
direction of her midsection.  "There, that place.  I scratch it
and it feels almighty good.  I heard tell that bad things happen
to people who do that sorta thing."

	"That is not true," I told her.  "A lot of people do it."

	"That is what Nettie said, but sometimes she likes to pull my
leg.  I never know."

	"Trust me, Patrice, other girls have the same itch.  The trick
is not to let a boy scratch it."

	"I look at Charlie Foster and I surely think about letting him,"
she told me.

	"Patrice, it is not easy, you have to be strong.  Scratching
that itch yourself is a lot better than letting him do it."

	She lowered her voice again, "I think Nettie's letting that
girl, Clara, scratch her itch."

	"Patrice, I grew up with two older brothers and two younger
brothers.  The only way we got any privacy was to look the other
way.  We made a deal, when we were little.  You can not help
seeing things when there are seven of you living in a
three-bedroom ranch house.  You look away, and if you can not,
you pretend you did not see anything.  Because if you start
telling on each other, you would never have any privacy again."

	"You do not think that is a sin?  Two girls like that?  Kissing
and things?"

	"Patrice, I am not God and I have not been put in judgment over
other people.  You consider what it would be like if Nettie was
fooling around with some boy.  Your sister has dreams, Patrice. 
Dreams of going to college.  Dreams of becoming a teacher -- a
baby would pretty much end those dreams."

	"Nettie is really smart," Patrice agreed.  "You are right about
a baby."  We walked in silence for a while.

	"Miss, is that why you ain't married?" Her question came out of
the blue.

	I tried to sound normal.  "No, I have not met a man I want to
scratch my itches," I said, trying to be humorous.  "My own hand
does plenty well enough."

	"You do it?"  She seemed shocked at the thought.

	"Yes.  I suspect a lot of women do.  I do not have the nerve to
ask them, though."

	She looked at me.  "You let me ask."

	"You are Nettie's sister.  She is a dear friend, as well as
someone who was once on my basketball team.  You let friends and
friends of friends ask questions... and you give honest answers.
That is what friends are for."

	"Last year, there were extra practice times," Patrice said,
stripping off another layer of cover over what I thought had been
safely buried.  "We have not had extra practice.  And we are not
very good."

	"Everybody has different things that motivate them," I told her.
 "Even teams are like individuals in some things.  They have a
personality.  The extra practice was something they wanted,
something they asked for.  Last year not a single girl missed a
game or a practice.  Not ever."

	She knew who I was talking about.  Heidi Dietrich was tall
blonde and an albatross around the team's necks.  She wanted to
do as little as possible and it was sapping the spirit of the
team.  On the other hand, there was no way I could tell her she
could not be on the team.  Heidi missed half the practices and
was late or left early for most of the rest.

	"Bitch!" Patrice mumbled under her breath.  I let it go, not
wanting to agree and unwilling to disagree either.

	"Thank you for talking to me, Miss," Patrice said, and turned
and started running.  I grinned.  She was a good runner; too bad
we had to play half court basketball.  She would have been
competitive on a boy's team.

	About a week later, I received a note from Mrs. Gillespie, the
high school coach, and I went over to her house for tea on a
Saturday morning.  Her husband was off to the police station,
where he was one of the deputies.

	"I wanted to talk to you about the girls you coached last year,"
she told me, after we engaged in pleasantries for a very few
minutes.

	"Sure," I said, but mentally crossing my fingers.  I should have
crossed all my fingers, my toes and my eyes.

	"They are intensely competitive; they know how to play as a
team.  Frankly, there are a lot of hurt feelings on the part of
the other girls on the team.  Your girls are just flat out
better.  Just two of the senior girls have any chance of playing
this year.  They, and the other older girls, want me to make the
freshman girls sit out this year 'to pay their dues.'"

	I relaxed slightly.  I had not been a coach long, but I surely
had been coached at the University for four years.  "Mrs.
Gillespie, you are the coach.  They should not make your
decisions for you and neither should I."

	"I caught two of them kissing, the other day, in the showers."

	I swallowed.  "They were a very physical group.  There was a lot
of hugging and kissing.  Girl stuff."

	"Not naked in the shower, trading tongues."

	I did not bother to answer, because there was no answer.

"The question is, what do I do?" she asked.

