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Message-ID: <31535asstr$995728203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: One Gallus <onegallus@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Kentucky Wonder 2 (MF, cheat, inc)
Date: Sat, 21 Jul 2001 11:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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<1st attachment, "KW 2.txt" begin>


Kentucky Wonder (Cheat, MF, Inc)  Part 2

Synopsis
Corrine Deere tells her own story.  It 
is the tale of a servile wife and mother 
whose effort to be a person in her own 
right is frustrated by her boorish 
husband.  A full-blown compulsive, Leon 
masks his abuse and bigotry with self-
righteousness.  His repressive control 
results in a stinging backlash that 
neither she nor he could have predicted.


Disclaimer
This story contains graphic sexual 
scenes of incest and adultery.  If you 
are under the legal age of adulthood in 
your state, find another story.  This 
story is not to be read where it is 
illegal. The possible resemblance to 
actual characters, living or dead is 
purely coincidental.  This story may not 
be posted or changed or otherwise used 
by anyone anywhere without the 
permission of OneGallus.

"Kentucky Wonder" 
Part 2

It's a long way from Toledo to Hardin.  
It's a long way back through the 
intervening years to that young woman 
and her young brother. I still think 
about Ralph today with fondness, with 
love. I cannot not think about him.


Of course, I did not take his nor my 
mother's advice.  I went through with my 
wedding to Leon a month later. I thought 
I couldn't halt it. The invitations had 
been sent out, the ladies at church had 
scheduled a shower and I felt like I had 
launched too far into the journey of 
life commitment with Leon to turn back.  
When Ralph gave me away that day, he 
squeezed my upper arm twice, very 
quickly and gave me over to Leon.  I 
have often wondered if those two 
squeezes meant, "goodbye," or "love you" 
or "thank you" or what.  No verbal 
acknowledgment of that night out there 
on the lane ever took place.  Life went 
on between us as it had always had.

Ralph himself married five years later.  
Then only a year later, he and his wife 
were killed as they exited a rest area 
on the freeway.  A semi had the right of 
way, and Ralph had not noticed it 
approaching from the rear.  There had 
been plenty of time for the truck to 
stop, but "I had the right of way," the 
driver said, and he took it.  So my 
brother and his wife died.

Six months later, another tragedy caved 
in on me. Mama died of pancreatic 
cancer.  She was gone within a month of 
when they discovered it.

For a while, Leon was very understanding 
after my loved ones' deaths, but as my 
grief continued into the next year, he 
became resentful and told me to get over 
it.  I had pulled back from Leon 
sexually because of the grief, and I 
know now I probably needed counseling. 
Certainly, I needed time. Leon, however, 
knew only one way to restore sexual 
relations.  He pulled out his jackhammer 
and fucked me against my will.  The 
result was that I conceived Lonnie.  I 
learned then that something good could 
come from something bad. 

After Lonnie was born, we resumed 
occasional sexual intercourse, but 
Leon's lack of sensitivity had left a 
kind of resentment in me from which I 
never recovered.  

Leon was proud of Lonnie.  He took him 
everywhere, showed him off to his 
friends and we even took him with us to 
bluegrass festivals.  He always sat 
right by his dad at church and was 
invariably well behaved.  

Lonnie was musical, and much to the 
delight of his father, he took naturally 
to the guitar.  However, his chording 
became progressively more complex and he 
eventually evolved into jazz and pop 
rock.  He was an excellent singer and, 
in time, a prolific songwriter. When the 
artistic transformation became apparent, 
his dad became unhappy.  He told Lonnie 
that his new music didn't make much 
sense and that he was shooting too low 
on the target.  He said that jazz was 
just a lot of confusion and didn't 
really require any skill other than an 
ability to run your fingers up and down 
the strings like a crazy man.  

Lonnie's response was always in the vein 
of, "I like your music Dad, but jazz is 
where I am, it's where my heart is.  
It's like you and your bluegrass, Dad. 
Only with me, it's jazz."  Leon just 
shook his head.  

After high school, Lonnie enrolled at 
Toledo University as music major and 
began working jazz gigs at night. In 
late winter, he won the audition to sing 
the National Anthem at the Opening Day 
for the Mud Hens.  When he performed it, 
he was on Toledo television.  
Photographers took his picture and it 
appeared the next day in the Toledo 
Blade and some of the neighborhood 
papers as well. 

Right after Leon's triumph, he was all 
smiles and flushed with success.  That 
night his daddy said, "Well, Son, I 
woulda been proud of you if you'd just 
had a fiddle and mandolin a backin' you 
up."     

Lonnie winced when Leon said that, as if 
his daddy had hit him with the back of 
his hand.  Why wasn't he proud of him 
anyway? To me, that remark made Leon 
Deere a first class sorry-son-of-a-bitch 
and not worthy to dig holes for anyone. 
Lonnie regained his composure and 
laughed it off, but I knew he'd been cut 
to the quick.  For my part, I was 
finished with walking on eggshells just 
to please Leon Deere. 



On a particular day, I find myself 
standing in the guestroom of our home, 
which became Leon's bedroom almost a 
year before.  I pull out the top drawer 
of the dresser and I see the folded 
handkerchiefs, rolled up belts and a 
small collection of pocketknives, 
arranged by the color of the handles.  
There is also his wooden nut bowl; the 
kind people set out for Christmas.   I 
pull out the second drawer.  All his 
dress socks are on the left, his work 
socks on the right.  The brown socks are 
all in a row.  The blue socks are beside 
them.  Then, there are the gray socks 
here, and over there, the patterned 
socks.  I close the top drawer and open 
the underwear drawer below.  Each like-
item is in a neat stack, shorts here, 
tee shirts there, V shirts, and 
thermals, each in its own pile, the 
piles not touching one another, not 
much, at least.   

