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Message-ID: <29578asstr$985684202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: One Gallus <onegallus@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Young-to-Young (mf, young teen, rom)
Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2001 04:10:02 -0500
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   <1st attachment, "Young-to-Young.txt" begin>

   Note: This story contains graphic sexual descriptions and should not be
read where it is illegal or by people under the legal age under their local
laws.

   Note: This story may not be changed or posted or otherwise used without
permission from the author.



   YOUNG-TO-YOUNG By OneGallus



   This past winter my mother died, and the family took her back to
Tennessee for burial.  I had a lot on my mind and heart that blustery
afternoon, ripe memories crowding in on me.  George and Claude, childhood
friends, both of them the worst for wear, came to that rural cemetery to
hug me and tell me how sorry they were.  Their knuckles and noses were red
in the brittle chill, all the stronger testimony of their fondness in our
shared recollections.  We had drifted apart and only saw each other on rare
occasions such as this.  When I was 13, in the fall of the year, my father
and mother had chosen to migrate northward, into the Midwest.  Consequently
old friends became distant friends.  The pay was higher but so was the
stress; We had more possessions, but something was missing in our lives
that George and Claude had never lost.

   They had chosen to stay with the little textile factories around
Trenton. They had worked minimum wage jobs and had very little, but they
were content to drive fifty miles and put their little boat into Reelfoot
Lake, or to fish freshwater creeks and rivers unsullied by big industry.  I
hadn't been fishing in twenty years, but I did settle near water.  I work
as a warehouse manager for the Port of Toledo.  I have seen, first hand,
the filth spewing out into Lake Erie and the Maumee River.  The river was
eventually rescued from its outhouse taste and odor and Erie has been
cleaned, but I believe neither should be fully trusted for food.

   George and Claude thought I was big stuff up there in Ohio, but they may
have gotten the better end of the deal, staying here in their little
four-room houses with their wives and children, surrounded by the pristine
waters in their little corner of the South.

   As I drove away from the rural cemetery I felt very much alone.  My
wife, Iris was not with me.  She and my mother had always gotten along with
each other for most of our married life.  However, health problems,
punctuated by a stroke, dictated that Mom come and live with us two years
ago.  That event transmogrified my wife into a veritable bitch.  She
actually grew to hate my mother.  Instead of a sympathetic reaction, she
turned bitter.  The stroke must have been a constant reminder to Iris that
the same thing could happen to her or to me one of these days.  Our home
became a dreadful kind of hell for me, with Iris carping constantly about
my mother's imposition on her.  At least, that's my side of the story.

   Enough of that now, Mom's gone.  Iris is gone ...  Correction, Iris is
still in the house.  I'm gone, gone to a small apartment near downtown
Toledo.  Well, I'm not there at this present moment.  I am behind the wheel
of this stupid orchid-colored Neon in Gibbon, Tennessee.  Iris has the
Grand Cherokee.  I'm pretty sad as I drive away from the cemetery, slipping
and sliding on sleety roads which are never salted in the winter.  It looks
bad outside and I should go on back to Ohio.  My daughters and son are
already on their way.  But they can't take the time off from work that I
can, and I don't want to drive six hundred miles tonight.  I'm going to
keep my eyes peeled for an old, inexpensive motel, one that's warm, where I
can plug in my laptop and do a little writing, maybe watch one of the two
local channels and go to sleep.

   There's really nothing here in Gibbon anymore.  This is where I was
born, in a frame house close to the railroad.  I turn onto Cemetery Road
and go south to old 186.  I can't recall if Access Road had a name back
when I was a kid or not; I think it was just the road to the Arsenal.  It
isn't far out to where Grandpa and Grandma use to live.  I spot their house
coming into view.  It is built low to the ground, and it's getting lower,
going at it at a ten-degree angle, the vertical siding tilting like some
hillbilly tower of Pisa.

