Johanna - 1 free porn video

My name is Johanna von Eschenbach and I was born in Wisconsin. You’re probably wondering about my weird name, so I should probably begin with my parents. My mom was French, she graduated from a famous university in Paris, with a degree in medieval literature. She came to the US for graduate school to do her Ph.D. in Renaissance Art. In her program, she got an internship with the National Endowment for the Humanities which took her to Washington DC. That’s where she met my dad, then a young PFC serving in the Marine Barracks Washington.

My mom was a beautiful woman, extremely feminine, the quintessential Frenchwoman. She dressed stylishly, and carried herself with that Gallic verve that made her stand out in America. It’s not just me saying that – even as a little girl, I remember her turning heads, men and women alike, in stores, in parks, in restaurants, wherever she went. Dad was rugged and lean, his face more craggy than handsome. His German heritage showed up in his pale blond hair and blue eyes.

You could not imagine two more different souls, but as they say, young love conquers all. They were both in their early 20s, though Mom was three years older. In an idyllic spring and summer, they lazed under the cherry blossoms, took rides in the Shenandoah Valley on Dad’s motorcycle, had picnics, kissed, and made out in Rock Creek Park. They both viewed it as a brief intermezzo, after which she would return to her life in academia and he would complete his posting in Washington. But Mother Nature had other plans.

 In July 1979, Mom discovered she was pregnant. I’m sure they discussed an abortion, though neither one of them ever admitted it to my sister or to me. They decided to have the baby, convincing themselves that opposites do indeed attract. They were married in Washington with Dad in his dress blues, Mom in her mother’s veil of Italian silk tulle. Tracing their lineage to a line of ancient Breton knights, my mom’s French family boycotted the wedding. Her mother came, though she told her quite frankly that she did not approve. Dad’s family is from Montana and they have a tradition of military service. His older brother had been killed in Vietnam, his father had served in Korea. They came to the wedding to support Dad, but were not keen on the match either.

My sister Roberta was born in 1980. Mom got her Ph.D. and took an assistant professorship in California, before settling in Wisconsin with tenure – something very difficult to achieve in her field. (For those of you who don’t know academia, tenure is like a guaranteed job for life.) Dad went through the usual cycle of Marine postings, Quantico, San Diego, Parris Island, Camp Pendleton, Hawaii, but always came to be with his family at every leave. However, the opposites that had come together in what was supposed to be a brief affair in Washington DC, very rapidly became truly opposed.

“Every day that Dad was home was like World War 2 all over again,” Roberta told me years later. “Dad never attempted to meet Mom halfway – to learn French, or anything about wines, to immerse himself in culture or art or anything. He just wanted to talk about horses, hunting, fishing, and go out camping in the woods. She would get frustrated with him, I mean, can you blame her? She would end up screaming at him about his uncultured German ancestry in her French accent, calling him le boche and so on. And Dad would just go silent.”

Their marriage limped along and I was born in 1992, but they finally separated in 1994, though they never formalized it. Dad no longer stayed with Mom during his leaves. But ever since I was four or so, he would take me with him to spend his leaves in Montana. Roberta only came with us once or twice. I learned very young that Roberta was Mom’s girl and I was Dad’s.

My earliest memories of Roberta are of her as a teenager: she was a younger copy of Mom, except that she had Dad’s blond hair. Our phone rang off the hook with boys calling for her. By the time I was born, she spoke French fluently. She could read and write it at a very high level, aided by the fact that she spent every summer with Mom in France. She took advanced math, and every other advanced course she could, including some at Mom’s university. She graduated from high school as the valedictorian and got a full academic scholarship to study math at a prestigious university. She went on to get a Master’s degree computer science. Mom and she always had so much to talk about – if it wasn’t art or haute cuisine, it was fashion or music.

In contrast to Roberta, nothing I did was good enough for Mom. It was always, why can’t you do this like Roberta, why can’t you do that like Roberta. When I played a piano duet with her, she said something like, “Roberta always put such pathos into that adagio ending.” When I strummed the guitar on the porch and murmured the words of Dad’s favorite songs, she made a face and said, “Roberta always played such delicate classical guitar pieces! Never cowboy music like this.” When she brushed my hair she said, “Your hair is thick and straight, but not as silky as Roberta’s.”