	"Now I am confused.  I could understand the question about
whether or not to make them sit out the year because they are
freshman."  I was a little angry and even more afraid.  I went
too far.  "Me?  I play the best people on my team.  Some of the
girls, particularly the seventh graders, did not play nearly as
much as the others.  That is what coaches do, Mrs. Gillespie."

	"Let me put this another way.  I have watched them.  I think
those are not the only two.  Maybe it happened over the summer,
but I do not believe so."

	"And maybe you should just look the other way.  Personal lives
are personal lives, after all.  None of our business!"

	"So you would just let it go?"

	"No, of course not.  We do not have showers at the grade school.
 It costs too much.  I would remind them that hot water costs
money and they should ask their parents if their school taxes
should be increased to pay for long showers."

	"What if it had been a boy?"

	"A boy in the girl's showers?" I sniffed.  "That breaks so many
rules, I would pretty much think I would have to talk to the
parents.  Then we would all sit down with the guilty parties and
have a little chat about their future."

	"In other words, you would just ignore the whole problem?"

	"I think I would make it clear that I did not approve of people
kissing in the showers, or any other place where others might see
them and take offence."

	She looked at me and I realized what she was going to say next.
"You are not married, are you?"

	"No, nor am I seeing anyone."  I bit my tongue and said nothing
more.  I had, I realized, said too much.

	"I have a daughter their age," she told me.  "I would die if
something like that happened to her."

	I shrugged, still unable to be quiet.  "I wanted to go to the
University.  Boys in high school would have been the death of
that.  You might talk to some of those girls.  You might find
they want to go to college as well.  Maybe they do not like the
risks involved with seeing young men."

	Mrs. Gillespie looked at me coldly.  I took a sip of my tea, and
then put down the cup.  "I should be going," I told her.  She
showed me to the door without another word.

	I did not notice any extra coolness towards me from the other
teachers at the grade school.  The second year I coached them,
the girls won only half their games, not all of them.  At the end
of the year I was told they were sorry, but I would not be needed
the following year.

	Years passed.  I had no trouble finding another position in San
Antonio.  Again, I coached basketball.  I had learned quite a lot
in Brownsville and even if I did not take any of the girls as
lovers, I taught them to love basketball and competition.

	I managed to keep my position even after the market crash; as
the Great Depression wore on, I provided help and encouragement
to a lot of girls.

	In 1935 I met William Brown, a man a year younger than I was. 
Will was quiet and bookish, a good listener and companion.  He
worked, he told me, on special projects for the army, at one of
the several army bases in San Antonio.  Ours was a slow romance
and we did not marry until 1938.

	It was not something I thought about.  Will was a radio
hobbyist, a man who "talked" late at night to others, all around
the world.  They traded post cards, showing how far their radio
signals reached.  I know he worked with radios as well, but it
was not something that interested me that much.  I was content,
and while I wished I could have children, after several years of
marriage I had to admit to myself that I had probably waited too
long.

	Germany invaded Poland and Europe went to war.  Will started
working very long hours at the base.  I was a grade school
teacher; I taught everything to my students, including history. 
I was sure as most were not, that soon we would be involved in
the war.

	In late 1940, Will handed me a letter, not saying anything.  The
army was calling him up.  I protested that; they had no business,
I told him, drafting a man of his age.  "I am a technician," he
told me, "I make the things the eggheads with their pipes and
jackets dream up, actually work."

	Then he stunned me when he told me that he was being sent to
England.  I could not believe it; it was dangerous in the
Atlantic.  German submarines, it seemed, sank ships every day. 
Some of them American ships, even if we were neutral and supposed
to be exempt from attack.

	Two weeks later I kissed him, and he boarded a plane.  I never
saw him again.  Late in 1941 I received a telegram from the War
Department, telling me Will had been killed in a bombing raid
near London.

	I have always been independent and self-sufficient; suddenly I
was a war widow.  I went through my days with little change in my
outward demeanor, with only memories to keep me warm in the
solitude of my evenings.

	My basketball teams won consistently; my second year as a coach
had been my worst as my first year had been my best.  In 1941 I
was hired by Breckenridge High School as a social studies teacher
-- but I was really there to coach their girl's basketball team.

	It was one of those things that go to show there is such a thing
as fate.  My second year of teaching at Breckenridge started out
like every other year, never mind that by now the whole world was
locked in the greatest war mankind had ever known.