   I think about them, Grandpa and Grandma.  I used to come over here from
Gibbon and spend the night with them.  Sometimes other grandchildren would
come too and it would be a great get-together.  My Uncle Delmer's girls
would usually be there.  My cousin Lucy was a little chubby girl with
blonde curly hair.  She was 15 and I was only 13, but she was very happy to
play with me.  She liked to practice movie kisses with me.  Her sister
Carla was dark-haired, slender and beautiful, like a movie star.  She was
17, and I remember distinctly that she smelled like a penis.  Not a dirty
one, but a penis that had taken a bath the night before, but had just
uncapped itself for a morning pee.  I didn't know at the time why that was
so, but I think I do now.  She and Ryan Scott were going together back then
and wanting to get married.  Uncle Delmer said, "Absolutely not!" but I
think Carla and Ryan regularly fucked in his old Ford Coup.  What I smelled
on my beautiful cousin was the residue.  Carla and Ryan eventually married,
moved to Jackson and had ten children.  At the cemetery today I hardly
recognized her.  She looked twenty years older than Ryan did.  Her face had
turned to heavy grained leather; too much sun, too much tobacco smoke.  I
hugged her today and she smelled OK, except for the Winstons.  I kissed
Lucy but she only gave me a smack.

   I wonder what Uncle Delmer's house looks like now.  It's just up the
road here a little way.  Hey!  It's gone!  How could they do that do me? 
There's a yellow house trailer in its place.  Man!  I wonder what they did
with all those broken-down Model T Fords.  Uncle Delmer parked them all
over his front yard.  Geeze!  That was over forty years ago!

   I remember when my 21-year-old cousin, Wendell, came over from Little
Rock and stayed a few days with Grandpa and Grandma.  Carla and Lucy were
there too, from just up the road.  Dad had driven me over from Gibbon and
we had kind of a cousin reunion.  Wendell was a truck driver and skinny as
hoe handle.  He used to wear a khaki shirt and pants with a military style
hat, like an officer would wear.  There were no markings on the uniform, of
course; he was never in the army but he would cock his hat on the side of
his head, and squint his eye, and affect the style of the jaunty warrior.

   Dad said he had hinges in his hips because when he sat down, his knees
would fly apart.  His favorite place at Grandma's was a cane bottom chair
that he tilted back on its hind legs and rocked.  You could have backed a
horse's ass in between those skinny legs and he wouldn't have felt it. 
When Carla and Lucy were around, and Grandma or Grandpa weren't looking,
Wendell would grab at Lucy, who deftly escaped his bony fingers.  Or he
would grab at his crotch, adjusting himself, as his fluctuating size
demanded.

   Before Wendell moved to Little Rock, he'd lived over in Gibbon with his
mother, my Aunt Ora, and he always like to come back this way if he had a
run in Tennessee.  On this trip, he had driven an old truck, about the size
of the largest U-Haul a private driver can rent today.  On the side of the
enclosed bed the sign red, Little Rock Arc Welding.

   "It looks like it's spelt wrong, but it ain't," Wendell told me, "And
it's also grimmetical." Nine years later, poor Wendell was to die on an
Arkansas highway, near Moutainburg, on a hairpin curve.  His truck swerved
off the mountain, crashed and burned.

   Right now, I'm looking for that house he took me to back then.  If it
weren't for my car compass, I wouldn't have any idea where I am or where
I'm headed.  I used to know my way around, and each change of direction
causes strange sparks in my memory.  Look at all those trailers!  The woods
are whacked away every hundred yards and the nearest thing to a farmhouse I
see is a trailer with a gable facade on it.  Wait a minute!  That turn
looks familiar.  Their house was right at that corner, where the road goes
back east.  There it is, still here, the Sorenson Place!

   It's very small, has a one-step-up front porch behind a railing of
fancy-turned dowels.  It sits parallel to the road, no more than two rooms
wide.  I remember the room on the left is the living room, the room on the
right, a bedroom, and a door directly between the two.  Then there were two
rooms running long-ways, back toward the woods.  Yes, I can see that the
house is shaped like a T with the top part toward the dirt road.  The
kitchen and a bedroom are trunk of the T.  I remember, as if I were 13
again.

   Wendell told me, "There's some sweet blonde pussy out there." And there
surely was.  Cousins Carla and Lucy had gone back to their house and it was
just Wendell and I there at Grandpa's house.