Mom tried to get me to learn French, but I think I resisted on purpose. I stumbled through with pidgin French during our summers in France. I didn’t much care for any of my French relatives, and I think the feeling was mutual.

I did well at school, because the first question Dad always asked when he called was about my grades. I lived for the times when he took me to Montana, where we stayed in his family’s remote home with his mom. My dad’s mom was a crusty old lady – the cliché of a frontierswoman and I loved her. I got along splendidly with Dad’s hometown friends, and absorbed everything I could from him –riding and caring from horses, shooting and field dressing a deer, catching and cooking a trout on a campfire. Dad’s dad had passed away before I was born, and grandma passed away in 2000. I flew to Montana as an unaccompanied minor to attend her funeral. Everyone from miles around was there. I felt more at home out West than I ever did in Wisconsin.

 In spite of our differences, Roberta and I loved each other very dearly. The huge age gap between us limited the extent to which we could share experiences, and in some ways, Roberta was like a second mother to me. But most of the time, she treated me more like a peer than a child and because of her, I grew quite precocious. She understood Mom’s obvious preference for her, and tried to make it up to me, by spoiling me to the extent that she could. I was only 6 when she went away to college, but every holiday, she spent as much time with me as possible.

After her separation, Mom had a few short relationships, and eventually settled down with a rather effete professor of fine arts named Gordon Greene. I always thought Mom picked him because he was everything Dad was not. He was bookish, and a talker, while Dad was a quiet man of action. He was afraid of dogs and horses, creatures that were close to Dad’s heart. He hated guns and the military, had no idea how bait a hook or start a fire. He was thin and reedy where Dad was tall and robust. I thought he was a ridiculous waste of time, and he made no secret of his dislike for me.

*

Dad was sent to Iraq in 2004. He came to pick me up to spend the last leave in Montana before his deployment. Roberta was away at graduate school and for once, Mom didn’t make a fuss about me missing school. Dad took me on a week long horseback camping trip that I will remember as long as I live. We rode into Flathead National Forest, camped in the shadow of Mount Stimson, hiked, and rock climbed. I caught us trout, and Dad shot rabbits with his 22. Every night Dad strummed his guitar by the fire and I sang. We did impromptu races and jumps on the horses. I hugged him tight every chance I got.

He brought me back to Wisconsin before heading off for his deployment. As he stood on Mom’s porch in his uniform with his duffel bag, I held on to him, burying my face in his side, trying to hold back my tears. Mom had been cooking dinner and she stood at the door in her apron. Gordon was sulking in the study.

“Bon chance,” Mom said.

I finally released him and stood back. He was so erect, his back like a ramrod, he looked indestructible. I did something I had never done before: I stood very straight, as close to attention as I could, and gave him a very correct, very crisp Marine salute. He smiled at me, crinkling the corners of his eyes. And he returned my salute with equal formality. Then he was gone, striding down the driveway toward the waiting taxi.

I watched the news fearfully every day. I worried about him all the time. His calls were my only solace. After he hung up, I would hug the phone for half an hour trying to keep his voice in my head.

Then late one night, our doorbell rang. I remember everything like it was burned into my memory. With the first notes of the doorbell, I had a premonition something was very wrong, almost like it had already happened in my dream. I leaped out of bed and ran down the stairs. I was the first one there and opened the door. Roberta had just finished grad school and was at her new job in San Fran, but Mom came down with Gordon, both in their dressing gowns. There were two marines on the porch in their Service Alpha uniforms, an African American Master Sergeant and a white chaplain with a Bible in his hand. The chaplain was an officer, but it was the master sergeant that addressed Mom.

“We are sorry to disturb so late, but we were informed that Ms. Marie-Aude von Eschenbach lives here.”

Mom had not changed her married name after her separation. My mind was running at a hundred miles an hour and the first thought that came to my mind was grandma and grandpa are dead, so Mom is Dad’s next of kin!

“I am Ms. von Eschenbach,” said Mom.

“May we come in, Ms. von Eschenbach?” the master sergeant asked, and I felt my heart go cold.

“Of course,” said Mom, and the five of us trooped into the living room. Noticing my skimpy ‘little girl” nightie, a look of irritation crossed her face and she snapped, “Go upstairs and put on a robe, Johanna!”