	The first day of classes, then, later that afternoon a meeting
with the girls who would be on the team for the coming year.  In
my first year we won eight of our ten league games and six of
seven non-league games.

	There are huge differences between coaching high school and
grade school girls.  In seventh and eighth grade, the girls are
just reaching maturity; there is wide variation in ability from
one year to the next.  The majority of a team was new each year.
In high school, the opposite was true.  The young ladies had
leveled off, and while they continued to mature, it was at a more
lady-like pace.  That, and three-fourths or more of the team
returned from the previous year.

	One of the girls caught my eye.  She was a freshman, and aside
from a sullen expression on her face, she looked remarkably like
Clara Denham.  I had already noticed that a lot of girls reminded
me of students I had known years before, and I thought nothing of
it.

	That first practice she told me her name was Peggy; the tone of
her voice was surly and bored.  She did the warm-ups; she did
well with the drills.  But after that, she was a disaster.  Peggy
had zero desire to play as part of the team.  If you passed her
the ball, she would do everything she could to get into position
to shoot; she never passed it on to someone else.  The classic
non-team player.

	I was a popular coach of a popular sport.  I had three times as
many freshman girls as I needed to fill out my roster.  I cut her
that afternoon without a second thought.

	The next day I had a message that Peggy's mother wanted to speak
to me and she would come after school.

	I was where I always was, standing on the court, watching my
girls do their thing.  I felt someone touch my sleeve and I
turned to see who it was.

	She was older, more mature -- but she was still Clara.  For a
moment the two of us stared at each other in surprise, then she
launched herself at me, hugging me and kissing me full on the
mouth, as we had done so long ago.

	"Oh Miss!  Miss!  We all hated when you left!"

	"You grew up," I told her, pushing her back to look at her.

	"I did!  Oh this is so wonderful!  When I get home tonight, I'm
going to write the others!  They're going to want to come and see
you!"  She actually winked at me!

	The play on the court had petered out, and I waved at them to
continue, leading Clara away.  "The others?"

	"We are friends for life."  She touched my arm.  "Nettie died in
'35 from diphtheria, but everyone else is well.  Lots of babies,
except Jane, of course!"

	It took the better part of an hour to cover half of the times
that had gone by.  Clara's husband was an Army colonel, a bomber
pilot.  They'd moved often, but always, every few years, returned
to Texas.

	Finally she brought up why she had come.  "You cut my daughter,
yesterday."

	"Peggy Brewster?" I asked and received a nod.

	"Clara, she hogs the ball.  She wants to take all of the shots.
That's not the way to win."

	She looked at me steadily for a long time.  "I was tempted to
ask for special treatment, based on times gone by.  That's a
lousy way to do things, Miss."

	"It is Peggy," I told her, "I'm no longer your eighth grade
teacher."

	"Peggy, I named my daughter after you.  You have no idea what an
impact you had on our lives.  No idea at all.  Mrs. Gillespie was
a pain; she caught Nettie and I kissing in the shower.  We kept
thinking she was going to tell on us or toss us out.  Instead,
she told us never to do it again.  So we never did... not where
the old bat could see us, anyway!"

	I smiled.  "She asked me what she should do, that is what I
suggested to her."

	"I was sure you had something to do with it!" Clara crowed. 
"But that was then and this is now.

	"Peggy, my daughter is someone who desperately needs a role
model.  Someone to look up to.  We've had to move every couple of
years and she's had a terrible time adjusting to it.  I can't
blame her, because I wouldn't have liked it either.  I don't like
it now.  There's only one reason why they moved Bill here -- he's
in the last stages of training his people and then they're off. 
Europe or the Pacific: it doesn't matter.  People are getting
killed everywhere.  Sometime in the next few months he's going to
fly away.  I hope to God he says safe, but Peggy is sure he
won't."

	"My husband was in the army and went early; he was killed near
London in 1940," I told her.

	"It's hard, I know.  I'm the Colonel's lady," Clara laughed
bitterly.  "When someone augers in, Bill, the Chaplain and I go
around to the widows and tell them their husbands are dead.  He
wants me to stay here in San Antonio, where most of the families
are going to live and continue that wonderful duty he's given
me."

	That was revolting.  I couldn't imagine giving that job to
another person.  But if he was off in one of the fighting
theaters, he couldn't very well come home himself, could he?

