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From: Van Byrd <vanellus@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Lollobrigidian (mF, first) By Van Byrd
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Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2014 04:10:58 -0400
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The Lollobrigidian Climb

Sophie was ... how old? She was younger than my mother but a few years
older than I was. This was true at the time of all women with breasts and
hips, with skin I imagined soft as butter and lips that needed no lipstick
to be kissed. All the women on the bus, the train, on the street. What was
it like, I wondered with desire, to be a woman who need only look in the
mirror and see tasty lemons with begging to be sucked?

They said the French Academy would adopt the word "lollobrigidian" as a
description of those human Alps that I aspired to go camp out on,
traversing their peaks and the valley between them. Some guys spoke of
girls who were my age and wanted it; they wanted to kiss and touch and
everything. Of course, I did not see any of the at my all-boys school,
where such mythical creatures were regarded as the handmaidens of Satan.

There were classmates who said they fucked. Who did they fuck? That was a
secret. These guys were cool and girls just came to them ... and they
humped them all. So they said. I thought it was just talk. It was, just as
in some of the novels I read at the time, in which boys messed a bit with
girls a little older but not by much. These characters got rejected when it
came to the point of actual sex, but they got me hot and bothered just
thinking about it.

But Sophie was no story.

She was real. She worked at the boardinghouse. She made the beds. Took
linen to the laundry room. Hung it. She did everything in that gray skirt
that reached her knees and that memorable little white blouse and the beige
sweater whose fine wool took the shape of the breasts I would die to hold
in my hands. The boardinghouse owner was a chubby Irish fellow who loved
tossing out comments with double meaning to make his employee squirm.

"Sophie, I've seen you downtown with a boyfriend." She ignored him. The
woman who was attentive was his wife, a petite and bossy redhead with
sparkling blue eyes that could shoot looks that might kill. I had overheard
her complaining to a renter about it. How dare her husband show interest
in a girl of 23! I saved the fact as a treasure.

Twenty-three.

She was tall, like me. I looked eighteen even though I was merely a newly
adolescent schoolboy. She had a Massachusetts accent I found intriguing.
Her brown hair and brown eyes matched those of the owner and she was pale
white, but not trashy like the other maid. She looked to me more like a
princess facing hard times.

Plus she was a tease, as one of the residents, a man in his thirties who had
moved in with his wife recently, would gladly testify. One morning he had
been stepping out on his way to work, big-city gloom hanging on his face,
distracted as his heavy footfalls reached the last step before the
sidewalk. Yet when he passed Sophie by wordlessly, he almost tiptoed in a
manner that suggested he was avoiding her.

"Mahning" reproached Sophie, with a shout, "or  'ave we slept togethah?"

A leer bloomed briefly on his face then vanished. He composed his
expression back to the manner of surprise that best suited a man in his
office garb. He stammered a greeting, Sophie shrugged and continued
mopping. That was when I decided I would ... what? I did not know. Touch
her.

Following her around from a distance I learned I was not the only one in
the house to whom such a feat had occurred to him.

There was a paunchy old roomer, with a seemingly eternal lathered toothpick
sticking out of his mouth. He walked along the second floor terrace, spit
on the left, spit on the right, ptooey here, ptooey there, all the way to his
room. I watched as he watched her. Sophie gave no hint of even being aware
of his presence, but a veiled look passed between them. She brought tea to
his room, an operation that seemed to take much more time than one would
normally expect. Other times it was dinner. Sometimes it was clothes of his
she had repaired.

It could not be, I told myself. That was disgusting. Such a man would not
get the attentions of a woman who in her wake, just beneath the functional
essence of soap, left a lingering scent that even I realized was the
mystery of a female.

One evening when mother was out with some friends I stayed behind under the
pretext of preparing for a Latin test. I followed Sophie to the laundry
room, where I had never set foot. I looked at her and my face lit up in a
flaming blush.

"Whadya want, Scooch?"

Scooch? I resisted the curiosity about the nickname and managed to not say
a peep. She'd seen me watching her. She'd tossed me an ambiguous look that
had emboldened me.