“I’m fine!” I snapped back, a defiant look on my face.

“Ma’am, I think it would be best if we all sat down,” said the chaplain.

“Really, is that necessary?” asked Gordon, in his reedy voice.

“Shut up and sit down, Gordon!” I said angrily, as I sat down on one of the armchairs.

For once, Mom did not scold me, but sat down on the chair next to me. Gordon sat on an upright chair in high dudgeon and the two Marines sat down on the sofa. The master sergeant cleared his throat before speaking.

“Ma’am,” he said. “The Secretary of the Navy has asked me to express his deep regret that your husband, Robert von Eschenbach, was killed in action in Falluja, Iraq. The Secretary sends his deepest sympathies to you and your family at this tragic moment.”

Mom stared at the two Marines dry eyed. Only looking back can I see that she was in shock. She did not respond at all, just kept staring at them.

“Ms. von Eschenbach,” said the chaplain. “Is there anything we can do for you at this time? Would you like us to pray with you?”

“No, no,” said Mom, finally surfacing from her daze.

The master sergeant cleared his throat again, as though it was tight. He produced a document and smoothed it out on the coffee table in front of him.

“Ms. von Eschenbach, we’ll need you to sign this document, after you confirm that you can be reached at this address and phone number.”

Mom took the document and scanned it sightlessly. I looked over her shoulder and nodded when I saw our address and phone number.

“It’s correct, Mom,” I said. “You can sign.”

Mom signed it, the master sergeant put it back into its envelope and slid it into his pocket. They waited for a few moments before standing up.

“Ma’am,” said the master sergeant. “On behalf of the Secretary of the Navy, once again, please accept the deepest condolences of the United States Marines.”

We stood up and followed them out to the porch. It was bit chill in out in the night air, but I was too numb to feel anything. As they were about to step off the porch, I called out.

“Master Sergeant!”

He stopped and turned around, surprised.

“Yes?”

“Did you know my father? Did you know First Sergeant Robert von Eschenbach?”

He looked from my face to the chaplain. Then he stepped back on to the porch toward me.

“Yes,” he said. “Bob and I spent a lot of time to together.”

“Were you in combat together?”

“Yes,” said the master sergeant. “Your father was a good man, a brave man. None better. Or braver.”

I heard a spatter and realized I was crying. Barefoot, in my skimpy nightie, I ran forward and threw my arms around the African American master sergeant. After a brief moment, he put his arms around me. I began to sob, noisily, inelegantly, my whole body shaking. Through it all, I heard the master sergeant’s voice.

“Your father was very proud of you, Johanna,” he said. “He always said, my little girl, she can do anything.”

He let me sob my heart out, never hastening or hurrying me. Eventually, I gained a measure of control and shuffled backward toward Mom, who stood at the front door.

“Thank you for coming to tell us, Master Sergeant,” I said. “I’m sure my father is grateful to you.”

*

I woke up the next day and the first thing I thought was that I had had an awful dream. But I came downstairs and found Mom in the kitchen with Gordon. Her eyes were red and she’d obviously been crying. When she saw me, she hurried forward taking me in her arms. I was stiff and did not hug her back.

“Oh, Johanna,” she sniffed. “I’ve been so miserable, I couldn’t sleep all night.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” I said. “You never loved him.”

I twisted out of her arms and ran back to my room. I hurriedly got ready for school, putting on my running shoes instead of my normal footwear. I ran out of the house. As I got to the sidewalk, Mom came out on to the porch in her dressing gown and called after me, “Johanna! Johanna!” But I ignored her and ran in the direction of school. She made to follow me, but I saw Gordon come out and restrain her. I saw him holding her and saying something to her, but then I was out of sight.

I got to the schoolyard, hid my schoolbag in a bush, and took off at a steady jog. I did not know where I was going, but I didn’t want to think and the mindlessness of running was soothing. I had no sense of time, but recognized I had been running quite a while when I saw the sun was now directly overhead. I was getting hungry and tired, so I slowed down, but did not stop running.

I had a vague perception that I had left the city behind. I saw but did not register that there were fields on one side and that I was running on the shoulder of a highway with fast-moving traffic. My steps were ragged now, and I was panting as I struggled to draw breath. My run slowed to a walk. I had a hard time picking one foot up and putting it in front of the other. Then my foot snagged on a rock and I fell headlong into the roadside ditch.