When we were sleeping in the same room, 
Leon would constantly criticize my 
disorganized drawers.  One day, he came 
in with a shallow cardboard box and 
said, "Here, just dump all my stuff in 
this box when you do the laundry and 
shove it under the bed.  I'll put it 
away myself.  You can live like a pig if 
you want to, but I don't do want to."


I close the second drawer and go back to 
the top one.  I look down into the 
wooden nut bowl.  There is an extra set 
of keys for his Dodge pickup and my 
Dodge Shadow.  The nut bowl is where 
Leon keeps his pocket stuff, his keys, 
his checkbook, and his savings book and, 
of course, his wallet, all of which are 
on his person during the day.  He 
carries an old worn out wallet with a 
red rubber band around it.  The wallet 
is an inch and a half thick and it's 
hard packed with hundreds, fifties and 
twenties. Also in it are his driver's 
license, union card, and other 
treasures, like Lester Flatt's guitar 
pick.  The wallet makes a huge bulge in 
his left rear pocket.  He says he may 
run into a good deal somewhere and need 
the cash.


Leon gives me seventy-five dollars for 
groceries every week and then he gives 
me another thirty for spending money.  
Of course, with Lonnie and his appetite, 
plus Leon and me, that's not enough for 
the kind of meals we want, or even need.  
I asked Leon for more and he says, "Take 
it out of the thirty."  There's a major 
furor when I need a dress.  

I look at his big confederate flag he 
has fixed to the walls.  There are 
pictures of his grandfathers on either 
side of the flag, none of his 
grandmothers. There is a picture of him 
and his father on a coon hunt when he 
was a boy, none of his mother, none of 
me, and none of Lonnie.

I look over to the other wall and see 
his entertainment center.  He has a big 
screen television, a VHS player, DVD 
player, a CD player, a cassette tape 
deck.  There are big and little speakers 
in two four four-foot-high wooden 
cabinets standing on the floor on either 
side of the room.  Leon likes plenty of 
separation between the fiddle and the 
mandolin when he listens to his 
bluegrass.  Other than the $105 he gives 
me every week, I receive nothing else 
from Leon.  Perhaps he can't afford it 
after purchasing such equipment.

There is an almost new mocha-colored 
recliner that fits his body as if they 
designed it around him.  Over the 
recliner is a plywood nick-knack shelf 
that Leon made in wood-shop when he was 
a junior at Marshall County High School.  
On it is a semi-circular arrangement of 
small wooden carvings and pewter 
castings of deer he has collected 
through the years.  Inside the semi-
circle is a bright short-barreled 
twenty-two revolver, nickel-plated, with 
a white pearl handle.  I pick it up, 
careful to keep my finger away from the 
trigger.  I sight into the front of the 
cylinder and see the rounded tips of the 
small cartridges.  That twenty-two 
pistol has sat on that nick-knack shelf 
ever since we moved to Toledo.  Leon 
explained it this way; "We're only fifty 
miles from Dee-troit.  If them niggers 
ever come down here and stir up trouble, 
I want to be ready." 

Strangely, Leon stopped using the term 
"nigger" five years ago.  Now he calls 
the pistol his "African-American Gun."

This is the room Leon comes to as soon 
as he gets home from work and finishes 
with his shower.  He listens to 
bluegrass till I call him to supper and 
when he's finished with that, he comes 
back here.  He listens some more or 
watches television or tapes of old 
movies.  Sometimes he varies his music 
and plays Hank Williams Sr. 

He's occupied this room for over a year now. 
Before that, we slept in the same bed, but 
that's about all we did, sleep.  For the past 
two years or so, Leon hasn't initiated any 
sex, and if you have sex with Leon, you let 
him initiate it.  

To add to the estrangement, there was another 
conflict about sleeping together. Normally he 
went to bed before I did, leaving me working 
on my scrapbook till late.  Then he would 
occasionally sleep in the guestroom.  He said, 
that way I didn't disturb him when I finally 
came to bed.  In a few weeks he was sleeping 
in the guestroom almost every night.  In a few 
months, I noticed that all his clothes and 
accessories had been moved from my room and 
that's the way it's been since then.  

Leon still goes to bluegrass concerts 
all over Ohio and Kentucky but I don't 
go with him anymore.  Gradually it 
occurred to me that I had become 
indifferent to bluegrass, so I just quit 
going.  That disturbed Leon greatly, 
since my quitting wasn't in his plans. 
When I told him I wasn't going anymore, 
he didn't speak to me for three weeks. I 
knew he was counting on my relenting and 
resuming my travels with him, but I 
never gave in.  Actually, I found out 
that Leon's silence had its positive 
points.  Finally he gave up on me as his 
bluegrass-partner, but that's not to say 
that Leon ever quit trying to control my 
life.

On another front, the basement had 
become rather cluttered and Leon 
constantly nagged me about cleaning it. 
"Better get to that pretty soon, girl.  
Don't waste so much time on that stupid 
scrapbook."

I said nothing, but I had begun to boil 
inside.  My tactic was long term 
attrition.  I did not raise a finger to 
straighten the basement for several 
weeks.  A month later, I heard Leon open 
the side door off the kitchen, come into 
the vestibule and then walk half way 
down the basement stairs.  His footsteps 
paused, and I knew he must have been 
inspecting the mess.  Then I heard him 
walk the rest of the way down the steps.  
I heard activity down in the basement 
for the next hour.  That evening, he 
said nothing at supper, which by the 
way, was cold when he finally came up to 
eat it.  He did look at me several 
times, hard.  

After he had retired to his room, I 
walked down the basement stairs to find 
the area completely tossed.  He had 
pulled everything out of its box, 
emptied the shelves, and thrown the 
items all over the floor, so that it was 
now four times as messy as it had ever 
been.  I let it stay. I stopped using 
the basement entirely except for the 
laundry, and I made a path for that.  

Usually I stay up late and work on my 
scrapbook, an ever-changing expression 
of the significant experiences of my 
life.  I block out and calligraph long 
narratives around the pictures or 
memorabilia that I fix to the pages.  By 
this time, the scrapbook is several 
volumes in length.  One day, I hope to 
give it to Lonnie and his wife.  