   "Grandma," Wendell said, "Me and Joe is goin' down the old access road a
piece, maybe see the Arsenal.  I want to let him drive my truck on the dirt
roads, you know, not on the highway."

   "Well," said Grandma.  "Y'all be back by supper time," meaning six
o'clock.

   She was always very permissive.  That's what I liked about Grandma. 
Then again, kids driving tractors and trucks on the back roads of Tennessee
was no big deal back then.  It was Driver's Training, 1950.

   It was hot that summer.  There was no air conditioning in the old truck,
of course, so we kept the windows rolled down.  It swayed along the road,
raising a dust storm behind us.  I steered but I had trouble with the gears
and Wendell shifted for me.

   "Reckon they'll be shootin' shells at the Arsenal, Wendell?" I asked.

   "I don't give a damn."

   "How come?

   "We ain't we goin' to the Arsenal?"

   "We ain't?"

   "Hell no."

   "Well, I didn't think so; we're headed south and Arsenal is east.  Where
we goin'?"

   "Where's there's some sweet blonde pussy, Cousin Joe." He grinned and it
wrinkled his face.  I have never seen such a wrinkled face on such a young
man.

   "Where is that?"

   "At the Sorenson place.  Mash down that clutch, Joe, we need to shift
down right here." I pushed in the clutch and Wendell moved the floor shift,
we picked up speed and bounced along as we traveled.  "Careful, Joe, I
don't want to bounce that farm machin'ry loose back'ere in `at truck."

   I knew what blonde pussy was, but I thought Wendell was talking about a
big blonde woman he just wanted to see, maybe flirt with.  Well, he didn't
*not* mean that.

   I slowed down.  We got to the top of the little hill and looked down on
a road that entered an oak forest, then turned sharply back toward the
east. Right at that turn, the trees had been cleared away to make room for
a little house shaped like a T with a one-step porch in front.

   "Park her right t'ere in the front," Wendell said pointing ahead, "Mash
the clutch in again, we're goin' down another gear." The truck whined as
the low gear slowed us to almost a crawl and we parked right in front of
the Bermuda grass lawn.  Two large oak trees were on each side of the front
yard.  There were toy windmills spinning along the flowerbeds on both edges
of the yard.  We opened our truck doors and stepped down into our own dust.


   We walked through the shady front yard and I followed Wendell, who took
a hop up on the porch.  He knocked, Dot dotta dot dot, dot!  A young blonde
girl came to the door.  Her hair was more white than yellow, and she was
absolutely gorgeous.  I knew this girl!  It was Ingrid!  I knew her from
school.  She was in my grade!

   She spoke flatly to my cousin, "Hi Wendell," as if she'd just seen him
an hour ago.  Then she looked at me, smiled and said, "Oh!  Hi Joe!  What
are you doin' out here!"

   "I'm with Wendell.  He's my cousin.  I been drivin' the truck!"

   "Really?" she said.

   "Whose home, Ingrid?" asked Wendell.

   "We're all here, why, you want us all?" she said, really sassy to
Wendell.

   "Now, that would be fun, but I ain't got that kinda money, honey. 
Grannie here?"

   "Yeah," Ingrid said, opening the door.

   Just inside the screen door, on the left, was a nicely made-up bed.  To
the right of the door was a couch.  In the far corner, on the left, sat an
old woman in a bulky rocking chair.  Her right hand was on the head of a
cane.  She rocked the chair by pressing down on the cane.  Her dress came
down to just above her knees and white thin-skinned bare legs disappeared
up into her dress.  The old lady was barefoot and blue veins stood out on
the insteps of her feet.  Her toenails were painted bright red.  Grannie
Sorenson's hair had been permanent-waved and the gray hair glistened.  I
noticed sparse curls of yellow among the gray, the sunlight from the window
highlighting them.

   "Howdy Grannie," said Wendell.

   "That you, Wendell?" asked Grannie.

   "Yep."

   "Draw up a chair and sit down."

   I looked close at the old woman.  Her eyes were foggy, and she didn't
look precisely at Wendell when he spoke, but only in his vicinity.