	"So, Peggy.  No pleas for special treatment, except as a mother
for her troubled daughter.  She needs someone like you to take
her in hand and work your magic.  Jane is a wonderful person, but
it was you that taught us how to control ourselves.  Like I said,
Jane never married and she coaches at the University of Oklahoma,
but the rest of us?  Thirty kids, Peggy!  Half of them girls! 
We've tried to raise them right, just like you showed us. 
Please, Peggy, give my daughter a chance.  Sit her down when she
hogs the ball, Jane used to like to do that, a little.  You cured
her in about a week."

	I remembered with a smile.  Playing time wasn't all I'd
threatened to withhold.  Then my smile vanished.  No one would
have understood a twenty-something coach fooling around with her
girls.  A woman in her forties?  I'd be sent to a mental
hospital, I was sure.  Surely Clara wasn't talking about that!
	
	She smiled.  "Peggy and you have a lot in common.  I've never
kept any secrets from her; she knows about us... not you, but the
rest of us.  I think she's heard a little about you, but I don't
know how much.  Please."

	"Okay," I told her.

	The silence dragged on for a few seconds before I spoke.  "After
that summer, I never again..."

	"We have," Clara proclaimed.  "Jill and Lynn are the furthest
away at the moment, they are in Phoenix.  Jane is in Oklahoma and
not a whole lot closer.  Still, we get together often.  Ones and
twos, sometimes all of us.  Their parents left the lake and cabin
and all of that to both Jill and Lynn, and we go back, at least
some of us, every year in the spring."

	Her eyes sparkled and I found myself nodding.  "Okay," I told
her.  "But if I cut her again, that's it."

	"Just give her a chance.  Please."

	I nodded.

	The next day, before practice started, Peggy came in, and I
waved her to the chair in front of my desk.

	"Do you know why I cut you?"  I asked.

	"Don't care for uppity girls who don't do what you tell them."

	"The last part, not the first part.  That and you want to play
for yourself, not the team."

	"I want to play because my mother made me," she retorted, "not
because I wanted to."

	"Do you know who I am?" I asked, curious.

	She shook her head.  "The coach?"  It was obvious she was
guessing.

	"The coach," I agreed, nodding.  "That and I was your mother's
coach back in grade school, a long time ago."

	Her eyes expanded until they were saucers.  "Mom's friends talk
about you all the time, about how you..."  She stopped, now
looking startled and nervous.

	I laughed, "Yes.  The very first day I paddled your mother. 
Before I got to know her or her friends that well."

	Her eyes grew huge and round again.  I smiled at her.  "Since
then, Peggy, I have one and only one punishment I give out: I
kick the girl off the team.  I've never had to paddle a student
since."

	She looked at me, her expression having run the gamut of
possible expressions.  "You really paddled my mother?"

	I nodded, but my own face betrayed me.  I remembered the
paddling and what happened after that.  I flushed in
embarrassment.

	"What I would like you to do," I told her, "is dress out, and go
to the practice.  For a change, listen to what you are told and
try your best.  You're fourteen, right?"

	She nodded.

	"I make no promises.  I don't care about uppity girls, so long
as they do what they're told, or at least try to do it.  Mouth
without action doesn't work here, do you understand?"

	"I still don't want to do this."

	"Please, as a favor to me, the woman you were named for, would
you at least try?"

	She nodded and headed out to change.

	Clara came in then, standing by the door to my office.  "Thank
you for giving her a chance."

	"It's not a problem."

	She beckoned to me, and curious, I got up.  She pushed the door
shut, stepped back so that she was standing with her back against
it.  She kissed me then, with the same passion and fervor that I
remembered from so long ago, right up to cupping my breasts.

	I kissed back, and after a second, I found her breasts as well.
They were much larger than the schoolgirl's had been, much larger
than mine.

	"Four kids," Clara told me, sensing my surprise.  "Three girls
and a boy; Peggy's the oldest."

	She rubbed my breasts again.  "No kids?"

	I shook my head.

	"That's a shame, because of all of us, you were the one who
should have had kids."

	"My husband and I tried," I told her.

	Clara grinned.  "Husbands aren't as good as what we had
together, but they cause a lot fewer tongues to wag!"  She turned
brisk.  "I have something tonight that I can't get out of. 
Tomorrow night, I want to see you.  For old times sake."