I did not know how long I lay there, but it was late afternoon when I regained consciousness. I was muddy and bloody from a few cuts. I dragged myself out of the ditch and got back on to the shoulder of the highway. I began to trudge back in the direction from which I had come.

I was plodding along, head down, when I heard a brief siren blast and saw the flashing lights of a police cruiser. The officer and I stared at each other for a moment.

“What’s the matter, miss?” he asked, his voice studiously neutral. “Are you lost?”

“I think I can find my way back home,” I said. “But I’m not sure.”

“Where do you live?”

I gave him my address.

“How did you get here?”

“I ran.”

There was another moment of silence. I could see from his face that he did not believe me. But he opened the door of the cruiser.

“Get in,” he said.

I obeyed, he put the car in gear and drove on.

It had taken me most of the day to get where I was, but it took less than an hour to get back to my mom’s house. The officer was quiet for a while, but then he spoke without taking his eyes off the road.

“What seems to be the problem, miss?”

“My dad was in Iraq. I just heard that he was killed. I was trying to … well, I was trying to clear my mind. I didn’t want to think about it.”

There was another silence.

“I’m sorry to hear that, miss,” he said finally. “The country owes your father a debt of gratitude. Thank you for his service.”

The officer was well built, solid. He looked dependable.

“Did you serve?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Marines.”

“My dad was a marine.”

“Semper fi,” he said.

“Oorah,” I responded.

Spontaneously, he reached over and tousled my hair.

He pulled up in front of Mom’s house. I opened the door and got out.

“Thank you, officer,” I said through the window.

“Don’t mention it, miss,” he said. “You take care of yourself now.”

Gordon was on the porch, wearing his usual tweed jacket and knit tie, pacing. He stopped when he saw me.

“Where have you been?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“She’s been beside herself with worry all day, thanks to you,” he said. “She went to your school when they called her about lunchtime, saying that you had not shown up. She hasn’t come back yet.”

“Well, she needn’t have worried,” I said, pushing open the front door and walking into the house. “I’m here now.”

“Have you no remorse, Jo?” he shouted, following me into the living room. He knew I hated to be called that. “Don’t you care about all the trouble you cause your mother?”

“She doesn’t care about me,” I said. “Any more than she cared for Dad. She’d be happy if I were gone.”

“Well, your father never made her happy,” he said. “He was certainly not the man for her.”

I knew he wanted to make me cry, but for now he only succeeded in making me angry.

“Well, at least he was a man,” I shot back. “Unlike you, you pansy-ass motherfucker!”

“Your father was a man of violence. The world is a better place without him.”

I saw red. I ran toward him, wound up, and hit him in the midsection with all my strength. I was 12-years-old, but I was already 5’ 5” and weighed nearly a hundred pounds. Dad had taught me well – I packed a mean punch.

He let out a screech of pain, jackknifed forward, and fell on to his knees. I stood there uncertainly, my fists still cocked. He slowly levered himself back to his feet. His face was ashen and his eyes were glazed. I’d never seen anyone look like that before and lowered my fists, uncertain about what to do next. My hesitation left me open. He raised his hand and smacked my face as hard as he could. It had all his weight behind it, and I staggered back. I had not eaten anything since dinner the previous day and was a bit faint – at least that’s how I rationalized it later. I fell, hitting my head on the edge of the coffee table. It opened a cut that began to bleed.

Mom opened the door and stepped into the living room.

“The police called to say that they had …,” she began.

Then she saw the blood welling from my temple and my other cuts. She ran forward, went to her knees, and cradled my head in her lap. She rocked me gently and I could see there were tears in her eyes. I felt the sting of Gordon’s smack on my face, and from her look, I could see that it must have made a mark. She looked up at Gordon, her expression dangerously calm.

“Did you ’it her, Gordon?”

Whenever she was angry or stressed, Mom’s accent went full French, almost comically so. But there was nothing comical in her tone.

“Yes, but only after she hit me first,” he protested. “She hit me so hard, I think she’s caused internal damage.”

“How dare you strike my child!” Mom screamed furiously. “Gather your things and get out of my ’ouse!”

“You can’t be serious, Marie-Aude,” he said, coaxing. “Not over this small thing …”

“Right now! Start packing! I want you out of my ’ouse before dark!”

