THE WOMEN WHO MADE ME
A Taboo Love Story
By Dick Anson
Smashwords Edition
First Published by OC Press, a division of JordanSade LLC.
Copyright Dick Anson, 2012
All rights reserved
Cover Designed by Hilary Stojak
Photo by Dmitri Mihhailov
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Table of Contents
Dedication
In Memory of Igor
PROLOGUE
Most people assume the worst about Wall Street Sharks like me.
Totally Amoral. Even Sociopathic.
Greed-driven to the point where people can’t help laughing at us (unless they happen to be our victims).
So perverse, we’d rather make $10 illegally than $100 legally.
Like some imaginative Marxist radical designed us from the ground up to completely discredit American Capitalism.
Little do people realize.
We’re even Worse than they think.
Even here in the Federal Prison where I’m serving a term for Securities Fraud, we’re regarded as the Lowest of the Low among the inmate population. And since no one will talk to us, we always stand out as solitary figures shunned by Everybody. Total Pariahs.
But they all still want to know how Sharks like me got so FUCKING RICH.
“How in Hell did that Big Swinging Dick Robert Gardner make so many Fortunes on Wall Street?” they keep asking each other.
Well if they asked me in person, I could tell them.
Just another variation on the old Child Abuse scam, I’d say.
Child Abuse?
Sure. You find a big, fat Fortune 500 Corporation sitting there in the sun like an Innocent Child. Kidnap it. Sodomize the hell out of it. Then sell off what’s left for Big Money to sucker dentists in places like Iowa by issuing new common stock. It’s called “Doing a Leveraged Buyout.” Or if you don’t want to bother being polite, “Being an Aggressive Corporate Raider.”
Now just a minute…
All right, look. Here’s this Fortune 500 Corporation. Been around Forever. Good balance sheet. No debt to speak of. But its stock’s been Going Nowhere for years.
Okay.
So you offer to buy out the stockholders. For a nice premium over the stock’s current trading price.
With what money?
Oh, you get that from short-term bank loans. Banks fall all over each other to get in on such deals. Then you get the corporation’s board of directors to give your buyout offer a Big Smile. Maybe slip a few dollars here and there to key board members. And you end up Kidnapping the corporation.
And then?
Well, first thing is to have the corporation issue long-term debt so you can pay off your bank loans. With a few million left over to pay you for your time. Then you start the Sodomy part.
Oh come on…
Call it what you want. But the results are the same. You move several divisions to sweatshop countries in Asia or Latin America to save big on Labor Costs. Shut down the American factories, leave their workers standing in breadlines.
In other words, Export American Jobs?
Yeah, if you want to sound like an egg-head economist. But the main thing is, this shows the rest of your employees how serious you are about cutting Labor Costs to boost profits. So you start whacking away at employee benefits. Make workers pay for their own pension plans and medical insurance. Force the Unions to link wage increases to so-called Productivity Improvements. You get the idea. Sodomize the hell out of that Corporate Child you Kidnapped. Until the Profits are rolling in like crazy.
And then what?
Cash-Out Time. Do an Initial Public Offering of new stock to the suckers. With an Offering Statement full of wildly optimistic numbers. After all, the Fairyland of traditional Accrual Accounting gives you plenty of room to play games with the numbers. So you walk away with another Fortune. See?
Yeah. Piece of Cake.
Until the 2008 Financial Apocalypse, of course. When Markets went Totally Non-Linear during that fatal October. Blowing up the world and leaving America moaning on its knees.
So naturally, they all looked for somebody to blame.
But they couldn’t blame Me.
After all, I was in Prison in 2008 when America got its ass thoroughly kicked. Perfect alibi.
Yeah, sure.
Too bad such simple logic can’t stop my Nightmares.
Endless Guilt Dreams about how the things I did on Wall Street helped send America down the drain from the full sink of its Glory Days. Forcing me to work overtime trying to remember the few Good Things in my life.
Like when I was a high school kid back in Madison, Wisconsin. And Mom told me Aunt Martha was coming to live with us.
To become the Great Love of my Life.
What? You think Miserable Schmucks like me can’t Love?
Can’t Want? Can’t Crave? Can’t Go Crazy with Longing?
Well, you’ll see.
CHAPTER 1
"Martha's so smart and well-educated, Bobby," Mom said. "She'll be a wonderful influence for you."
"But why is she leaving San Francisco to live here?" I asked, wondering how anyone so smart and well-educated could possibly do such a thing.
"This is where she grew up. Madison’s her home town."
"Yeah, but..."
"She’s found a teaching job. In the same high school where you go."
"What's she going to teach?"
"English. And that’s perfect for her. She was always reading novels and writing poetry when we were growing up."
"Why did she leave Madison in the first place?"
"Oh, you know. She wanted to see something of the world after she graduated from the university. Not just marry right away, like I did."
"Didn't she ever get married?"
"Not yet. But she's a lot younger than I am. And she's had a chance to live in New York, Paris, San Francisco..."
"Is that why she never visited us?"
"I guess so. They're such exciting places when you're young and attractive like Martha. But now she's coming home. To live right here with us. It's a lot better than having to rent the upstairs front room to a perfect stranger."
"Then she'll be paying rent? Like that graduate student last year?"
"She insisted, Bobby. I tried to talk her out of it, but she absolutely insisted. Not that it really matters. She's family. And such a marvelous influence for you. With all her experiences."
Mom was starting to make Aunt Martha sound almost like a house that had just come on the market. But I was used to that.
Real estate was Mom’s whole life. For as long as I could remember, she’d been making a nice living selling and re-selling the same group of big, old houses to faculty members at the university. So enthusiasm was her stock in trade. And probably the secret of her success. Each new person, like each new house, was something special and wonderful to her.