   There were two kitchen chairs in the room, one beside the far wall, and
the other close to Grannie.  Wendell took the near chair and pointed at me
to get the other.  I pulled it up next to him.  He sat down, leaned back,
spread his legs and adjusted his genitalia.

   "Got my cousin with me," said Wendell.

   "I thought I heard another one in here," she drawled.

   Ingrid padded by me.  She was wearing blue shorts and a yellow shirt. 
Her hair was combed back and held out of her face by barrettes.  I wouldn't
ordinarily remark about the complexion of a 13-yearold girl, but she
undoubtedly had the clearest, smoothest skin I have ever seen, absolutely
flawless.  Just inside the kitchen, I saw another blonde girl in shorts. 
Her hair was more yellow than Ingrid's was and she looked quite shapely,
like a senior high school girl.

   Wendell saw me looking.  "That's Greta in yonder," he grinned, tossing
his head toward the door.  "Purty, ain't she?"

   I nodded.

   Wendell took a Lufkin roll-up steel ruler out of his pocket.  He began
to extend it from its case.

   "Who're you a lookin' for today, Wendell?"

   "Who you got, sweetheart?" Wendell asked, he extended the steel rule
toward the old lady's bare leg.

   "Well there's Greta in yonder in the kitchen.  I think her mama's back
in the back bedroom somewhere.

   "What about you, sweetheart?" Wendell said, and he reached under her
skirt with the steel ruler and touched her thigh.

   "What the fuck!" Grannie hollered, jumping and dropping her cane.  "What
was that?"

   "That's me darlin', just tryin' to get in your britches!" said Wendell.

   I was watching all this with wide eyes and a pounding heart.  I didn't
know what would happen next, but I was happy to be here and see it arrive.

   I looked up and saw that Greta had come to the door of the room.  She
was tan and it really set off her golden hair.  Her toenails were painted
blue.  I had never seen blue toenails before.  Her blouse was open two
buttons, and her sweaty cleavage jiggled as she laughed.  She was
transfixed on the scene as Wendell again moved his steel ruler close to
Grannie Sorenson.

   The Greta nudged Ingrid and whispered, "Go git Mama!" Ingrid turned
around and left in a run.

   Wendell tickled Grannie on the shin.  "Them's the purtiest legs I ever
saw," he said.

   Grannie giggled and kicked her leg, "You son of a bitch," she said.

   "Oh Grannie, don't you remember when I was ...  How old was I Grannie?"
Wendell fed the ruler between her legs, up into the darkness of her dress.

   "Why, eight or ten, I reckon.  Your daddy wanted you to get started
early."

   "Why Grannie, I bet I was the youngest youngun you ever did, right?"

   "Ummmm-Umm, you were a sweet one, skinny little pecker, wisht I could
see it now." Wendell had apparently reached some kind of objective with the
ruler.  It wasn't exactly still, but it stayed there.  A

   woman of about 45 appeared at the door.  Blonde and sharp featured and
beautiful.  She wore a thin cotton nightgown, almost transparent.  Her skin
was coarsening just a little, but she was not as tan as her daughter was.
Her eyes went immediately to the waggling steel ruler.  She grinned as
Wendell probed gently with it.  "Ummmm-Umm," said Grannie.

   "Grannie, are you gonna give me a good deal today?"

   "Mumm, I always give a good deal."

   "How much?" Wendell asked.

   "Five, you know the price." she said.

   Wendell probed some more.  "Grannie, I got two of us today.  You can do
better than that.""

   "Ten dollars for two," she said, "you know the price."

   Wendell frowned and paused.

   "How old is your cousin anyway?" Granny asked.

   "Tell her, boy," said Wendell.

   "Thirteen," I said.

   "Come here, boy," Grannie said.

   I looked at Wendell, and he grinned and nodded his head.  I looked at
the three blondes in the doorframe.  All of them were smiling.  I had a
sizable erection and it seemed much fuller than ever before.

   "Go one, Joe, she won't cut it off!"

   I stood and walked toward the blind old lady, embarrassed to parade my
hardon before the three blondes in the doorway.  Grannie's hands were still
quite pretty, though the veins stood up, like in her feet.  She was
beckoning me with her fingers, smiling sweetly.  I came up beside her and
stood.  She reached out with her hands, catching me on my upper thighs.