I raised a hand to her and inadvertently, or at least without
premeditation, touched her chest. I pulled the hand back. She stopped and
stared at me with a look that could have drilled a hole through my brain. I
made a second attempt. The tips of my fingers landed around her waist,
just a little below the navel. I was on fire. I stroked what was
undoubtedly her flat stomach, from which came the heat from under who knows
how many layers of clothes. She didn't move. I was on the right track. My
hand moved down in the direction of the pubic delta, but clearly wandering
without a compass. If it had been the Mississippi River, my hand was at
about St. Louis. I was surprised to feel that the material of her skirt was
ordinary wool that was a little rough to the touch, rather than the finely
spun material I thought befitted her. She said nothing as she let me
continue my silly caresses of her lower intestines. Finally she reacted.

"Lemme see what you've got," she said defiantly.

She opened my fly and reached in. To my dying embarrassment, at the moment
my penis had withered with fright. Sophie dug around and reached the folds
of the foreskin below which there was a member about the size of a pinkie;
the appendage clearly only knew how to pee.

"Yer got nahthin," she said in disgust, pulling her hand away.

"Yes, I do," I protested. I managed to take in my left hand her right tit,
holding it as if groping oranges or tomatoes at the market to see if
whether they were firm. They were. She had firm breasts. I felt myself get
hot and hard, but it was too late.

"I have things to do." She left.

Weeks of shame and penitence followed, a Lent to follow the sinful
sensuality that had brought me to touch her. I tried to avoid her, even as
I also glanced at her from the corner of my eye whenever she was near. I
walked about moping, distressed, confused. Good Catholic schoolboy that I
was, I couldn't figure out whether I should confess me deed or not. Just in
case, I skipped communion. But my mind burned at night with the memory of
the chest under her sweater, blouse and bra and the warmth my hand had
felt, if only for an instant.

Did I love her? No. I knew it was not love when my pal Frank declared "I'm
in love" every time a girl with swaying hips passed us on the sidewalk. The
priests had dark names for what I felt and what I craved to do with Sophie.
I had placed my hand on her  -- I would have said "boob" to my classmates,
the ridiculous boys who spoke of going to the bathroom to jerk off at
recess and then to fuck after school. Their motto: what you don't exercise
atrophies. I didn't bother to tell them, as our biology class textbook
taught us, that the love muscle isn't actually a muscle.

All I knew is that I would go crazy if did not reach my goal. Sophie moved
with a grace that seemed make her a queen in a castle, even when performing
the most mundane tasks. I had to bed her.

Not long after the laundry room incident laundry, night my mother had
another outing and I had homework. Sophie had appeared by my desk with a
tray with a plate of meat and mashed potatoes and a cup of tea. It was my
mother's orders, she told me. She had put the tray on the table and started
to move the notebooks and textbooks to make room for dinner. She picked up
a fairly thick paperback.

"Yer've read all this?"

I nodded, explaining that it was a book of ancient history, from the
Babylonians to the Barbarians.

"Fah'ners from lahng ago," she said and laughed.

I started to think how she saw it. My mind saw her with a sword, leading
the Teutonic hordes to battle  -- when I woke up from my reverie, Sophie had
left. Once again, I had blown it.

In the end, in all my thinking and worrying I fell ill. This had the
benefit that someone had to bring me lunch when my mother was at work.

Of course, it was Dorothy, the other girl, who brought my meals. Dorothy
was young like Sophie, but she lacked Sophie's je ne sais quoi. If she had
invited me to her bed I would have gone, of course; but I didn't actually
desire it. She was more serious, too. She referred to me as "young man" and
you can't think of fucking someone who calls you that. "Young man" is what
the bishop, the nuns and priests, the bus driver and the whole world of
adults calls a kid in the awkward age.

The days crept until Thursday, when I was beginning to feel better. I kept
insisting I was sick. One more day and it would be Friday and the weekend!
Added to that, this time Sophie had to come because it was Dorothy's day
off. When Sophie arrived I was already hot, hot, hot and it wasn't from
fever.

"Bring the tray to my bed, please," I asked.

She came, sat on the edge and put the tray on my legs. Quickly, almost
without thinking, I set the tray aside and threw myself on top of her. This
time I didn't have a piddly child's dick but a fearsome and demanding cock
thick as an elephant's trunk. Lying on her, I rubbed myself against her
legs, thinking she would surely succumb once she felt my hardness. So there
I was, eyes locked on Sophie's, my pajamas with an open fly and swollen
penis, as I felt her entire body: her legs, her crotch, her breasts ...
everything. I instinctively started to push my body onto hers, crotch to
crotch, my hands caressing everything I felt this woman had to offer.