Three years earlier, she'd even bought one of those houses for us. Got it at a bargain price because it needed a fair amount of work. And whenever she had a good run of sales, she’d call in contractors to build us a new kitchen. Or replace the oil burner. Or add a modern shower stall to the vast, old bathroom on the second floor.
The phone rang at that point, and Mom got into what I knew would be a long conversation with one of her real estate colleagues.
So I walked out of that relentlessly modern kitchen where we seemed to spend the bulk of our lives together. Ended up in the big, dim living room. And stared, once again, at the enlarged snapshot standing at one end of the marble fireplace mantle for as long as I could remember.
Of two women flanking a man.
The woman on the right was a very young Mom, smiling eagerly in out-of-date clothes. Her right hand hooked through the arm of a man in a tweed jacket who was also smiling, though less eagerly.
The man was my Father. But I could barely remember him. He married Mom when he was an assistant professor at the university. And a few years after I was born, got a more prestigious appointment at a major Eastern university.
I was never clear about why Mom didn't go with him instead of staying in Madison and getting into real estate. But I didn’t ask her because I sensed it was something she didn't enjoy talking about.
The woman on the left in the photograph was Aunt Martha. Not smiling. Not hooking her hand through my father's arm. Standing a good foot away from him, in fact. Taller. Slimmer. Much younger and more elegant than Mom. Looking patiently bored and a little grim and maybe even regal. Just like everybody expected a school teacher to look, I guess.
For some reason, I shivered. Then turned away from that photograph for what must have been the thousandth time. Wondering, as always, what there was about it that left me feeling vaguely unsettled.
CHAPTER 2
But Aunt Martha turned out to be nothing like her image in the photograph.
Two weeks later, Mom and I met her at the Milwaukee airport. When we reached the terminal, she was already standing there surrounded by suitcases. Looking very tall and elegant in towering high heels with pointed toes. Wearing a plain, dark dress that was over-dressed for Madison even at the city's finest restaurants.
"So this is Bobby," she said brightly after Mom introduced me. "How are you, Bobby?"
"Fine thank you, Aunt Martha," I said, putting on my best manners. "Welcome home to Wisconsin."
"Isn't he sweet?" she said to Mom, then smiled back at me. "Do I get a Welcome Home kiss from my Favorite Nephew?"
"Oh Martha, he's your only nephew,” Mom said, sounding like a bossy older sister.
"All the more reason," Aunt Martha said, presenting me with her left cheek and pursing her lips.
I kissed her on the cheek. Tasting the faint, powdery sweetness of her rouge for an exhilarating second before she straightened up and turned back to Mom.
"Oh Alice, I can't believe you have such a fine-looking son," she said. "You must be so proud of him."
"Yes, he's very well-behaved," Mom said. "Now why don't we get your suitcases out to the car."
That night in the large formal dining room where we usually ate only on holidays, I sat at my end of the long table. Listening to them talk about things in the past that meant nothing to me. And watching Aunt Martha with increasing fascination.
I decided she looked a lot like Barbara Stanwyck. Maybe because I’d seen an old Stanwyck movie on television a few weeks earlier. Same round face and dark hair and urbane demeanor. But taller. With bigger, stronger bones. And a discretely larger bosom that moved intriguingly beneath her dark dress when she laughed or changed her position.
Almost like she wasn't wearing a bra.
Most of all, she had startling Green Eyes.
I’d never in my life seen a woman with green eyes. Didn't even know such an eye color was possible. But Aunt Martha's eyes were a Deep Emerald Green. They glittered and glinted and flashed all through dinner as she exchanged ancient memories with Mom. Adding an exotic touch to a room that never before sparkled with anything more than the down-home cheeriness of conventional holidays like Christmas.
Later that night, as I lay upstairs in my bedroom, I could hear them talking in the living room below. Most of the time, all I could make out was the low mumble of their voices. But the house had unpredictable acoustics. Sometimes their words reached my ears so clearly they could have been standing just outside my half-open door.
"But you could have married him," I heard Mom say at one point.
"And end up like you? No thanks," Aunt Martha said with what seemed like a trace of bitterness.
"But at least you..." and the rest of Mom's words were lost in mumbling.
I turned over in bed. Trying to position myself to hear them more clearly. Straining to learn what I could of the secrets shared by these two women.
"Damn it Alice, I lived in Paris for two whole years," I heard Aunt Martha say a few moments later.
"I know, but..."
"I learned to speak French as well as any French woman."
"Of course you did."
"And let's face it, I learned to Fuck as well as any French woman."
"Oh Martha..."
"Well it's true."
"But...to say such a thing. Even to me."
I was shocked. I never realized women used words like Fuck when they talked to each other. Especially women like Aunt Martha. Who was so elegant and well-educated.
"Why shouldn't I say it?" Aunt Martha's voice echoed, clearly and adamantly. "I Fucked all over the Left Bank and loved it. And if San Francisco hadn't been such a Goddamn Fairyland, maybe I wouldn't..."
"Martha, please. Let's change the subject."
"You're still an Emotional Virgin, aren't you. All right. Tell me about the Three, Big, Earthshaking things that happened in Madison since I left home."
Their voices were lost in mumbling again. But it didn't matter. All I could think about was Aunt Martha saying she’d Fucked all over the Left Bank in Paris. And loved it.
I didn't know women ever loved it. I thought only men loved it. Women simply put up with it to have babies when they were married. And sometimes, on rare occasions, to endure it before they were married. In order to hang onto their over-sexed boyfriends.
What was Aunt Martha saying? In words she couldn't possibly realize I heard?
CHAPTER 3
Two days later, the three of us drove over to a downtown auto dealer so Aunt Martha could buy herself a car.
Mom and I took it for granted she'd choose a nice, practical second-hand Ford or Chevy sedan. So did the salesman who steered her down the rows of such cars parked in the dealer's lot.
But the car that caught her eye was a little white 1958 Triumph Roadster with a black convertible top.