	A few minutes later I was out watching the girls, trying to look
composed.  I ran a passing drill.  The girls just ran towards
half the team across the court and passed the ball to the next
girl in line, and then she would take the ball and run back,
passing it to the head of the line on the other end of the room.

	It was a good exercise; one I did almost every day.  It taught a
lot of skills, yet it wasn't that hard.  And of course, there was
no scope for Peggy to shoot at the basket.

	Then I did another passing drill, placing the girls in a pattern
on the floor, and then calling out the number of the girl I
wanted the pass to go to.  Everyone in the path tried to
intercept the ball, and usually succeeded.  Again, Peggy had no
way to do anything other than pass.

	Then it was shooting drills, and she didn't have to worry about
passing.  When I called that the practice was over, the girls
headed for the showers and I started for my office.

	Peggy intercepted me.  "I keep thinking about things," she told
me.  "I didn't deserve a second chance, did I?"

	"There are hundreds of women who've played for me over the
years, I'd like to think I'd go out of my way for any of them if
they asked the same thing for their daughter.  You're special," I
told her, "but not that special."

	She laughed bitterly.  "Yeah, I guess that's so.  My father
worships the ground I walk on... and worries when I have to tie
my shoelaces by myself.  Mom thinks if I were to find the right
girlfriend, my problems would go away."

	"There's a reason parents worry about their children," I told
her.  "And having a girlfriend... or two... never hurt your
mother."

	"Or ten, I know what they did."

	"Do you understand why?"

	"No babies and all the sex they wanted."

	For one year I'd been as wild and free as my girls.  Not that
wild, not that free, but it was a milestone event in my life. 
How often did I think of them?  How about every day I was on a
basketball court?  Did I miss them?  Every time I saw a cute
girl, particularly if one of them reminded me of my first team. 
And for years, I'd not lifted a finger to explore that part of
myself.  Terrified of people like Mrs. Gillespie and what they
could do to me.

	What had Clara said?  All of them, except Nettie were happily
married with kids, except for Jane who had, I guessed, decided to
grow up like me.  A university basketball coach!  That must be
hard!  The twenties had been roaring for a number of reasons, and
even as I'd coached my team, there were forces at work, erasing a
lot of the work women had done for themselves by then.  They
nearly destroyed women's basketball, and a lot of other sports
for women, and were still a force to be reckoned with.

	There were a few bright spots: Oklahoma, Iowa in particular. 
There had been a lot of resistance to the changes in Texas.  You
couldn't do much to stop them except keep your head down and give
them no grounds for complaint.  You had to tell as many people as
you could how important it was for girls to learn teamwork and
cooperation, to understand competition.  To learn how to work to
achieve personal goals, goals that they themselves set.

	In front of me, Peggy giggled.  "You miss the sex, don't you?" 
She'd glanced around before she spoke and lowered her voice.

	"I don't lie; not to myself, not to my girls," I told her.  "Of
course.  But I don't have a death wish, either."

	"Well, I'm my mother's daughter.  You have a lot of cute girls
on your team!"

	She saw my expression and giggled again.  "My mother has taught
me a lot of tricks!  Being careful was first."

	"I thought you didn't like her?"

	"I don't like her ideas about what I should do with my life. 
The whole idea of enjoying school, and then marrying some guy
who'll keep me fat, dumb and pregnant for the rest of my life
doesn't appeal to me.  I like Aunt Jane: she's cool."

	"She is.  Now, I think, it would be a good idea for you to go
shower."

	She giggled a third time.  "No, I was letting the herd clear out
of the shower.  I can't hide my titties when they get excited,
and they surely do show in the shower."

	She walked away, with a flounce of her short hair.

I was tempted to call after her to be careful who she kissed and
where, but decided that shouting something like that would be
about the stupidest thing I'd ever done.

	Clara and I did make love the next evening, and after that, more
evenings.  A month later two of the other girls were in San
Antonio, and the four of us went out for a night on the town and
then spent the night at my house.  I made love to all three
again.

	Peggy befriended Libby Dalglish, a tall blonde sophomore.  That
lasted about six weeks before they seemed to break up.  Peggy and
Penny Archer became bosom friends, while Libby and Sheila Vickers
were suddenly inseparable.  They all sat together at lunch, and,
I was sure, were now a clique of their own.

	Peggy had started passing better, feeding a lot of shots to
Libby, who was a very good shooter.  When they branched out, they
started passing to Penny and Sheila as well.  I smiled to myself
and was quite pleased.