Then I opened my eyes and met her expression of expectation. Now what? I
had no idea. I had to say something. My mind went blank. We lay awkwardly
like that for what seemed a very long time until I sputtered, "Wanted to
weigh myself."

I got up and helped her up. Sophie said nothing and left.

Weigh yourself? Who says that when he has a woman in bed, I told myself
furiously, as I ate the pork chop with tomatoes. I was an idiot. Sophie had
not screamed or shown concern, but I had read in her face a certain
curiosity as to what I would do with her. She had to have felt my hard and
hot phallus. Surely this had to have inspired some desire. Women do like
sex, right?

After lunch, I sat next to the tray reading about Ludovico of Aquitaine
when Sophie was back. This time, it was she who lay down over above me, her
body curled around mine. She began to rub against me and shake with ardor.
Suddenly, we looked at each other and she stopped.

"I wanted to weigh myself, too," she said with a smile. She got up, took
the tray and left.

It might have ended there if it had not been for my grandmother, whose
illness called my mother away for weeks. My mother had forbidden me to
have dinner with the other renters in the dining room. "Who knows what
vulgarities they'll say!"

Thus began, in hiding, between school and meals, the time stolen with
Sophie. One day she came and showed me how to kiss. She was a rough, no
nonsense teacher.

"Know how to kiss? Cahse not. No man cahn kiss. I'll teach yer so yer know
forevah."

She laid her lips on mine, took me by the head and began to traverse every
inch of my lips with hers; first gently, then urgently. The tongue in my
mouth surprised me. Yet what would have repelled me before became a
hitherto unknown pleasure and my tongue began to counterattack. We were
going to pull our tongues out with all the mutual sucking, but we could not
stop wringing them in our oral intercourse. My tongue traced each of her
teeth, its enamel soft in a mouth that was sweet from a chocolate she had
tasted before kissing. I don't know how long we were glued to each other,
eventually sitting on the edge of my bed, then lying down together in long
kisses and increasingly more powerful embraces.

Suddenly she stopped. She looked me in the eyes and I felt something that,
if not love, was something that felt like it. Her index finger traced my
profile from forehead to chin, with an escort of lips perched like
butterflies in my face. I felt a woman loving me and instead of swelling up
my penis, my heart swelled. Sophie touched me in the groin and realized I
was not ready.

It took many lessons before I learned to kiss on the mouth, slowly pull off
her blouse, slip off her bra with enough panache not to disturb the
moment's passion. I touched her bare breasts the first time as if they
were precious jewels. Her breasts looked about the size of oranges, almost
as if someone had inserted the fruit; but to the touch they felt as a silk
I had never felt, their supple skin bid me to gently knead her pectoral
promontories, circle around each nipple until she insisted with gestures,
that I take in my fingers as radio knobs to make her sing her aria of
pleasure.

"Yeah, yeah, that's it, baby  -- keep doing that."

That was how I discovered how hot it was to suckle nipples like a baby. I
put my lips over them, ran my tongue in slow circles. The nipples were
beautiful. My sucking made her squirm and sigh ever so loudly. How did we
enjoy these treats for hours and how did we manage to stop exhausted
without proceeding to the final act? I don't know. It was a series of
seminars, practicums and training for improvement in what I now knew,
having turned to books, was the art of making love.

Of course, all such sweet beginnings lead to ever bolder adventures. We
already wrung each other out in our underwear and unwittingly "finished the
job" as she put it, all too soon. She had decided to teach me the art of
desire.

One day she took my penis and made of it a nipple, first stretching my
foreskin, then playing lightly around my testicles, then up with her tongue
on the seam until the glans, after which she wrapped her lips and began to
swallow me whole while sucking at the same time. The first puff did not
last; it brought on a blast of cum that went everywhere. In my teens one
orgasm did not end the feast. In minutes, with her soft hands, her savvy,
passionate kisses and her serpentine tongue, Sophie engaged the throttle
until I became hard and hot and exploded all over her again and again.

"Now," she said one day, "you do it."

No idea what she was talking about. We undressed with caresses, we kissed
naked, I walked my fingers over her breasts, her nipples and sucked until I
absorbed all her imaginary milk.

"Go down."