"Oh Martha, are you out of your mind?" Mom said in astonishment.
"This car doesn't have an automatic transmission, Lady," the salesman said warily.
"Fine. I don't like automatic transmissions," Aunt Martha said. "Can I take it for a test drive?"
"You sure you can handle a stick shift?"
"Of course. Come on, Bobby. Let's go for a ride."
"Me?"
"Sure. You can watch out for the cops while I put this little baby through its paces."
"Martha, for heaven's sakes, be careful," Mom said.
"It's all right, Alice. I know what I'm doing. Let's go, Bobby."
I climbed into the passenger seat while Aunt Martha slid behind the steering wheel. Grasped the wheel with both hands and stretched her legs to the pedals. Moved the seat forward slightly. Checked her reach to the wheel and pedals again.
Then abruptly slipped off her low-heeled black pumps and handed them to me.
"Here Bobby," she said. "Hold my shoes for me."
"You're going to drive Barefoot?"
"Of course. I used to date a professional race car driver when I lived in Paris. He taught me all about sports cars. Insisted driving barefoot gives you better control."
"No kidding?"
"It's all in the toes, he said. All in the toes."
She started the engine. Revved it several times. Then slipped the gear shift lever into first and eased off on the clutch.
We glided smoothly forward. I caught a glimpse of Mom and the salesman as we paused before turning onto the street. Mom was shaking her head wearily. The salesman just shrugged his shoulders.
Aunt Martha wasn't kidding about her knowledge of sports cars. She sped us through the streets like a Real Pro. Steering and braking and changing gears with a smooth, sure grace that amazed me.
I always figured only Men could drive a car like it was a natural part of them. But that was before I watched Aunt Martha downshift with a lightning quick double-clutch technique to slow the car for a smooth turn at an intersection.
In her Stocking Feet.
Finally, she turned into the large parking lot of a shopping center. It was nearly empty of cars, so she had plenty of room to give the Triumph a real work-out.
She did racing starts and sliding turns and quick slow-downs. Moving up and down through the gears with never a jerk or grab. Simultaneously pressing the accelerator and brake with the heel and toes of her right foot while she pumped the clutch with her left foot. Curling her toes around the pedals. Her long, slim, nylon-sheathed toes that seemed as agile as the most experienced fingers.
Half an hour later, we were back at the automobile agency and Aunt Martha was signing the papers to buy the Triumph. Mom had given up trying to suggest a "sensible" car. And I couldn't stop thinking about the masterful way Aunt Martha had driven.
In her Stocking Feet.
CHAPTER 4
By pure chance, my English Class in high school that year was taught by Aunt Martha.
I could have been assigned either of the two other English teachers. But I got Aunt Martha's class from one to two each afternoon right after lunch. In room 212 at the far end of the school building.
She began the first class session by seating us in strict alphabetical order. I wound up at a desk halfway down the second row from the windows.
Then she passed out a four-page course outline for the first semester, showing the reading assignments for each day. It looked like an awful lot of work.
Finally she stood there at the front of the classroom. Looking tall and severe. And told us exactly what to expect. In a voice very low and controlled and intimidating.
She wasn’t an Easy Grader, she warned us.
No one would get an automatic "B" just for showing up and behaving.
We should expect to be questioned at random on the reading assignments.
Class participation would count for one-third of our final grade.
Written assignments would count for another third. And those not turned in on time would automatically receive an "F".
Unannounced quizzes and scheduled exams would count for the final third of our semester grade.
Any questions?
We were too cowed to have any questions.
"Jesus, what a Witch," I heard Tommy Carling moan to Frank Rush after class as they walked just ahead of me down the hall.
"Yeah," Frank said. "But at least she's not bad looking."
"Are you kidding? She’s a real Ball-Buster."
"Yeah. But did you see her legs? I never had a teacher with legs like that before."
Frank's words made me blush, and at first, I didn't know why.
But then it hit me.
I’d been stealing glances at Aunt Martha's legs and feet ever since we took that test drive together in her Triumph sports car. Legs that swooped elegantly from beneath her skirt. Feet that were long and slim and had the Highest Arches I’d ever seen.
I knew it was wrong to look at her that way. She was my Aunt. Mom’s Sister. I wasn't supposed to look at her like she was a Calendar Model. But I couldn't help it.
No wonder Frank's words made me blush.
Maybe I would have gotten over it if Aunt Martha hadn't insisted on doing such compelling things in English class.
Like sitting with her legs crossed while she read to us. With the hem of her skirt sliding an inch or two above the beige curves of her knees. Displaying a tantalizing hint of endless, graceful thighs.
And absently flicking her loose black pump off and on the heel of her dangling foot with subtle movements of her toes.
Letting it slip off a little farther each time as she read us a story or essay in a strong, educated voice.
Until she lost control of the pump and it slid with a rush down to her toes. To swing gently back and forth for a second or two. Then hang motionless from the tips of her toes. Revealing almost the entire length of her slim, stunning foot.
In those days, a lot of women like Aunt Martha still wore seamless beige stockings with reinforced toes and heels. The darker beige reinforced nylon seemed to emphasize the perfectly sculpted roundness of Aunt Martha's heel. The breathtaking curve of her elegantly high arch. The shadowed beginnings of her long, supple toes.
I kept wondering why I couldn't help gaze at her exposed foot at such times.
Why I got the most embarrassing hard-ons when I watched her arch her foot up and down or twist it this way and that.
Why my pulse raced when the pump dangled precariously from the tips of her toes. With her stockings forming intriguing nylon wrinkles around her sharply protruding ankle bones.
I’d never heard of any guys my age getting turned on by a woman's Feet. It was always Bosoms. And Aunt Martha had a very attractive bosom. Generous and nicely shaped.
But it was her Feet I kept staring at. Especially when she sat there with her legs crossed and that pump dangling from her nylon toes. Moving her half-naked foot in all kinds of graceful ways that made my heart pound.