	Clara's husband went to Europe; at first I felt badly because we
started spending even more time together, but she just smiled and
told me not to worry.

	Then, in early December, Clara invited me to Peggy's birthday
party; she was turning fifteen.

	It was, she told me, a sleepover, and most of the team was going
to be there.  It never occurred to me to associate that with the
weekend in the Holmes' cabin.  It should have.

	It was a pleasant Saturday afternoon, not too chill outside,
with nine teenage girls having a good time with cake, games and
then the ritual opening of the presents.  I handed Peggy a small
charm for her bracelet, a basketball.  She showed it off to
everyone, and after she'd finished, I passed out charms to
everyone else.  Peggy stuck her tongue out at me and everyone
laughed.

	Peggy grinned at me.  "You shouldn't let girls stick their
tongues out at you, it's disrespectful!"

	I smiled, "This time, I'll overlook it."

	Peggy smiled again, and is if on cue, all of them stuck their
tongues out at me.

	"Are you going to tolerate that?" Peggy asked, hardly able to
contain herself.  "You should punish us!  A half dozen whacks on
our bare bottoms; a dozen for the ringleader!"

	I froze in total shock.  Next to me, Clara was giggling as hard
as some of the girls.

	Clara nudged me and said in a stage whisper, "That would be a
lot of smacks.  How about if I take half?"

	Libby Dalglish came and stood in front of me, and did a little
curtsey.  "Please Miss, let me be first!"

	With that, she pushed down her skirt, revealing that she wasn't
wearing panties and leaned over.

	"Go ahead," Clara murmured softly, "it's a treat.  The girls
want to reward you for your years of service."

	I took a step forward and didn't even bother to try to smack her
bottom.  I ran my hand over the smooth curves of her bottom,
found her sex and starting rubbing my finger through her slit,
brushing her clit as I did.

	Everything came back to me at that instant, and I stopped being
in 1943 and was back to 1926.  I knew what to do to pleasure her,
and I did.

	Over the next few minutes, I fingered a half-dozen girls to
orgasm, and Clara did the same.  Only at the end, did I notice
one girl who was hanging back.

	I stepped towards her and saw fear and anxiety in her eyes. 
"Lindsay," I said, my voice soft.  "No one is going to push you,
no one is going to ask you to do something you don't want to do
or be with someone you don't want to be with.  I will never,
ever, take it out on one of my players because she doesn't want
the same things I do."

	She nodded, and I smiled, turned and walked back to Clara.

	Clara looked around the room.  "Coach has said something very
important to all of you.  The reason we are here is because there
is something we have in common.  But something isn't all things.
If someone says no, they've said no.  Respect it.  Consider how
you would feel if you told a boy no and he kept on.  We are not
boys!"

	There were serious nods around the room.

	"Who goes where today and tomorrow is up to you.  The idea is to
have a good time among friends who aren't going to gossip about
what they see here, not ever.

	"When I was your age, I'd made love to everyone on my team,
including coach.  There was one special person, a person I loved
more than all the rest.  My teammates respected that, and while
we shared good times, most of the time I spent with her.

	"And while you might think that this is immoral or something,
it's not.  It's people loving each other.  God doesn't like
people who hate, and no matter what you think, he holds dear
those who love their fellow men... and women.  And before you go
thinking you have sunk to the depths of depravity, remember this:
 my special friend was black."  There were gasps, and Clara waved
at me.  "And coach's friend was Spanish.  Girls might have
different color skin, but under that skin we're all alike!"

	Peggy came up to Clara, wrapped her arm around her mother's
waist and kissed her.  "Thanks for the best birthday party ever!"
 She kissed Clara again, her hands going to Clara's breasts.  I
swallowed my surprise, even as Clara started undoing Peggy's
blouse.

	One of the seniors, Kay Reinhardt, smiled at me.  "I'm new to
this," she said, her voice husky.  "Peggy seduced me, but that's
okay, because I was ready to be seduced.  Since then, though,
I've only been with girls just as clueless as me."  Her eyes
sparkled, "I bet you're not clueless."

	I looked down her slim body and realized there was nothing in
the world I wanted more than to make love to her. I reached out
and pulled her close, our lips met and I kissed her like I'd
kissed Arlene the last time I'd seen her.

<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+