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Subject: {ASSM} Growing up in a Broken Land (mf, nosex) By Katzmarek
Date: Mon, 18 Nov 2002 16:10:02 -0500
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A short cameo of a child of the sixties/seventies.
_______________________________________________
Join Excite! - http://www.excite.com
The most personalized portal on the Web!<1st attachment, "Growing up in the Broken Land.doc" begin>
Growing up in the Broken Land.
This story is partly inspired by Jeff Zephyr's tales of growing
up.
It has been fictionalized and expanded. The reality was far less
interesting.
New Zealand consists of two and a bit islands laying in the South
Pacific about 1500 miles from Australia.
It sits astride two tectonic plates, the Indo-Australian and the
Pacific, hence the land has been shaped as a result of seismic
events and volcanism. The southern area of the North Island is
bisected by 4 major fault lines, in fact a major fault runs clean
through downtown Wellington, the Capital.
North of Wellington, the Pacific plate 'subducts' the
Indo-Australian, in the South island it overlaps, to push up the
Southern Alps. In the middle, Wellington, it bashes straight
together.
This means that my hometown has a crazy topography of old fault
'scarps' 'fault-angle' depressions, rivers flowing the 'wrong
way', numerous valleys formed by 'subsidary' faulting, land
erosion, and a generally unstable ground underfoot.
As Wellington grew, it flowed up valleys to form geographically
rather isolated and self-contained little suburbs. I was born
into one of these communities.
Now, I was a somewhat shy and 'nerdy' kid in the mid to late
sixties. American influence, by way of the anti-Vietnam war
movement and 'hippydom,' hadn't quite flowed out from the
Universities yet. I was to embrace all that in 1969. NZ was still
'Rugby football' and a quick fumble behind the bicycle sheds if
you were lucky.
Being too small and slow to play Rugby effectively I was cast in
the 3rd 15, well away from glory and the girls. In the Hutt
Valley you played Rugby, you simply had no choice. Being stomped
on and raked with 'sprigged' boots every Saturday cured me of any
enthusiasm I might have developed for the game. (Note to
Americans; We played without body protection of any kind)
I had to wait until University before I discovered that intellect
can more than compensate for lack of sporting prowess when it
comes to relations with women.
Bullying and casual violence was common, both at school and in
the community. The grounds of the High School I attended was
dominated by gangs of students itching to prove their manhood by
beating-up each other, and me. My father was a breeder of German
Shepherds whom I always exercised along the rivers and over the
hills. I had no problem with setting my dogs on anyone who
attempted to bully me or extort money. I was, and still am, not
to be fucked with.
One of my happiest recollections was of some guy running away
clutching his balls. My dog 'Cinderella' had just bitten him on
the penis. ( All this is true...no shit) I never had any problem
with Dog Control or the Police. Justice was served on the
street.
My best friend at the time, Steve, was a somewhat podgy fellow
'outcast'. I'd visit his house in a neighboring valley to
hang-out. He would often baby-sit some neighbor's young daughters
after school until their mother came home from work. (Shows the
innocence of the times). We were 15.
Christine and Nicole were about 6 and 8 respectively. Angela
arrived home later from, 'Intermediate,' school, she was about
11. The younger girls were typical bubbly, playful energetic
children. The older girl was blond, pretty, more reserved, and
wore her school skirt very short, in common with the times.
Steve invented the 'spanking game'. This consisted of chasing
after the little girls, putting them over our knees, and lightly
tapping them on the bottom. It became a regular activity until
the older girl got home from school. We were worried the game
might be 'misinterpreted' and the details communicated to their
mother. We had a window of about half-an-hour.
One afternoon Steve caught Nicole, after a particularly
boisterous session, and reached under the girl's dress to pull
her panties down. Everyone giggled away as he tapped her on the
bare ass. Nicole's squealed and thrashed her legs about. He then
pushed his hand between the girls legs and cupped her little bald
pussy.
The next thing Christine urged me to chase her. Not to be
outdone, I followed Steve's lead and pulled her panties down to
her knees to administer her 'spanking'. Both girls then took off
their panties and demanded to be chased again. This happened a
few more times with Steve and me taking more and more liberties
with 'feeling them up'.
The 'high-jinks' continue in this way with the girls 'daring' to
display themselves by holding their dresses up for us. Eventually
Christine pulled the zipper down of my jeans, saying it's not
fair that they haven't 'seen' us. Steve backed away from the
action as Christine wrestled my jeans down to my knees. Her
sister watched nearby. My cock was in a semi-flaccid state as she
felt and moved it about. I reached under Christine's little
bottom and rubbed her with my finger.
We had lost track of the time because I looked up and Angela was
standing at the door with her mouth open. She had on her little
green school skirt which barely covered her white panties. I
looked at Steve who was as white as a sheet. I tried pull up my
jeans but one of the girls was holding on to them.
It would have been pleasant to report that Angela and I then went
on to discover the joy of sex together. Alas it didn't happen. I
managed to finish dressing and Steve and I beat a hasty retreat.
Me, never to return.
The aforementioned joy had to wait until I was 20 and it was with
an Israeli with big tits. The only 'girlfriend' I had as a
teenager was with a German/ Samoan girl a couple of years
younger. She was a Jehovah's Witness and wasn't supposed to go
out with boys. The most we ever did was hold hands.
From age 17 I compensated for my lack of sex by indulging in a
passion for insanely fast and lethal Japanese two-stroke
motorcycles. I rode numerous Kawasaki and Yamaha death machines
with utter neglect for my own safety. My 'tour de force' was the
piloting of a Yamaha 650, equipped with a much-modified and
bored-out motor from a beach racer, through the Mount Victoria
tunnel. The road slopes away past it's western portal down a
short hill to one of Wellington's major traffic roundabouts. If
you gather sufficient speed the bike will shoot out of the tunnel
airborne. You then have to brake heavily or you'll end up in
through the fence of the cricket grounds. Needless to say I
survived, just.
That is, mostly the truth of a very selective autobiography. But,
as they say, time moves on.
<1st attachment end>
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