Eventually, without a pause in her reading, she’d reach down and grasp the dangling pump with her long fingers. And slip it back onto her foot. Slowly. As if enjoying the sensual caress of the pump's lining against her toes and arch and heel. Then she'd straighten up and turn the page of her book and continue reading as if nothing of any consequence had happened.
And I’d sit there holding my breath. Waiting for the inevitable. Letting myself exhale only when she started flicking the pump off and on her dark beige heel again. Slowly. Steadily. Ever more extravagantly.
Until it ended up dangling from her toes. Making her foot look so naked and alluring, my cock would swell and surge and throb inside my tight jockey shorts.
It was just as bad when she stood at the blackboard diagramming the structure of a sentence. She would turn to the board and stretch forward to write something with the piece of chalk in her hand. Trailing one foot behind her slightly and bending it upward with the toe of its pump pressed against the floor.
Until the pump abruptly slipped off her heel. Leaving her exposed heel gleaming and shimmering for a few moments in the early afternoon sunlight pouring through the classroom's tall windows. Its compelling roundness highlighted by the darker beige reinforcing of her stocking.
Then she'd turn to us with a quick movement that snuggled her heel back into its pump. And I would wait hopefully for her to write something else on the blackboard.
Or she would stand facing us. Firing sharp questions at whatever poor idiot she’d called on to demonstrate his hopeless ignorance.
Bending one knee forward slightly to raise her heel out of its pump.
Sometimes even running her nylon toes back along the pump's insole. Until I could see those toes fully exposed for a brief, heart-stopping moment. Naked and alive and wondrously long. Their red-painted tips shadowed by the nylon. Seeming to challenge me for one magic instant.
Before she eased her foot back into the embrace of its pump. As all the pulse points in my tense body throbbed madly.
And I wondered if I’d have enough time before class ended to mentally force down my hard-on. So I wouldn't have to walk out of the room holding my books in front of my pants to hide my embarrassing bulge.
She had an extensive wardrobe of classic pumps and rotated them day-by-day in complex patterns I could never quite figure out.
Some of them had gracefully slender high heels.
Some had medium heels that were equally slender.
And some had low heels, barely an inch high.
Some were sling-backs with thin little straps that loosely encircled her bare, narrow heels. But most were simple closed pumps without a trace of adornment.
And they all had pointed toes and low vamps. And clung to her feet with an easy erotic looseness that fired my imagination with a sense of sexual excitement beyond anything I’d ever been able to dream of before.
Most of all, she knew how to use the special characteristics of each pair of pumps to display her feet in the most tantalizing fashion imaginable.
God, Aunt Martha...what were you trying to do to me?
But she never did any of these things at home. Only in English class.
At home, she always wore loafers or flat-heeled shoes that stayed resolutely on her feet at all times. Maybe in deference to Mom's prudery about all things even faintly sexual. At home, she seemed to go out of her way to dress and act like the perfect image of an unmarried high school teacher who was somebody’s Aunt.
Only in English class did she flaunt the female glory of her exquisite feet and legs.
Was she trying to send a conscious or unconscious sexual message to somebody in class?
To Frank, maybe? Who admitted the very first day he found her attractive?
To someone else who’d caught her eye?
Could it possibly, just possibly, be Me?
CHAPTER 5
I thought about her every night as I lay in bed. Let my mind re-enact in extravagant detail every sensual thing she had done with her feet that day in English Class.
Every dangling of her pump from her toes while she sat with her legs crossed, reading to us.
Every slipping-free of her heel as she stretched forward to write something on the blackboard.
Every extravagant stride down one of the aisles or across the front of the classroom in ways that caused her pumps to slip off her heels and thrill me beyond imagining.
Inevitably, I got aching, huge hard-ons.
And just as inevitably, I found myself jerking-off to exhilarating fantasies of the things I dreamed of doing to her feet.
“It’s all right, Bobby,” I imagined her saying, one night. “I like having my feet admired.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. Now watch.”
She was sitting in a chair with her legs crossed.
And I was kneeling, naked at her feet. Watching in fascination as she flicked her pump off and on the nylon heel of her dangling foot. Seeing it hang off a little farther with each flick.
Until it slid with a rush down to her toes. Showing me the dramatic curve of her arch.
“Oh Aunt Martha…”
“Do you like that, Bobby?”
“Yes…”
“So do I. But now I can’t get my pump back on without your help.”
“You…can’t?”
“No. Look.”
She arched her foot upwards. Twisted it back and forth. Struggled to make the pump slip back along her foot until she could flick it onto her heel.
But it was no use. And finally, she relaxed her foot again. Letting the pump slide back down to the tips of her toes.
“See, Bobby? No matter what I do, I can’t get it back on. Just like in English Class.”
“Oh Aunt Martha…”
“Would you like to help me, Bobby?”
“It’s…it’s okay?”
“Of course. And I’d love to have you do it. I’d absolutely adore having you slip my pump back on my foot. Won’t you help me?”
“Yes…Yes…”
I gently took her ankle in my trembling left hand. Curled the fingers of my right hand around the pump’s slender high heel. And lifted it off her toes.
Oh God, her Toes…
So long and symmetrical. Sheathed in the beige nylon of her stocking that shadowed the red-painted tips of those fabulous Toes…
And I couldn’t help raise her foot to my mouth to gently kiss her Toes. All of them together. Then each one separately. And all of them together again…
“Ooooooh, Bobby. How sweet. You’re kissing my toes. I love it. Do it again. Keep doing it…”
“Ummm…Ummmm…Ummm…Ummm…Ummm…Ummmmmm…”
I opened my mouth wide to slather her toes with my drooling tongue. Took them between my lips and sucked them longingly. Caressed their writhing tips with my tongue…
As my rigid, oozing cock went absolutely crazy.