   "Ohh!  You are a big boy," she said, sliding her hand up and laying it
over my erection, feeling it firmly.  "Ummmm-Umm, sweet darlin, I wisht I
could see that."

   I looked at Wendell again, and he winked.  I didn't dare look at the
blondes.

   "Eight dollars, and he gets Ingrid, young-to-young," said Grannie.

   I blushed red.  I know, because my face was burning.

   "Who do I get?" Wendell said in a falsely petulant voice.

   Granny cocked her head coyly, "Why sweetheart, you get one of us three,
take your pick."

   Wendell, stood up and walked to Grannie and I stepped back.  He bent
over her and kissed her on the lips and fondled her breast.  "I believe I
want Nola today," he said.

   I looked up at the oldest of the three blonde spectators.  She turned
and walked toward the bedroom behind the kitchen.  Wendell followed her. 
Greta went back to washing dishes, and Ingrid came over and held her hand
out to me.  I took it and she led me, with my head down, to the bedroom
just off the living room.

   She closed the door, went over to a dresser and flicked on an electric
fan.  Then she turned to me and said, "You ain't never done this before,
have you?"

   I shook my head.

   She undid my belt and unbuttoned my fly.  She pulled down my shorts and
pants at the same time, down close to my shoes .  My cock seemed enormous
to me and I was afraid I might bump her with it.

   "You want to see my titties?"

   I nodded yes and she slipped out of her blouse.  She wore no bra, her
breasts were small and cone shaped, the nipples were pink.  Ingrid looked
utterly fresh.  "Do you like'm?

   "Yeah, Ingrid.  You're beautiful."

   She took hold of my cock and looked right at me with sky blue eyes, "You
want me to suck you off?"

   "Whatever you want Ingrid."

   Ingrid knelt in front of me.  She nuzzled me, lightly grazing her face
on my penis.

   "I think I need to warsh you off, Joe."

   There was a pan of tepid water on the dresser, a folded wash cloth and a
towel.  She wet the cloth and rolled a worn bar of ivory soap inside it. 
She made several trips with the wash cloth, back and forth to the pan,
rinsing it each time, till all the soap was gone.

   "Now, you're all nice and clean," she said.

   "Thank you."

   "Do you want to kiss me?" she asked.

   "Yes," I said.

   "You can feel of my titties when you kiss me, if you want to."

   I pressed the lovely breasts and felt of the inverted nipples.  They
were like silk.  Her lips pressed me very softly and she licked my mouth
one time, and pulled back and grinned.  I grinned back.  Then she went back
onto her knees and took the penis into her hands and put her mouth over it
and moved and sucked.  I came in thirty seconds.  I jerked and shot my
semen straight into Ingrid's mouth.  I blew a hard jet of air out of my own
mouth, then another and another.  She stood up and carried my semen in her
mouth to the wash pan and spat it into the water.  She picked up a towel
and wiped her mouth.

   "Mama and Greta swallow it, but I cain't," she said.

   I stood there with my penis drooping a bit, pants down around my shoes,
still very excited, and speechless.

   "You wanta lay on the bed together?" she asked.

   "Yeah." I said.

   "Let me help you out of your britches," she said.  She slipped off my
shoes without untying them, then pulled my pants and underwear off.

   "I ain't s'post to do this if I suck you off, but bein' you're in my
class, and all, I reckon I will." Ingrid smiled at me like blonde angel. 
Her head was cocked at a endearing angle.  She pulled her shorts and
panties down and got into bed, totally naked.  I climbed in beside her.  We
lay close, together.  I was on my back and she sidled up to me.  It was
like her skin had powder on it, but it really didn't.  The mid-day heat
didn't seem to bother her at all.

   "Do you feel like fuckin" yet?' she asked.

   I was now as hard as Wendell's truck fender.

   "I reckon," I said, "I never done it before."

   "I know.  You lay still, and I'll get on top, OK?"

   "OK."