“Where will I go, Marie-Aude? I’ve given up my apartment …”

“Go to a ’otel! You can sleep on a park bench for all I care. Just go!”

“But I love you, Marie-Aude.” He was wheedling now. “I was just defending you, telling this brat how much trouble and worry she caused you. That’s when she assaulted me …”

“She’s a 12-year-old girl who just lost her father, Gordon. You’re a 46-year-old man. If you cared for me, you would comfort her, not beat her.” Mom ran her fingers through my dark hair that was so like her own. “I won’t tell you again. If you don’t start packing right now, I’ll call the police and show them what you did to Johanna.”

That scared him. He left the room immediately. After a while, Mom took me to the kitchen and made up an ice pack to put on my temple. Then she took me back to the living room and sat with me on the sofa with her arms around me.

Gordon came downstairs some time later with a suitcase.

“Let’s start again, Marie-Aude,” he said, trying to sound charming. “Let me call you tomorrow.”

“Just go, Gordon,” said Mom. “Right now, I don’t want to see your face.”

*

A lot changed that day.

The most important thing was my relationship with Mom. Of course, I knew that Roberta would always be first in her heart. But now I knew that she loved me too, in spite of all my faults. She still sometimes compared me to Roberta, but the tiny barbs stung less than they used to. I focused instead on her hugs and kisses. On the quaint notes she left around the house for me that always had a French expression in them. On the time and effort she put into producing gourmet meals for the two of us. La cuisine c'est l'amour, she always said. (Cooking is love.)

It was also a relief to have Mom to myself with Gordon gone. It was only years later that I appreciated how much his subtle and constant negative comments must have turned her against me. I now began to tell her things that I never could when he was constantly around.

Running away from my pain that day gave me a glimpse into the cathartic release of cardiovascular exercise. Now, whenever I felt low, I ran. It soon became a habit, and I ran four or five times a week, probably much further than was good for me. Luckily my body and biomechanics are good, so I was never injured or hurt. Without realizing it, I got faster and stronger. Mom knew little about athletics beyond her thrice weekly aerobics class and limited her comments to things like, “Be home in time for dinner!” and “Don’t run on the other side of town, it’s dangerous.”

The final big change was that Roberta came home for an extended visit. I learned later that the startup she worked for had refused her leave, so she’d quit her job to come. She spent the first day or two with Mom as usual, cooking together, playing piano duets, chatting. But after that, I found that she was with me almost every possible minute. She had breakfast with me in the mornings, and was waiting for me on the porch when I came back from school. She took me took me on long walks and let me talk about horses, camping, even hunting and fishing. I knew she had no interest in any of these things and particularly hated guns and hunting, but she listened with great interest, always asking intelligent questions. She hugged me and kissed me even more than usual. And when I cried about Dad, she cried with me.

Early in her visit, she came to my room late at night and woke me. It was past eleven and Mom was asleep. Her touch surprised me and she kissed me on the lips French style to shush me. Then she drew me out of bed and led me to her room. Roberta’s room – she still had it even though she’d moved out to go to college six years earlier – was at the other end of the upper floor of the house from Mom’s room. She sat with me on her big queen bed and said, “I woke you up because I want to tell you a story.”

“I ghost story?” I asked hopefully, looking out of the window at the moon that was obscured by scudding clouds.

“Better! A naughty story.”

“Yes!” I said.

“I’ve been writing these stories for a couple years, Johanna. I want to read one to you tonight. But first you must promise me, cross your heart, a sister’s pledge, that you will never, ever, tell Mom about this. This is just between us.”

“I promise,” I said, solemnly, making a cross on my flat left breast.

Roberta opened her laptop and began to read. It was a story about a strong man of action, Jack Grierson, and a beautiful, but married woman who attracted his roving eye. Her reluctance spurred his interest and she enjoyed his pursuit. For her husband had begun to take her for granted and her marriage had fallen into a rut of predictability. Jack’s spontaneity, his aggression, his lack of respect for convention and decorum, and the very taboo nature of their flirting was exciting, a heady elixir that thrilled her senses like a drug. But with each step she yielded to his advances, her own desires grew, until she could no longer resist him. The story built to a sexual crescendo that was explosive, addictive, unstoppable.