“Ooooooh, Bobby…I love what you’re doing to my toes…”
Suddenly I couldn’t help rising up on my knees with a moan. Pressing her toes against the tip of my burning hot foreskin. Wildly caressing it with those toes.
“AAAAAH…AAAAAAAH…OH AUNT MARTHA, AAAAAAAAH…”
“BOBBY, BOBBY, YOU’RE SO HARD…WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME ON MY FOOT?”
“YES, YES…AAAAAAH…UHH – UHH – UHH – UHH…AAAAAAAAAH…”
And I ejaculated heavily on her toes and instep.
“OH BOBBY, ALL OVER MY FOOT!"
Night after night, I jerked myself off to these fantastic visions of her feet.
I knew it was Wrong. Probably Sinful. Maybe even Perverted.
After all, she was my Aunt.
So I cursed myself for being unable to resist jerking-off to erotic images of her Feet.
And each time after I did it, I vowed never to do it again. Even though I knew in my heart I was powerless to resist the allure of her feet. Because of all the arousing things she did each day in English Class.
Yet our relationship was as prim and proper as any relationship between an aunt and nephew could possibly be. We were polite and friendly to each other. Occasionally, she would help me with my homework. But only for my other classes. Never for English.
CHAPTER 6
Soon she began telling me stories about her life in New York and Paris and San Francisco. Wonderful stories filled with Adventure.
I loved her stories. They helped confirm my suspicions that the world beyond Madison was infinitely richer than anything I could imagine. So I kept begging her to tell me more stories. About the woman she’d been.
Sometimes her stories became so vivid it almost seemed like the two of us were living them together.
"I was going out with this man who loved Opera," she told me one night. "So a lot of our evenings together were spent in San Francisco's War Memorial Opera House."
"Opera, wow. Did he call for you with a limousine?"
"No, he wasn't that rich. But he lived only two blocks from me on Russian Hill. So do you know how we would go to the Opera?"
"How?"
"By Cable Car."
"Cable car?"
"Riding down Russian Hill to Market Street by Cable Car. He in his Tuxedo. Me in my Long Gown. With the sun setting behind us. On our way to a performance of Don Giovanni or Tosca or Tales of Hoffmann. It was so romantic."
"Boy, I'll say."
Her stories about Paris were even more romantic.
"I lived in a small hotel on the Rue de Seine. Right around the corner from Boulevard Saint Michel. That’s sort of the main street of the Left Bank."
"Did you go to the Opera in Paris too?"
"No, I'm afraid not. But I met a French graduate student at the Sorbonne. His name was Pierre and he was very much involved in Left Bank intellectual life. He would take me to dinner at my favorite restaurant. It looked just like one of those little Belle Epoch places in Renoir's paintings."
"I bet the food was really great."
"Yes, indeed. A lot different from restaurant food here in Madison."
"What would you do after dinner?"
"Oh, we'd usually go on to the café Les Deux Magots."
"What's that?"
"A very famous café for Intellectuals. Hemingway used to go there when he lived in Paris. One night I actually saw Jean Paul Sartre sitting at one of the tables. Pierre introduced me to him."
"Jean Paul who?"
"Jean Paul Sartre, the famous French writer. And Simone de Beauvoir was with him. They'd been Companions and Lovers for years."
"Gee, Aunt Martha. That must have been something."
But her best stories were about New York, and its fabulous parties.
"I guess New York is really the City of Parties," she said. "When I lived in Greenwich Village, I was going to parties all the time, it seemed. Even though I didn't know most of the people there. But neither did anybody else."
"You mean, they just...went?"
"It seemed that way. Oh, I suppose they’d met the host at a party the previous Saturday, or somebody else who invited them. That's what happened to me the night a very nice man fought a Duel for me."
"A Duel? You're kidding."
"No I'm not. A real Duel. With Swords and Seconds and everything."
"How did it happen? Tell me, Aunt Martha."
"Well, I'd met this Indian Prince at a cocktail party the previous Sunday.
"A Prince?"
"A real, live Prince. He even had a large ruby set in the front of his turban. Anyway, he invited me to meet him at a party the next Saturday night in one of those huge apartments on West End Avenue."
"You mean he didn't call for you and take you to the party?"
"No, I was to meet him there. But that's not so unusual in New York. It wasn't the first time something like that had happened to me."
"You'd go to parties alone? Where you didn't know anybody?"
"Well, I knew the Indian Prince. At least I thought I did. But when I got to the party and went over to him, he refused to recognize me."
"He wouldn't even say hello?"
"Nothing. Just looked at me blankly and then turned back to the people he was talking to."
"My God. What did you do?"
"Well, naturally, I was embarrassed. Too embarrassed to stay at the party. So I went to the bedroom to get my coat. But then the strangest thing happened."
"What."
"I stood in that bedroom all alone. With the sounds of the party coming through the doorway. And I...I started to cry."
"Oh Aunt Martha..."
"I couldn't help it. I felt so terribly humiliated and hurt. It just...overwhelmed me. After all, I was only a year out of college at that point. So I sat there on the bed and cried and cried."
"Gee...that must have been awful."
"Believe me, Bobby. It felt like the End of the World. Even though it was really nothing. But then you know what happened?"
"What."
"Suddenly this lovely, sweet man was sitting next to me on the bed. With his arm around my shoulders. Trying to console me."
"Did you know him?"
"No. But he said he'd seen what happened in the living room. With the Indian Prince. And he kept telling me not to worry about it. That it didn't matter."
"Did that make you feel better?"
"A little, I guess. But I still couldn't stop crying. The more he tried to console me, the harder I cried. And finally he said he'd Challenge the Prince to a Duel if that would make me feel better."
"Wow. I bet you were surprised."
"I was totally floored. I kept asking him if he really meant it. And he insisted he did. But I couldn't believe he was serious. I mean, a Duel in New York? In those days? It sounded crazy."