   She took a rubber from under her pillow and placed it over my cock.  The
only rubbers I'd ever seen before had been in my father's dresser drawer.
Once I stole one, went out to the toilet behind the house and blew it up
like balloon.  I bounced it around awhile inside the little wooden
structure, but then I didn't know what to do about disposing of it.  I
finally stuck it with my pocketknife, and it made a bang, but Mama never
let on she heard a thing.

   Ingrid slipped her rubber over my cock, very carefully rolling it down.
Her blue eyes were intent on the job, like when she read out loud from the
geography book at school.  Then she straddled me, and sank down over me,
making "Uh" sounds as she did.  Finally she bottomed out, and began to
move. The tightest, loveliest, softest, warmth swallowed me up and I heard
the "Uh" sounds, as they grew louder.  I lifted my hands, hoping it was OK,
and cupped her breasts.

   "Oh that's so nice, Joe," she said.

   This time it took me all of three minutes to come, and I think I may
have groaned out loud.

   When it was over, she simply lay on top of me, with me inside her.  She
didn't stir until there was a knock at the door.  Then she moved off me,
gathered up the rubber, gave me the towel, and began dressing.  Soon I was
dressed and we stood looking at each other, smiling.  Then she hugged me
and without a thought I said, "I love you, Ingrid."

   She hugged a moment longer and then stepped back, still smiling.  Then
she opened the door and led me out.



   "We're through, Grannie," said Ingrid.

   "Well now," said Grannie, "How was that?"

   I was embarrassed but I said, "That was nice, Grannie."

   "Well, you come back when you have five dollars, and don't you talk
about my Granddaughter at school, you here?"

   "Yes ma'am."

   "Now, Wendell's out there in the truck waitin' for you.  You run along."

   "OK," I said.

   "Kiss me first," said Ingrid.

   I smacked her on the lips but we held it a little while.  Then I turned
and walked back out to the truck.

   I never saw her again.  My dad got a job with Willys Jeep up in Toledo,
and we moved before school started.

   __________



   I feel silly sitting here in this orchidcolored Neon, parked out here in
front of Sorensons.  Or, maybe it's not the Sorensons anymore.  Maybe the
family has gone, probably has.  Good Lord, I've been sitting here for
fifteen minutes and I'm cold!  I step out of my car and make my way across
the frozen ground.  The Bermuda grass is brown and dry, except for a few
beads of sleet.  There are no toy windmills stuck into the flowerbeds.  I
have to dodge the ice as I put my foot on the one-step-up porch.  I knock.

   Ingrid opens the door.  My heart flips.  She looks exactly as I remember
her.  Her beautiful skin is still white and smooth, and her hair is almost
white.  She looks at me with sky-blue eyes.  Of course, in a few seconds, I
know that it couldn't be Ingrid.

   "Hello?  Is Grannie Sorenson still here?" I ask foolishly.  Then I
think, Dummy, of course she's not here!

   "Yeah, she's here, come in," the young girl says.  I enter and the heat
in the house is overpowering.  There is a largescreen television and a
stereo on shelves where the bed used to be.  There's a carpet on the floor
instead of a linoleum.

   "Sorry it's so hot in here, the girl says, Grannie can't stand the
cold."

   "Oh, that's OK, hon, do you mean Grannie's still alive?" I did a quick
calculation.  She'd have to be over a hundred years old!

   "Yep, but she has a hard time gettin' around, being blind and all."

   "Yes, I'm sure it's been hard, could I see her?

   "Well mister, you got to understand, she talks out of her head ever once
in a while.  You sure you want to see her?"

   "Oh yes, I knew your Grannie a long time ago."

   "OK, come on back."

   We walk through the room into the kitchen, and on into the back bedroom.
As I enter, I note that there is a bed on the left, a couch on the right,
and a rocking chair in the far corner with Grannie in it.  Her eyes still
have that foggy cast to them.  I draw close with the little girl.

   In a loud voice the young girl says, "Grannie Ingrid!  There's a man
here to see you!"

   I jerk my head toward the girl.  In a ridiculously high voice I say,
"Ingrid?"

   "Is that you, Joe?" Grannie asks.

   The End

   OneGallus@yahoo.com

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