I stared blankly. She took my head from behind and made me kiss her
cleavage, her navel and belly up to the hairy jungle that covered what I
knew until then by the name of cunt.

"Kiss me there."

I kissed her crotch.

"No. Kiss my lips." She pulled back her hair to show me what my lips had
kissed.

"Up and down, back and fahrth."

I started to kiss her pubic lips with ardor, as if it were a new mouth.
That lower mouth had a new flavor and aroma for me. Sophie was salty like
seafood, which made me think of the clams I had picked and eaten raw on
the beach. I began to savor the taste with gusto. Naturally, as I began to
lick a somewhat less salty liquid began to ooze. I lapped it up and liked
it. From bottom to top and top to bottom, as she had asked, my tongue
travelled as Sophie began to move to the rhythm of my movements. I
discovered a small bump, like a button, then licked and sucked so that I
too acquired a liking to it and Sophie started purring, moaning, groaning
and finally belting out into a soprano sex opera.

Meanwhile, I was at it -- yum, yum, yum -- licking and sucking and drinking
her juice as she began to tremble. She put her hand on my head and pressed
my mouth on her pelvis. For a few moments I felt she would crush my skull.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, Fred ... dy!"

It was almost shouting. It got loud enough I felt I had to cover her mouth
so no one else could hear. She shivered with an earthquake's rumble that
seemed to last an eternity, her body arched towards my mouth until it gave
a jolt and becalmed itself, but not before shuddering for one, two, three,
several lightning waves of deep pleasure.

Her passion had shaken me and drawn me in. My penis had felt thick as a
cannon. Having run my mouth along the lips of her sex and occasionally
plunged my tongue into her hole, I had learned where to put my artillery. I
rose up, took it in hand and aimed. It was a sweet entrance since she was
so wet, yet I immediately felt the flush of a pleasure such as I had never
felt. My penis was in the tender but strong embrace of a tight, wet hole.
My sword was in its sheath. I was home. I paused to savor this moment.
There were two people, but only one in feeling, as she and I were
completely attuned one to the other, completely united. It was something I
had never imagined that planting my cock in a cunt would do.

Eventually, my cockhead began to think for me and tell me to start to
pumping in and out and as her pussy squeezed. Each exit was almost like a
death and in each return life was back, in technicolor, with fireworks. My
body urged me to fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, more and more rapidly, sweating
with the effort and until I could feel a boil coming from my core.

"Oh  --," I said, my eyes opening and fixing on hers.

I felt a tremor run through my cock and an explosive release such as I had
never felt before. She shuddered again, I think I was inspiring her. Maybe
she felt the hot liquid burning inside her. We both became a pleasure
earthquake that shook us to the core. I screamed and this time it was her
turn to cover my mouth.

"Shh, honey, shhh ..."

I fell flat on her and in her, gone from the world for what seemed like an
eternity.

Gradually I regained strength and realized I was smothering her. I raised
myself up as if I were doing a push up, but still linked to the warm home
she had made for my cock. Slowly, I began to lose hardness and found myself
 silently bidding her lovely pussy goodbye and ... plop! My flaccid penis,
smeared with our sexual juices, began to feel the cool air.

We lay quietly. I kissed her, caressed her, not knowing quite what to say.
My boastful classmates were a bunch of liars! It was unimaginably better
than anything they had said.

Even though I was a teenager, I was spent from the several orgasms that
preceded penetrations and the fucking orgasm. There just was no other way
to describe it: the fucking orgasm. The first fuck of all fucks. The summit
of my lollobrigidian ascent.

During the Middle Ages, which I had by then begun to study, the kings and
queens married at my age, especially if they had made love. But I was a
teenager in a more prosaic era. Sophie announced to me that she was
pregnant a week later and I was struck dumb until I saw the corners of her
mouth break into a smile.

"Hahd ya."

She explained that she had made sure no child would be conceived. I had
not thought of it at the time. After, yes. At that time there were hardly
any venereal diseases or no one I knew ever mentioned them. Certainly,
there was no AIDS.

We spent that spring making love until my grandmother died. With the
inheritance, my mother took us out of the boardinghouse and never saw
Sophie again. I wonder what's become of her. I do know that the French
Academy never adopted "lollobrigidien" as an official term for the
mountainous terrain that I, a latter day Edmund Hillary, had climbed to the
crest.

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