On one the pages, there is a patch torn 
from a white dress with blue notes all 
over it.  Beside it I scripted:  "I wore 
this in my last talk with Ralph, under 
the oak tree at the old home place, in 
Kentucky."  On another page is a picture 
of Ralph escorting me up the isle on the 
day of my wedding.  

While I work, I watch TV out of the 
corner of my eye, till I almost fall 
over.  Then I go to bed. At 5:30 AM I 
pull myself from the bed and fix Leon's 
breakfast and get him off to work to 
Jeep every morning.  One morning I hit 
the snooze alarm, hoping for just five 
minutes more of sleep.  Leon stuck his 
head in the door and shouted, "Fix us 
some breakfast girl!  The good Lord 
knows you ain't doin' nothin' else 
around here!"  

When Leon backs his pickup out of the 
driveway, I drag myself up out of the 
kitchen chair and try to get the first 
floor into shape before Lonnie gets up.  
Lonnie has to be at Toledo U by 8:00.  I 
think he must wake up when his daddy 
does, but he just lies there in the bed, 
waiting for Leon to leave, then he gets 
up. 

Lonnie is built like his late Uncle 
Ralph.  He has dark wavy hair, broad 
shoulders and slender hips.  He is well 
over six feet tall and much heavier than 
his father ever was. Leon still carries 
that scrawny, bantam rooster quality 
that he had when he was a child.  Any 
event that touches Leon's life in 
anyway, Leon's rooster eye is always 
glaring out the message, "I want the 
say-so here."  He is the little cock of 
the walk.

Unlike his daddy, Lonnie has a sweet 
considerate disposition, so much like my 
brother, Ralph.  His girlfriend-going-
on-fiancee is the preacher's daughter at 
church, Abby Hewlett.  I think they've 
got a real romance going, but Lonnie 
isn't forgetful of his mother.  He's 
very affectionate toward me, helps me 
around the house and talks to me, even 
if his daddy doesn't.  He never forgets 
my birthdays or holidays and though he 
can't afford much, he always gets me 
something that says, "You're special." 

Lonnie told me that Pastor Hewlett was 
looking for a part-time secretary at the 
church.  He encouraged me to call the 
church and apply for the job.  I told 
him no immediately, thinking I'd make a 
fool of myself after so many years, but 
then I re-thought the issue and guessed 
I might look into it.  

I wondered how Leon would feel if I got 
the job.  In a way, I hoped he might 
balk at the idea so I could defy him. 
Leon figured I was a failure at 
everything anyway, so I might like the 
opportunity to prove him wrong. I wanted 
to win the job and I wanted to make good 
at it.  That afternoon, I picked up the 
phone and dialed the church office. 
George Hewlett answered.

"Hello! This is Corrine Deere, how are 
you today?"

"Hello, Corinne Deere!  I'm fine, how 
are you?" said the pastor.

"Well, I'm looking for a job, I hear you 
need someone."

"Yes, it's only part time right now, 
maybe if we both like each other, the 
hours can increase."

"Oh I like you OK," I said giggling.

"That's because I'm not your boss!  You 
might not like me in the office," he 
said, bantering.

"Well, it's been a long time since I've 
worked.  I had an office job with Murray 
State when I was a student there.  I did 
a little typing, but that was back 
during the typewriter days."

"That shouldn't be a problem, do you use 
a computer at home?"

"No much.  Lonnie has shown me a few 
things."

"Yes, bless our children's hearts!  It 
was Abby who introduced me to the 
computer, but I'm just a hunter and 
pecker, so I can't get the full benefit 
of it.  You're not a hunter or a pecker 
are you, Corrine?"

"No, I use the touch method."  If this 
was not double-double entendre, then it 
was close to it, but I swear that it was 
unintentional.
 
"Oh, that's nice," he said,  "Then why 
not let us try it for a month or so and 
see if it works out?  How about three 
mornings a week, Monday, Wednesday and 
Friday?"

"OK Pastor."

"Now, Corrine, what is this `Pastor' 
business?  Since we'll have both the 
office and our children in common, you'd 
best call me 'George.'  Besides, Sandra 
and I are just Briars, like you and 
Leon."

He didn't sound like a Briar, an 
affectionate title for a backwoods 
Kentuckian.  Thousands of us were 
scattered through the social and 
economic strata of Ohio citizenry.  
Through the century we had migrated 
north across the Ohio River, looking for 
work. There is a story that says that's 
why there's so much Kentucky Blue Grass 
in Ohio.  We Briars brought the seeds 
over between our toes, already 
fertilized.

I was grateful for George's down to 
earth disposition. I had always held 
clergymen in awe, and it had tensed me 
that I would have to work with one.  

"I know, 'George!' I didn't know whether 
the job would call for your title or 
not."

"I'm just 'George' to you, Corrine."



That night, I told Leon that I had a 
job.  He raised his eyebrows.  "Who 
would hire you?" he said.

"I'll be doing some part time 
secretarial work at the church," I said.

"You never said nothing to me about it." 
he said.

"No, I guess I didn't."

"I would like to know what goes on in my 
own house," he said. Then he chuckled 
bitterly through his teeth.  

"What's so funny?" I said.

"Well, you, with a job, that's what!  
You ain't worked since Murray State."

"Well, I know, it'll take a little time 
since I'm rusty. I'll be slow at first, 
I know."

He snorted,  "Yep, you're so slow you 
can't get your rear end off a chair to 
do nothing around here.  Corrine, some 
people is borned slow, and you was 
borned slow.  You need to stay home and 
get something done around 'is house."

I said nothing.

"Go on then, make a fool out of 
yourself."

I remained silent, but I became aware 
that my stomach was Japanese hard.  When 
I was finally alone in my room that 
night, I whispered, "Mama, I'm not 
digging any more holes for myself.  
Ralph, I'm not walking on anymore 
eggshells."  There were tears in my eyes 
when I said it.