"So you didn't believe him."
"No, how could I? But he kept saying 'No man can get away with insulting you while I'm around,' and then he stood up from the bed and grabbed me by the hand and led me into the hallway. That's where his coat was hanging. He got a glove from his coat pocket and led me into the living room. The Prince was still standing there talking to those people. With his back to us. So Tommy walked over to him—"
"Tommy? That was his name?"
"Yes. Tommy Bartak. I'll never forget it. He walked right over to that Indian Prince and tapped him on the shoulder. And when the Prince turned around, Tommy slapped him in the face with his glove."
"Wow."
"That's how you challenge somebody to a Duel. By slapping him across the face with your glove. The Prince understood right away. And so did a lot of other people in the room. I'd never seen so much excitement at a party."
"Were you still crying?"
"No, I was too surprised by what was happening. And afraid Tommy might get hurt. I tried to talk him out of going ahead with the Duel. But he told me not to worry. He said he'd been on the fencing team at NYU and knew how to make sure nobody got hurt. So the Duel was on."
"Boy...right there at the party?"
"No, no. One of the people at the party lived in a Brownstone in the Village. And he suggested they use his backyard garden for the Duel. At dawn. Just like in a nineteenth century novel."
"And the two of them actually went through with it?"
"Yes. We all gathered in that Village garden at dawn. Tommy and the Prince stripped to the waist and faced each other with their dueling swords."
"Did Tommy win?"
"Oh yes. Not that it really amounted to much. Both of them were being very careful. But finally Tommy nicked the Prince on the arm, and that was that. The Duel was over and Tommy had won. He’d Defended my Honor."
"Gee, Aunt Martha, how many women ever had a man fight a Duel for them?"
"Not many, I guess. Not even in New York. Where just about anything can happen."
"Did Tommy become your...boyfriend after that?"
"Well, we got to be very good friends. He took me to lots of interesting places."
"Then he was your boyfriend."
"Not the way you think. You see, Tommy was one of those men who likes other men. You know about that, don't you?"
"You mean he was a Fag?"
"I never use that word. It's not nice. But, yes. Tommy was homosexual. The first homosexual I ever got to know as a friend. Of course, that was before I lived in San Francisco. But he was so kind and thoughtful. And so clever. One of the best people I've ever known, I guess."
Despite the note of sadness in Aunt Martha's voice when she finished that story, her Emerald Eyes were glowing with a light that seemed to reveal a world of thrilling possibilities to me. Making me realize how much I Loved Her. With the love of an eager, passionate man. Love for a woman who possessed a great deal more than just a pair of Exciting Feet.
CHAPTER 7
In February, we had a Major Snow Storm that closed the schools for two days. While everybody shoveled and struggled and tried to get back to what passed for normal in Madison.
And on the night of the second day, I had a dream about Aunt Martha and me.
We were struggling through impossible snow drifts together. Trying to reach something terribly important but unknown.
"Oh Bobby, I'll never make it," she gasped, clinging to my arm.
"Yes you will, Aunt Martha," I said, sliding my arm around her shoulders to hold her up. "It's only a little farther."
"But the snow’s so deep."
"Don't worry. I'm holding you. We'll get there."
"Oh Bobby, what would I ever do without you?"
"It's all right, Aunt Martha. I'll take care of you."
"Bobby, Bobby, don't let me go."
"No, no, I'm holding you. We're almost there."
With a mighty effort, I got us through the last big snow drift and reached the front steps of our porch.
The steps seemed endless and Aunt Martha's knees kept buckling. But we finally reached the front door. I opened it and dragged her inside. Shutting the door quickly and stamping the snow from my legs.
"Oh Bobby, you saved me," Aunt Martha said. "Thank God."
"Come on in the living room," I said. "You look frozen."
She was wearing the plain, urbane dress she had on when we met her at the airport back in August. And nylon stockings and high-heeled pumps. Nothing else. No wonder she was shivering.
"God, my feet are like ice," she said when we reached the living room. "All that snow..."
"Don't worry, Aunt Martha," I said. "I'll warm your feet for you."
"You will? How?"
"Sit here on the couch. I'll show you."
She perched herself on the edge of the couch and I knelt before her. Raising her feet with my hands and slipping off her wet pumps.
"Gee, Aunt Martha. Your stockings are soaking wet," I said. "You'd better take them off."
"All right, Bobby. Whatever you say."
She reached under her skirt and unclasped her stockings. I peeled them off her legs. Then covered her naked feet with my hands and began massaging them.
"This should make them feel better," I said.
"Yes...oh Bobby, they feel better already. Don't stop."
I had her beautiful, thrilling, completely naked feet in my hands at last. Massaging them. Caressing her insteps and arches. Cuddling her toes in my palms. Cupping her heels and stroking her ankles. My cock swelled gigantically inside my pants.
"Oh Bobby, Bobby, that's wonderful," she sighed. "My goodness, the things you're doing to my feet...I love it. Just love it."
My cock was bulging out the front of my pants so fiercely, it suddenly burst my zipper. Exploding forth hugely through the foot-long tear in my pants. Naked and hot and enormous.
"Oh Bobby, yes..." Aunt Martha gasped when she saw my gigantic cock. "Warm my feet with it. Do it to me, Bobby."
I placed the bare soles of her feet around my dick and started rubbing it with them. Rubbing the softness of her glorious arches up and down the hard length of my burning, throbbing cock.
Almost immediately, the Fire surged up my legs. Into my livid cock. Swelling it until I exploded with a scream.
“AAAAAAH… AAAAAAAH…. AAAAAAAH…”
And I ejaculated wildly onto her arches and insteps and toes...
I was still ejaculating when I awoke from that awesome dream. Soaking my pajamas with thick streams of Liquid Fire as my tense body emptied itself. Still feeling the indescribable thrill of Aunt Martha's feet caressing my erupting, iridescent cock.