Roberta read well, her diction and cadence very smooth, skipping over the naughtiest bits because of my age. But more importantly, she read in an affected, breathless tone that had us both giggling helplessly. Jack Grierson was such an over-the-top cartoonish satyr – complete with outsize cock and an insatiable sex drive – that it was easy to make it all sound funny. It was only years later that I learned where she had gotten the inspiration for her tales … but that is another story.

*

I went into puberty late, with all the attendant body changes. I’d seen other girls at school blossom from scrawny beanpoles into curvaceous women in a matter of months and hoped the same would happen to me. I was nervously hopeful since Roberta has the figure of a bra model and even in her 50s, Mom’s body had men salivating. Alas, my tits refused to cooperate. To make matters worse, I went into my growth spurt and grew even taller, which made my little breasts look even smaller. I would pull my nipples before going to bed each day, hoping to stimulate my breasts into growing bigger.

Mom took me shopping to replace my girlish training bras with real ones. She had a Frenchwoman’s love of fine and suggestive lingerie and had an enormous collection. It included racy little panties and bras of all types from strapless bandeaus to demi-bras that only covered her underswells, leaving her nipples uncovered. She viewed pantyhose as an American barbarism, and almost always wore stockings and garters.

She sized me at home and then took me from store to store, clicking tongue in annoyance as the selection failed to meet her standards. She settled on some strapless bandeaus, and snugged them on me in the privacy of the fitting room. She walked around me, looking at me critically from all angles.

“You are very tall, cherie,” she said. “Taller than me now. It is a pity that your breasts are so small, you could almost pass for a boy! These will do for the time being, but I will order you some push-up bras from France. That way we can at least make sure that you have a bit of a cleavage.”

The biggest social event of my young life was just coming up – the Junior Prom. It was still months away, but it was already a topic of conversation at school. As it came closer, the girls talked about it more and more. What dresses they were looking at, which boy had asked which girl, corsages, shoes, jewelry, the list of endless.

I went with Mom to Chicago on one of her work trips and while we were there, she took me to a specialty dress shop that she patronized. We spent all afternoon there and she bought me the most beautiful blue silk gown. That evening we went shoe shopping and she bought me a cute pair of strappy high heels, though she worried that they would make me too tall. The lingerie she ordered me from France arrived soon after we returned home and I modeled my outfit for her in her bedroom.

She had a full-length three panel mirror and I twirled around in my new finery. She made me stand still and tied on a silk choker ribbon with a gold snake pendant. Then she slid a matching pair of gold bracelets shaped like snakes on my wrists.

“I’ll lend you these,” she said. “They used to be my grandmother’s, then my mother’s. Now they’re mine. You’re only borrowing them for the prom, but when I die, I want you to have them.”

“I’ll be an old lady by the time you pass on, Mom!” I said.

The prom was two weeks away and every day at school, the girls discussed the arrangements their parents were making with the boys’ parents for the pre-prom photos, for the limousine that would take them to the venue, the plans they had for the after parties. Every day at lunch we got together and talked about who had asked who.

“Well, Brett Jensen has not asked anyone yet,” said Thea, one of the blonde, “popular” girls. “And he’s the best-looking boy in class.”

“Neither has Lars Olsson,” said Audrey, another popular girl. “He’s hotter than Brett, I think.”

I thought both Thea and Audrey were far better looking than me, so I didn’t venture an opinion. I would have been happy to go to the prom with anyone, even Tim Herbstein, the short, fat math nerd.

I was working on my homework after dinner that evening when the phone rang. Mom picked it up and I heard her say, “Yes, she’s here. I’ll get her.”

I came down and took the phone. Mom stood by me and squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. It was Brett Jensen.

“Hi Jo,” he said. I was too excited to care about his use of that hated nickname.

“Hey,” I said.

“I was wondering if you had a date for the Junior Prom.”

“Not yet,” Mom mouthed silently.

“Not yet,” I repeated.

“Would you like to go with me?”

“I’d love to!” I said immediately. Mom moved her hands downward, indicating I should slow down, play it cool, so I went on. “I meant to say, I’d like that.”

“Great! I’ll have my parents call your mom and fix up all the details. It’ll be fun!”

“Yes,” I said.