Pastor Hewlett proved to be gentle boss, 
but he kept nagging me in a friendly way 
about practicing my typing and cutting 
down on my typos. I was terribly slow, 
and not very accurate.  I had been a 
fair typist, but computers and the word 
processor were strange to me.  I made up 
my mind to get some special instruction 
from my son.

George told me I should be able to type 
up the newsletter in about two hour's 
time. On the other days, there were odds 
and ends to do, letters, filing and 
ordering.  As it turned out, it took me 
four hours just to do the newsletter 
that first week.  That didn't leave me 
enough time to do the other work.  
George let me take stuff home to finish 
up but he said I couldn't turn in any 
more than my actual in-office time.  He 
didn't say it but I felt it was either 
that or give up the job.  

Sure enough, when Leon saw my homework, 
he sniped at me for being so slow. "At 
your age, you ain't gonna get no faster, 
girl."  

At first, the old feeling of catering to 
Leon returned and it shook me. Then I 
remembered my resolve, no jumping into 
holes. 

The criticism, however, had its effect, 
so when I went to the office the next 
time, I offered to quit if George wanted 
me to, but he looked surprised and said 
I should stick with it.  He was really 
nice to me, in spite of everything. 

Lonnie thinks I'm improving.  I've been 
doing a lot of practicing on his 
computer in his bedroom and he coaches 
me from time to time.  I'm afraid I may 
disturb him, but he says not.   One 
night I was practicing and got so 
stressed out, I just slumped down in the 
desk chair and sighed.  Lonnie looked up 
from his book and said, "What's the 
matter, Mom?"


"Lonnie, I feel like my head's about to 
burst, trying to learn all this stuff.

Lonnie looked up from his notebook, 
"Take a break Mom, I'll rub your 
shoulders." 

Lonnie got off the bed where he had been 
sitting and came up behind me.  He began 
with the tendons from my shoulders to my 
neck, gripping them firmly and 
squeezing.  Then his fingers traveled up 
my neck and onto my scalp.  He was 
making a mess out of my hair but my head 
was tingling with the touch of his 
fingers and it felt so relaxing, I 
didn't care. Lonnie came down my spine, 
running his hand down between my back 
and the chair back.  He kneaded the soft 
area over my kidneys, then down below my 
waist as far as the chair would allow 
him to reach.  

His daddy would never have offered to 
rub my back.  In fact, Leon touched me 
as little as possible. All the narrow 
avenues of tenderness now seemed to be 
blocked between us.  I considered this 
resentfully as Lonnie rubbed me; but 
soon, I was lost in Lonnie's touch.  I 
must admit that the gentle contact of my 
body with another human being, a human 
being who loved me, was as stimulating 
as it was relaxing. 

Lonnie bent over and put his chin on my 
shoulder, so that his cheek was beside 
mine.  I could feel the stubble from his 
dark beard prickle my face.   Now both 
his hands were under on my upper 
buttocks, just below where the crevice 
started.  Only my nightgown and panties 
separated his hands from me.  He turned 
his right hand inward and I felt his 
fingers feeling at the depression, 
running them as far down as the chair 
would allow. It felt heavenly, but at 
the same time it felt wicked.  I 
wondered if that's why I liked it.   I 
turned my head and kissed his cheek and 
ended the massage by saying, "That's 
fine darling, I feel a hundred percent 
better now!" 



Pastor Hewlett, I knew, was a little 
older than my husband.  Yet, as the 
weeks passed by, I noticed that his 
energy and vitality seemed so much 
higher than Leon's.  His movements 
around the office were quick and 
deliberate, and unlike Leon, George 
didn't sweat the small stuff.

He and his wife, Sandra, have been 
married for 28 years.  I hate to admit 
it, but compared to my plodding pace and 
phlegmatic personality, she is a dynamic 
woman.  She's lithe and trim, and 
vivacious and seems to be interested in 
everything.  Once she and I were talking 
about the passage of years and I 
mentioned I'd put on twenty pounds since 
I got married.  

"Yes, we poor women tend to gain when 
the children come, don't we?"  Sandra 
said.

I thought at the moment that she was 
more condescending than sympathetic.   
She knew as well as I did that I put 
weight on easily and she didn't.  She 
knew how nice she looked.  Sandra 
dresses like a fashion model, but she 
makes all her own clothes and she 
doesn't spend a lot of money.  

Then I felt guilty about being 
resentful, and jealous.  As elegant as 
she was, she was just a poor Kentucky 
girl too.  Somehow, she had clawed her 
way out of a hard-luck situation and had 
become an elegant hostess and an ideal 
companion for the pastor. 

When she and George first moved to our 
church, people were critical of her 
relative non-involvement in church 
affairs.  But as time went on, we all 
realized that Sandra preferred relating 
to people on a personal basis.  By 
individual contact, she and George had 
carved out a nice niche for themselves 
among our people.  


As time went on, my work improved, but 
the pastor was still finding typos and 
misspellings.  I told him I'd do it 
over, but he seemed a little 
exasperated.  He said, "Corrine don't 
you ever use Spell-Check?"  

"My goodness, I forgot about that!" I 
said, immediately feeling dull and 
oafish.  Of course, Lonnie had shown me 
something about Spell-Check, but I had 
forgotten what it was called and even 
how to operate it.

"Get up, Corrine, and let me sit there," 
George said.  

I pivoted the secretary's chair and 
stood up.  George took my place and 
began to show me how to operate the 
Spell-Check.  He was right, he was just 
a hunter and pecker.  I stood behind him 
and watched.  I tried to keep my eyes on 
the screen and listen to George, but I 
kept looking at the bald spot on his 
head. It was a "Friar Tuck" bald spot, a 
ring of hair all the way around, 
including the front.  George is quite 
tall, even sitting in a chair. When he's 
standing and I'm looking right at him, I 
can't see the bald spot, but now, 
sitting there in front of me, there it 
was.