Could there ever again be any doubt in my mind that Aunt Martha had possessed me? Like an Angel or a Demon, it scarcely mattered which. Possessed me completely. With her irresistible feet.
To the very depths of my soul.
CHAPTER 8
I found myself coming home to an empty house each afternoon when school was over.
Mom's real estate business usually kept her busy until around six. Aunt Martha had things to do at school and rarely got home before five. So I had the house to myself each afternoon. And decided to use those hours to catch up on Algebra and American History.
But one afternoon as I was coming out of the bathroom, I noticed the door to Aunt Martha's room standing partway open.
I walked over to it and peered inside. The room seemed dim and quiet, just like the rest of the house. I placed my hand on the doorknob and let the door swing back silently until it was completely open. Then, bowing to some secret impulse, I walked into Aunt Martha's room.
It was filled with a reverential hush. I stood there looking around. At the bed. The dresser. The rocking chair. The closed door of her closet. Feeling an odd sense of excitement stirring inside me.
This was where she slept. Kept her clothes. Dressed and undressed. The presence of her was all around me. I could almost hear her voice echoing through the silence. Tempting me.
To do what? To do what?
I walked over to her dresser and eased open the top drawer. The right side was filled with her stockings. Jumbled together in a heap of beige wispiness. The stockings that sheathed her legs and feet each day. Feeling silky and insubstantial as I ran my fingers through them. Her stockings. Whose sensual nylon sheerness made my cock stir.
I picked up one of her stockings and shook it out until it dangled full length from my hand. Its gossamer outline matched the shape of her leg. Tapering smoothly down from her thigh to her knee. Swelling outward to encompass her calf. Tapering down again to the slenderness of her ankle. Curving at a slight angle to follow the outlines of her heel and arch and instep and toes.
My cock was stiffening with excitement as I crumpled her stocking in both hands and buried my face in it. Inhaling its faint perfume. Filling my lungs with it. Again and again. Knowing this was the intoxicating perfume of her feet. Her long, graceful feet that drove me crazy every day in English class.
I unzipped my pants and took out my Steaming Hard Cock. Embraced it with her stocking. Felt the exhilaration of smooth nylon glide along my naked foreskin as I slowly stroked myself with her stocking. Imagining the thrill of having her Stocking Feet caress my throbbing cock. Embracing it with her soft arches. Rubbing it with her toes.
Oh God, Aunt Martha...
My body was almost ready to explode when I forced myself to stop stroking. I longed to ejaculate into her stocking. Let myself go and soak that sensual handful of gossamer nylon with Liquid Fire.
Did I dare?
No, no. How would I hide the results afterwards?
Suddenly, I had an idea.
I reached into the dresser drawer and found the stocking's mate. Hung both stockings side by side from the lip of the drawer so they just reached the floor. Closed the drawer to hold them in place. And adjusted them until I could almost imagine Aunt Martha standing there in her Stocking Feet. Encouraging me to jerk-off to the image of them I’d conjured up in my mind.
Then I had another idea. Walked over to her closet and opened it.
Her pumps filled the shoe rack on the back of the door. My eyes fell on the pair she’d worn in English class two days earlier. They had high heels and pointed toes. And their black kidskin was so well-worn and supple, they slipped off her feet with a carefree ease that left me breathless.
I took down one of the pumps. Marveling at how light it was. Ran my fingers over the smooth kidskin and stroked its slender heel. Then held it to my face. Pressing my nose into it and inhaling deeply.
The aroma was the same as her stocking, but more powerful. The perfume of Aunt Martha's feet filling my nostrils was so strong my cock surged and I began to feel light-headed.
I inhaled again and again. Almost tasting the tang of her toes. Which had spent endless hours cuddled in the embrace of that pump.
Finally I carried the pumps over to the dresser and placed them side by side on the floor beneath her stockings. Carefully stuffing the foot portion of each stocking into the pumps.
God, it was perfect. Just perfect. Like she was actually standing there wearing only her stockings and those pumps. Bending her right knee forward slightly and slipping her foot out of its pump. Just the way she did in class. Making my cock throb with eager passion.
I took off my pants and shorts. Grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on her night table. And began jerking-off wildly to my proxy image of Aunt Martha. Seeing her do all sorts of thrilling things with her feet.
“That’s it, Bobby,” I could hear her say. “Do it to my feet. It’s all right…”
“Yes, yes…”
And I ejaculated quickly in a flood of pulsing Wet Fire that soaked the tissues in my hand. Feeling a great sense of peace steal through me afterwards.
I did the same thing the next afternoon. And the afternoon after that. I did it every afternoon as soon as I got home from school. Imagining in the heat of my passion that Aunt Martha was making me a Gift of her Feet. The Feet I worshipped as icons of her sensual glory.
CHAPTER 9
School ended in the middle of June and Aunt Martha enrolled for two summer courses at the university.
At the end of the second week, she asked me if I’d like to go to class with her. Summer was the busiest time of the year for Mom and it must have been obvious I didn't have much to keep me occupied.
"That sounds great," I said, overjoyed at the prospect of spending more time with her. "Are you sure it's okay?"
"Of course it is. They're used to having teachers like me bring their children to class in the summer."
"Even nephews?"
"They'll probably think you're my kid brother. Besides. You're so grown-up and well-behaved. How could they possibly object? I just hope you won't be bored."
"Oh, I won't be bored. I promise."
That summer turned out to be unusually warm and Aunt Martha didn't hesitate to dress for it. In light, sleeveless blouses that draped themselves softly around her jutting bosom. And shorts whose briefness revealed the full sweep of her magnificent legs.
But it was the flat-heeled sandals she wore on her naked feet that most intrigued me.