I had to force myself to keep my eyes 
off his head, straining to concentrate 
on his instruction.  I bent over, really 
close, while he was instructing me about 
Spell-Check, and my breast accidentally 
brushed his bald spot. 

I was a bit embarrassed but, he didn't 
seem to notice, and I wondered, didn't 
he feel that?  Surely he must have!  His 
voice droned on, but I wasn't paying 
much attention anymore and I let myself 
do something crazy that really 
accelerated the changes in my life.

I felt reckless. These moments of wicked 
giddiness had plagued me all of my life 
and they were tickling at me at that 
very moment.  I thought of touching my 
nipple against the smoothness of 
George's bald spot.    

Before I knew it, I was doing it.  Fully 
clothed though I was, I held my breast 
to his bald spot and felt the flush 
between my legs.  I held it there, 
daring the situation to explode.  I 
could feel his voice vibrating through 
his head and into my breast and I was so 
caught up in the moment, I felt nothing 
but confusion when George said, "Now, 
you click on the check-mark."  

He turned to look at me pivoting his 
head under, my breast, which slid off.  
Of course, I straightened up 
immediately.  I must have looked as 
strange as I felt, because he said,  
"Corrine, are you OK?"

I told him yes, but of course I wasn't.  
My vulva was sopping and in my confusion 
I said, "My coon . . ."

George looked at me puzzled and said, 
"Your coon?"

When I was a little girl and taking a 
bath, Mama would always come into the 
bathroom and say, "Don't forget to wash 
your coon, sweetheart." When I asked 
Mama why she used that word and she told 
me her mother called "it" a "coon" and 
it just got passed down to her and her 
sister.   I never knew anybody outside 
my family who'd ever called it a "coon." 

And now, having said to George, "My coon 
. . ." and George having said to me, 
"Your coon?" the whole scene struck me 
so utterly funny, I needed to laugh, 
badly. 

I felt myself battling against it and I 
supposed the struggle showed up on my 
face, because George wrinkled his brow 
and said, "Are you all right, Corrine?" 

I said, "Yes, yes, George, I'll be all 
right," but I had to take deep breaths 
and hold my stomach tight or I surely 
would have exploded in giggles.

George said, "You need to sit down, 
Corrine, you look like you're about to 
cry."

Well, the strangest thing happened then.  
It reminds me of those funeral home 
visitations where people are standing 
around crying their eyes out for "daddy 
over there in the casket."  Then the 
next the next minute, they're laughing 
their heads off about something silly 
that daddy did when they were all kids.

I thought I was about to laugh but when 
George said I looked as though I might 
cry, I cried.  This was not merely the 
fall of tears but deep wrenching sobs.  
Maybe it was all those years of sadness 
and anger finally catching up with me.  
I don't know, but the incident had 
pushed me over some emotional edge, and 
I couldn't rescue myself.  I felt I was 
the most neglected, rejected and 
otherwise contemptible woman in Ohio and 
nobody could understand me.

George said "Corrine, Corrine, I'm 
sorry, what's wrong?" and he stood up 
took hold of my hands.

Well, it was only natural that I should 
step forward and put my head on George's 
shoulder and cry, but I couldn't manage 
it.  He was too tall, six-foot-four, and 
my five-foot frame made it impossible.  
All I could do was lay my face against 
his closed underarm, which I did, 
breathing in his spicy smell. And, it 
was only natural that he should put his 
arms around my shoulders, and pat my 
back.  Now, my breasts, rather large for 
such a little lady, were bumping his 
chest.  Before I could stop, my hands 
came up to press at his back. I felt the 
hardness of his chest with my face.  
Then my coon fell into creek.

George said, "Here, you sit down, 
Corrine," and he maneuvered me over 
toward the chair, but I wouldn't let go.  
It felt really good to have a man in my 
arms.  I hadn't experienced that for 
such a long long time.  Finally he 
pulled me loose, and sat me down.  Then 
he sat down on a chair across from me.  
That's when I saw that Pastor Hewlett 
had developed an erection, and it was 
pooching out his suit pants.  He tried 
to hide it the best way he could by 
crossing his legs, but I had seen it.  
Weeping though I was, I was feeling 
excited over this.  It did nothing but 
make me cry harder, for which I was 
thankful, because it covered my reckless 
titillation. 

George allowed me to take some minutes 
before calming down and when I did he 
asked me, "Is everything OK at home, 
Corrine?"  

I told him truthfully, "No, not really." 
My nose felt full and it muffled my 
voice.  George handed me a blue Kleenex 
from a box on the desk and I took a 
tissue and blew my nose.  Again, I felt 
as though I might start laughing, 
hysterically.

He said, "You want to tell me about it?" 
And he crossed his legs again.

So then, I thought about Sandra, his 
wife.   She has such pretty figure, 
carries her weight so well.  Then I 
thought about myself, the congregational 
cow, and I started crying again.  
Through my tears I told George, "Well, 
there doesn't seem to be much between 
Leon and me anymore." 

"Can you elaborate on that Corrine?"

"Well, George, I know what you see when 
you see Leon.  You see a fine upstanding 
church member, one who's willing to come 
down and work on the building and 
grounds, take people to the hospital, 
who gives ten percent of his income; but 
you don't see the man I see."

"What man do you see, Corrine?"

"He's always fussing at me and putting 
me down.  He thinks I'm fat and lazy, 
but I told him I wasn't lazy.  I told 
him I just didn't feel like doing all 
the things he thinks I should do."

"You seem to be married to a very fine 
man, Corrine.  Leon is one of our most 
active members," George said.

I was in no mood to hear how fine Leon 
was.  I said, "George, he may be an 
active member but his member is not 
active!"  

I don't know what possessed me to say 
such a thing.  Anger, yes, but I'm not 
normally so clever.
 
He said, "Could you explain that?" and 
he folded his legs again.

"Well, we never have sek," I said.

I don't know why I said "sek" and not 
"sex," but the word just didn't finish 
itself up in my throat.   I felt the 
blood pumping behind my eyes.

George asked, "Does he have a problem?" 

Then I said, "Yes, he does with me."  
Then, of all things, I giggled. 

George let me settle and asked, "Why do 
you think that is?"

I tried to explain to him what it had 
been like during the last several years, 
but George didn't say much while I 
talked.  He just asked questions, so 
that I could "clarify" for him.

Then George asked me if I loved Leon.  I 
didn't expect that question, and it made 
me nervous.  I was silent.  I wanted to 
run.

"Do you love him, Corrine?" he asked me 
again.  It seemed to me there was an 
edge to his voice, as if he were really 
saying, Corrine, how could you not love 
this fine upstanding husband of yours 
with all your heart and soul?

I looked down at my feet.  Through my 
tears I saw that they were stubby and 
wide.  I was wearing those ridiculous 
purple loafers and they looked like two 
eggplants.  They felt good on my feet, 
but they were sloppy and they made me 
feel sloppy all over.  I traced my eyes 
down the calves of my legs and they 
looked pudgy and thick.  Then I looked 
at my purple skirt and saw my thighs 
straining against the fabric.  I 
couldn't even see my stomach because of 
my two cow udders sticking out there for 
the entire world to stare at.  All I 
could see were my stupid chunky thighs, 
all sweaty and clamped up tight on my 
poor little empty wet coon.  

I said,  "Fuck him! Fuck the son-of-a-
bitch."  I looked George hard in the eye 
when I said it.  His eyes were wide with 
fright and he was so pitiful looking I 
said, "And fuck you too, George Hewlett!  
Fuck you too!"  

I got up and walked out on him.  I 
didn't notice how hard I was crying till 
I got into my Dodge.  When I pulled 
away, I saw George through the glass 
doors in the front of the church, 
running down the hallway toward me, 
waving and mouthing out, "Corrine!"

I drove toward home and after awhile I 
wasn't crying anymore.  When I pulled 
into the drive, I saw that Lonnie was 
home, having parked his old Wrangler at 
the curb.  I parked my Shadow over on 
the left of the driveway as I usually 
do, leaving Leon room to pull his pickup 
past the Shadow and into the garage.  

I got out and walked to the side, 
unlocked it and went into the house.  
Whenever I approached the side door, I 
always thought about the piled up 
basement, and under my breath I said, 
"Fuck you Leon Deere!"

I walked through the kitchen, and down 
the hall passed Lonnie's room, and he 
was on the computer.  He looked up and 
said, "Hi" but I didn't even speak.  I 
knew if I did, I would begin crying 
again.  I just threw up a hand in 
recognition that said, "Hi, but I don't 
want to talk to you now."  

I went into my bedroom and into my 
bathroom and ran hot water into the tub.  
I took off my clothes and started to 
climb in.  But I caught sight of myself 
in the mirror.

I was plump, it was true, but I wasn't 
obese.  My breasts were a little 
oversized, but I still had a waistline. 
Baby Lonnie had made a few marks on my 
rounded tummy, but I really didn't look 
too bad.  I pulled in my stomach and 
gave myself a whole-body profile.  Then 
I turned my back to the mirror and 
looked over my shoulder.  It made me 
wonder; between Leon and my own negative 
feelings, had I felt myself into 
ugliness?  I pushed out my breasts and 
gazed.  

Well girl, I thought, maybe you haven't 
lost it completely. You did give your 
pastor a hard on.  

I got into the tub and started to feel a 
blessed kind of numbness seep into me.  
I lay in the hot water for twenty 
minutes.  Then I got out of the tub with 
steam rising from my body.  I toweled 
off and sprinkled some scented powder on 
my body, and rubbed it lightly till my 
pores took it in.  The earlier stress 
and the hot water had drained me of my 
strength and I barely got a nylon slip 
over my head.  I padded toward the bed, 
pulled back the covers and climbed in.  
I turned toward the wall and pulled my 
knees up into a fetal position, pulling 
the sheet up over my hips. The sweet 
drift toward sleep set in after only a 
few minutes. 

I woke suddenly, but lay still.  I 
sensed I had been asleep only a few 
minutes and now had become aware of 
another presence in my room.  The bed 
had dipped and a body had moved into the 
bed behind me.  He planted a large palm 
on my hip and then became very still.  
After awhile he patted my hip 
affectionately and snuggled up very 
close and moved his hand from my hip to 
around my waist, pulling me tight 
against him. 

Of course, it was Lonnie, sensing that 
something was amiss, not asking, just 
offering himself for my comfort.  His 
hand began to move lightly over the thin 
material against my navel.  It felt good 
to be held, the heat of the bath wearing 
away, being replaced by a big warm male 
body molding itself against me.  Again, 
a veil dropped over my consciousness, 
but it was only a thin veil and I was 
vaguely aware of what began to happen. 

There were occasional squeezes in which 
the whole surface of the front of 
Lonnie's body touched the whole surface 
of the back of mine.  Apparently he had 
slipped under the sheet with me, for I 
felt the legs of his pants against my 
bare calves.  He was barefoot, because I 
felt the top of his naked feet against 
the bottoms of my feet.  His feet were 
large and the feel of them on my soles 
was deliciously sensuous.

Again we lay still.  I gradually became 
conscious of concentration of pressure 
at the lower juncture of my buttocks.  I 
knew it must be that Lonnie had 
developed an erection.  I wondered if he 
were aware that I was aware.  His penis 
was pressing through his jeans, through 
my slip and against my anus.  His hand 
was still over my navel and it was all I 
could do not to make my consciousness 
known.  The feeling was absolutely 
marvelous and a strange mixture between 
the old and the new, the natural and the 
unnatural began to stir.   I thought of 
my brother, Ralph.