They were nothing more than a thin leather strap around each heel and an open criss-cross of several more thin straps across her toes. Making her feet look so pristinely bare and slim and high-arched, it was hard not to stare at them as she sat next to me in the classroom. With her legs dramatically crossed. Absently letting the sandal's loose heel strap slide off as she listened to the lecturer and took notes. Until the sandal dangled maddeningly from her red-painted toes. And my cock bulged the front of my baggy shorts with helpless excitement.
She had one class in the late morning and the second in the afternoon. Which meant we had to eat lunch together on campus. We’d sit under the shade trees in the oldest part of the campus, where there was always a slight breeze. Aunt Martha would slip off her sandals and curl her bare toes through the grass. And we’d eat lunch picnic style.
During one of those picnic lunches, she asked me if I’d done any thinking about college.
"I'll probably end up here at the university."
"Is that what you want?"
"I hadn't really thought about it. What else is there?"
"You're so smart and you're doing quite well in school. I think you might be able to get into a really good university. Like Yale or Princeton."
"Really?"
"That could make all the difference as far as a career is concerned. A degree from an Ivy League school can open all kinds of doors for you. Especially in New York, if you'd like to work there."
"Sure. Anything to get out of Madison."
"That's the spirit. You shouldn't be afraid to aim high."
"But you had a career in New York. With just a degree from here."
"I had a job in publishing, that's all. Because I was willing to work for a low salary. They called me an Assistant Editor. But I eventually realized it wouldn't lead to anything."
"Because you didn't have an Ivy League degree?"
"Mainly because I’m a woman. People don't take women seriously when it comes to careers. It's just something to do until they get married. So where they went to college doesn't matter that much. But it isn't that way with men. The right degree can make all the difference for them."
"You mean, if I went to Yale or Princeton...?"
"Then you could be almost anything you want. I saw how it was with the men I dated when I lived in New York."
"But aren't those Ivy League schools awfully expensive?"
"You get what you pay for. And you might be able to win a scholarship."
"Do you think so?"
"If you can get accepted by an Ivy League college, they'll make sure money doesn't hold you back."
"I don't know what Mom would say about that. Going to college so far away from home."
"Well, we'll see about your mother when the time comes. But think about it. You can't aim too high in life."
CHAPTER 10
A week after I turned eighteen, Mom had a heart attack while showing a house to a potential buyer.
It was totally unexpected, and didn't even seem to be particularly serious at first. In fact, the doctor assured Aunt Martha and me that Mom would be able to leave the hospital within a week and recuperate at home.
But on Monday, Something Happened. The hospital was vague about the details.
Apparently, Mom had another heart attack while she was asleep. This one was massive and they weren't able to bring her around. She was pronounced dead at 3:12 Monday afternoon. Aunt Martha got the phone call at school.
I don't remember much about the next two weeks. Just disconnected images of the funeral and the trip to the cemetery. The shock of Mom's death seemed to turn off my brain for a while and I stumbled around in a daze of grief.
And the next thing I knew, Aunt Martha was sitting at the kitchen table with me. Talking to me about becoming my guardian.
"It was your mother's wish, Bobby," she explained. "That's what she wrote in her Will."
"Okay."
"But it really depends on you; you're a grown man now. Would you like me to watch over you?"
"I guess so."
"We've gotten to be such good friends in the past year. I want to do everything I can for you."
"I know."
"Then it's all right?"
"Yeah."
"Good for you, Bobby. That means we can be even better friends. I promise to take good care of you."
During the next few weeks, I gradually came out of my shell and started getting used to the new dimensions of my life with Aunt Martha.
The main thing I noticed was how she took over all Mom’s duties involving the house. Like preparing meals and grocery shopping and vacuuming the rooms on weekends.
I tried to help her as much as I could. A lot more than I’d ever helped Mom. It meant we spent more time together. Which I liked and she seemed to welcome.
She also went out of her way to arrange other things that we could do together. Like taking Sunday afternoon drives in the country in her Triumph. Going to the movies. Concerts at the university. She seemed ready to devote her whole life to me. Not just as a guardian, but as a friend.
A friend who didn't realize how much I worshipped her as a Woman.
CHAPTER 11
One night, I dreamed I was watching her get dressed for a formal dance.
I stood just inside the open doorway of her bedroom, gazing at her as she sat at her dressing table applying make-up to her eyes.
She was wearing a dark red strapless gown whose classic lines bared her shoulders and seemed to cling to every curve of her body.
It was the first time I realized how beautiful her shoulders were. The lines of their strong, prominent bones were gently softened by the creamy smoothness of her skin and flowed with perfect symmetry into her long, bare arms.
I watched in fascination as her shoulders moved with rippling grace in response to the slow patterns her fingers were tracing around her eyes with a mascara brush. Her date for the dance had to be the luckiest man in Madison escorting such a Splendid Woman.
"There. That's done," she said abruptly, straightening up and placing the mascara brush on the glass top of her dressing table.
Then she spun around on the bench and faced me with a radiant smile.
"How do I look, Bobby?" she asked, her Emerald Eyes sparkling.
She looked so magnificent, my pulse began to race. Her dark hair was pinned up to expose her ears. They glittered as the light of the room caught her tiny diamond stud earrings. The redness of her lips seemed even deeper than her gown, which vividly outlined the gently pointed swell of her bosom.
"You…look fine," I managed to say.
"Is my lipstick on straight?"
"Sure. It's perfect."
"Good. Now why don't you get my shoes for me."
My heart leaped as she slipped her nylon feet out of the flat-heeled slippers she’d been wearing and stretched her long toes.
"Okay," I gulped. "Which ones?"
"Oh...the silver evening sandals, I suppose. They're in the rack on my closet door."
I walked over to the closet and took down the silver sandals. They seemed depressingly clumsy and old fashioned with their thick heels and wide ankle straps and open toes. I felt a stir of disappointment as I held them in my hands.
"You don't really want to wear these shoes, do you Aunt Martha?" I asked.