I could not say precisely what it was we 
were doing, since I had neither 
acknowledged nor rejected his presence. 
I think, as far as he knew, I was 
asleep. I began to consciously breathe 
slowly and deeply, trying to induce 
sleep.  Then after a long moment, I 
squirmed, just a little, but it was a 
squirm and I couldn't help it.   It was 
like holding a bite of chocolate candy 
against my lips.  I either had to pull 
away and refuse it, or open my mouth.  

I felt Lonnie pressing against my butt, 
his denim bulge against the thin nylon 
covering my ass.  I tried to move as if 
I were asleep and I put my hand over his 
hand.  Then his hand began moving 
downward from my navel.  His fingers 
were now moving into my pubic hair, my 
thin slip being the only barrier.  
Suddenly, Lonnie groaned and thrust his 
hips against me very hard, twice; then 
he was still, breathing hard.  I lay 
unmoving, with my eyes closed and heard 
his respiration slowly decrease from 
fast to slow.  Then he kissed the back 
of my neck and got up and left the bed. 
The smell of his semen was in the air.



I didn't see Lonnie for the rest of the 
day and Leon was already in bed asleep 
when Lonnie came back home that night, 
evidently having been out with Abby.   
The light was on in my room and he 
knocked softly.  I sat on the bed in my 
pajamas, my scrapbook and cutting 
equipment spread out in front of me.  
"Come in," I called, my voice low.

Lonnie came in shyly and sat in a small 
upholstered chair a few steps away from 
my bed.  I smiled at him, which seemed 
to ease the tension on his face.  

"Mom, I'm sorry," he said, shaking his 
head.

"Sorry?" I said.

"You know, about this afternoon."

"What are you talking about Lonnie?  

"Well, you know what happened when you 
were lying down."

I don't know what you mean, hon. I went 
to sleep when I got home and didn't wake 
up till your Dad came home."

"But I disturbed you . . ."

"No, you didn't disturb me, darling.  I 
had a nice nap and felt better when I 
woke up."

"But you . . ." He looked pleasingly 
puzzled. "You didn't wake up?"

"Not that I know of, not till after 
seven.  I did hear a door slam after I 
went to sleep, but if I woke at all, I 
went right back to sleep afterward.  No, 
baby, you didn't disturb me."

The relief on his face was palpable.   

"Well, good," he said. "I'm going to 
bed."

"Kiss me nighty-night," I said, and 
puckered my lips.  He got up and came to 
me and we smacked loudly, a maternal 
kiss on the lips, if ever there was one.  

When he closed the door behind him, I 
quickly gathered my craft items from the 
bed and sat them in the chair he had 
occupied only minutes before.  I pulled 
back the covers, entered the bed and 
turned out the bedside lamp.  My hand 
immediately went under my waistband and 
onto my crotch where I masturbated until 
I came. The male image in my mind kept 
mysteriously shifting between Ralph, my 
long dead brother, my son Lonnie and my 
pastor, George Hewlett. 





Sunday, at church, it was not surprising that 
I felt very strange.  Leon and I sat a couple 
of rows back from Sandra Hewlett and I was 
staring at her back. She was holding her 
shoulders rigid, very square, really straight, 
and her chin was up and she was looking 
around, like she was the queen of the church.  
I wondered what her posture would be if she 
knew that I had been rubbing my breast up 
against her husband's head last Friday.  

When Pastor Hewlett got up to speak, my aura 
of oddity increased.  I had been hearing the 
man preach every Sunday for several years, but 
that day, I noticed details about his 
mannerisms, posture and presence I had not 
recognized before.  He was very relaxed.  He 
moved slowly from the massive pulpit chair (I 
thought of it as a throne) to the lectern.  He 
appeared to be a collection of long bones, 
strung loosely together to form a human being.    

Instead of standing behind the lectern, he 
stood beside it, with his right hand resting 
on its cornice.  Both his elbows stood out in 
sharp angles from his body.  Because he was 
high on the podium, and I was sitting low in 
the pew, George looked even taller.  I noticed 
how his bushy eyebrows almost met, how they 
jutted out over his eyes, casting them in a 
mysterious shadow.  If his mouth had not been 
so full and relaxed I would have said his 
cheeks looked sucked-in and hollow.  A 
prominent Adam's-apple bobbed as he spoke, a 
faint Kentucky drawl pulled at his R's and 
I's.  Good Lord, I thought, it was Abraham 
Lincoln with a bald head!

I reflected, perversely, that Sandra and I 
were probably the only two women in the church 
who'd ever seen George with a hard on!  Before 
the service was over, however, I felt guilty.  
The whole scene in the church office on Friday 
was at my instigation, conscious or 
unconscious.  If I had not gone into that 
sexual fugue, I wouldn't be thinking these 
weird thoughts.  After all, all that George 
did was react.  He couldn't help it if the 
proximity of a female body caused him to grow 
erect.  He may be a pastor, I thought, but 
he's still a man. Besides, he tried to help 
me, tried give me counsel.  True, I had not 
taken to the counsel, but that was because he 
seemed to take sides with Leon, and I was in 
no mood for that, but maybe that was a 
counseling ploy of some sort.  

And, why should I be catty toward Sandra?  She 
had nothing to be ashamed of.  She's tall and 
slender and pretty, and I was jealous, that's 
the short of it. Of all people I should have 
tender feelings toward, it should be my son's 
future mother-in-law.

I looked over at Lonnie and Abby, who were 
sitting at the far end of the same pew.  Her 
hand was on Lonnie's thigh and Lonnie had 
covered her hand with his.  There had been no 
more mention of the Friday afternoon incident, 
and I presumed all that was behind us.  I 
could almost make myself believe that it never 
happened, and I was pretty sure Lonnie felt 
the same way. But I couldn't forget that it 
had begun as an act of compassion toward his 
mother. He sensed I was in misery and though 
he didn't know why, he felt sympathy.  It had 
just gotten out of hand and fortunately there 
was no harm done.  

As I sat there beside my husband, who was so 
dull to all that was happening in my life, I 
realized that it could be worse.  I decided 
then that I would be willing to be deprived of 
anything, even a fulfilling marriage, if only 
my boy could have what he needed in his life.  
God being my helper, I prayed, I'd endure it 
all.

After my blow-up on Friday, I guessed that 
George was already wondering whom he could 
hire as secretary.  That whole scene had 
embarrassed and shamed me terribly, and it was 
all I could do to shake his and Sandra's hand 
after church. She smiled at me and asked, "How 
do you like your new job?" 

I supposed then that George had not told her 
I'd told him to go fuck himself.  Remembering 
that scene made me shut my eyes and shake my 
head during the sermon. Now with my hand in 
Sandra's I felt little and mean.  I certainly 
didn't want to tell her that I'd walked out on 
the new job, not to mention my graphic 
instruction to George. I knew I'd have to 
explain if I told her and I wasn't up to that. 
So I said, "Well, it's hard getting used to a 
computer."

She smiled and said, "You just stick with 
George, he'll show you what to do."

I didn't look at George.  I just smiled and 
looked at the floor.  

I still had not told Leon I had quit. I knew 
he'd think I'd dropped out because I just 
couldn't do the job, just couldn't cut it. I'd 
never hear the end of it, but Sunday came and 
went, and I was too cowardly to tell Leon.



I got a big surprise on Monday afternoon.  
Rev. Hewlett called and said he missed me at 
work that morning.  

I said, "Oh, I thought you'd know I wasn't 
coming back.  George, I'm ashamed about . . ."

"Now Corrine, I want you to forget about what 
happened on Friday.  We all say things that we 
regret later.  I know I've said things at 
times that I shouldn't have, so don't feel 
badly.  What you need to do is come on back to 
work.  You're making too much progress to quit 
now." 

"Well . . ." I said, hesitant.

"Corrine, what you said and what I said is 
between you and me and the good Lord, and it's 
nobody else's business."

I was silent.

"Are you listening to me Corrine?" he asked.

"Yes, George, I'm listening, let me think."

"You don't have to think, just respond to a 
loving request."

"Well, all right, George, I'll give it another 
try, but you'll have to be patient with me."

"Corrine, dear, I will exercise the patience 
of Job."  At least I think he said "dear" and 
not "Deere."

"And Corrine, that stuff about you and Leon?  
You don't have to tell me a thing.  But if you 
want to talk, that's fine, and I'll help you 
all I can, but it's up to you, OK?"

"OK, George. I'll be there in the morning."

"Good, so will I."



Monday Morning, 1:00 AM, I look up at the 
clock.  I need to go to bed.  Leon and Lonnie 
went to bed hours ago.  I lay aside my 
scrapbook, putting it all on a kitchen tray; I 
slide it under my bed.  I stand up and catch 
sight of myself in the dresser mirror.  I am 
wearing my deep purple gown tonight, and I 
draw near to the reflection because I look as 
though I might have lost weight.  On closer 
inspection, I conclude it's only the 
flattering dark color of my gown.  My hair is 
medium length and blonde.  It's darker than it 
used to be, just a shade lighter than light 
brown. Tonight, it looks marvelous with my 
purple gown. My cheekbones are high in spite 
of my round face. My eyes are a pretty blue, 
but there is a slight globe of softness just 
behind my chin.  I can detect every one of my 
forty-five years in that face but I know if I 
lost a few pounds, I'd look much better.  
Still, I am not unpretty, and coming from a 
self-hater, it surely must be true.  

I open the door to my room and I can see 
across the hallway that Lonnie's door is open 
and I immediately turn off my light.  There is 
a glow in his room from a nightlight. I go to 
the door and look in. Standing there, I 
observe that Lonnie is restless.  His body is 
twitching.  I conclude he must be having a bad 
dream.  I walk over to his bedside and see 
that his covers are pulled up all the way to 
his throat.  I touch my knuckles to the side 
of his neck for he is on his right side turned 
toward the wall.  My fingers come away, wet 
with his sweat.  With both my hands I take the 
edge of the sheet and blanket and pull them 
down to Lonnie's knees.  I lean over him and 
watch his beautiful hairy chest rising and 
falling and observe that there are bald 
patches above his nipple. He takes a deep 
breath, evidently relieved from the stifling 
blanket.  His sweat is drying in the air and I 
catch the smell, which is mixed heavily with 
the scent of penis, clean but definitive. My 
eyes travel down his body and I see that he is 
wearing white boxer shorts and that an 
enormous erection is straining at the opening 
of his fly.  I can see a bit of the white 
veined skin in the glow of the nightlight.  

Suddenly Lonnie turns on his back and he takes 
a deep breath, then exhales through his mouth.  
His penis breaks free of its mooring and slips 
out into the air, rigid and angled back toward 
his abdomen.  It is enormous, thick and long, 
like Ralph's was. 

Lonnie's head is turned to the side and his 
chin is thrown back, exposing his throat.  His 
jaw is slack and his breathing is full-
chested.  He is sleeping deeply. I enclose his 
penis lightly with my fingers and hold him.  
My hand looks so small as I grip him, like a 
girl's hand.  The image is utterly erotic.  
His cock is hot with engorged blood. I squeeze 
it slowly and watch his eyes closely.  I do it 
a second time. He finally stirs and opens his 
unfocused eyes, frightening me.  I quickly let 
go and move my hands down to the edge of the 
sheet.

"Mom?" he says.

"Just covering you darling," I say hoarsely, 
and I grip the sheet and pull it over him.

"Am I OK?" he asks strangely, obviously not 
clear of the fogginess of sleep.

"You're just fine, Ralph.  Go back to sleep."

I start to correct myself but I see that 
Lonnie is already slumbering quietly, and I 
say nothing.

I turn and go back to my bedroom, get 
into bed but cannot get to sleep.  
Beneath the covers, I spread open my 
wetness with my moving fingers. My heart 
is pounding and even with my eyes 
closed, I can see the smooth beautifully 
veined skin of my son's massive penis.    

End of Part 2
Go to Part 3

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