*

The day of the Junior Prom arrived. It was a Saturday, and I was so nervous that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I tried reading a book, watching TV, strumming my guitar, but nothing worked. Mom was in her study – by now I knew that academics worked all the time. I went in and stood by her till she said, “Do you want to play the piano, cherie? Something complicated will make you think and take your mind off everything else.”

I nodded and we went to the sunken family room where Mom’s baby grand was in a corner. We played complex duets for over an hour till I felt my head beginning to hurt with the concentration. I envied the way Mom could let her fingers float over the keyboard, her face so serene.

“Very good, Johanna,” Mom said, finally. “You made me work hard today, keeping up with you. This is the best you’ve ever played  Bach.”

I expected her to say that Roberta played it better, but when she didn’t I looked at her surprised. She smiled at me and put her arms around my shoulders.

Mom helped me get dressed in the early evening. She sat me down in front of her makeup mirror and put my hair up in an elegant coiffure. Finally, she worked on my makeup, for this was something I knew nothing about. When she was done, I stood in front of her three-panel mirror and looked at myself on my strappy new high heels. I almost didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. She looked sophisticated, chic, urbane. I struck a pose and Mom walked around me, appraising her work.

“You look beautiful, cherie,” she said. “Like a princess.”

“Thank you, Mom,” I said hugging her.

We went down and sat in the living room to wait for the limousine that would take me to Brett’s house where the pre-prom photo shoot had been set up. I kept looking at the clock nervously. The promised pickup time came and went. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes slipped by. Finally, when the limousine was twenty minutes late, Mom stood up.

“I’m going to call Mrs. Jensen,” she said.

I followed Mom to the phone and waited while she stood with the phone to her ear.

“Hello, Mrs. Jensen? This is Marie-Aude von Eschenbach. I was wondering what time the limousine will be ’ere to pick up Johanna. It’s more than twenty minutes past the time it was supposed to be ’ere.”

At that moment, Mom’s French accent sounded particularly strong to me. There was a pause while she listened to the answer. Her expression remained neutral and gave nothing away.

“I see,” she said, finally. “Can you ’old the line, please?”

She turned to me.

“Did Brett Jensen call you? Or talk to you at school?”

“No,” I said.

“No, he did not tell Johanna, Mrs. Jensen.” There was another pause as she listened. “No, I do not think there has been a misunderstanding, Mrs. Jensen. I know my Johanna, she is the most sensible girl in the world. She would never get mixed up about something like this.” She paused to listen again. When she went on, her voice rose and her French accent grew even thicker. “I’m afraid your son is a lying cad. The less my daughter sees of ’im, the better.”

She slammed the phone down. Little points of red showed in her cheeks, a sign that she was furious. She controlled herself with an effort and put her hands on my cheeks. I felt like crying, but when I saw the love in her eyes, the tears fled. She kissed me on the lips, French style.

“I’m going upstairs to put on my best gown, Johanna,” she said. “Then we’re getting in the car and driving to Chicago. We’re going to the symphony.”

*

I later heard that Brett Jensen had taken Thea to the prom. She told Audrey and Audrey told me that Brett’s buddies kidded him about asking a girl “whose tits are so small, he’d have to hunt for them even after he got her top off.” I knew Audrey was hoping to get a reaction out of me that she could share with all the others, but I was over it.

“My tits are small,” I said. “I am what I am.”

*

Three days a week, I worked after school in horse stables a few miles from our house. The owner of the stables was a gregarious 40-something lesbian woman named Robin and she ran the stables with her partner, a 30-something former rodeo rider named Misty Sue. It was hard work, mucking out stalls, baling hay, brushing the horses and all the assorted odd jobs. Robin didn’t pay me, but I exercised the horses and was allowed to ride any of them when I was done with work. They had half a dozen horses of their own including some former racehorse rescues and boarded about twenty more for teenage girls in the township. I rode on trails throughout the township and was well-known in the small local horse community.

One afternoon I arrived at the stables an hour earlier than normal. I went t to the tack room in the barn to pick up on some work I had left unfinished from the previous day. I heard Robin and Misty Sue enter the front of the barn. I was about to call out to them, when I heard my name mentioned, and fell silent.

“ … Johanna is a beautiful girl, Misty Sue,” Robin said. “But she’s an innocent and moreover, she’s underage. Just leave things the way they are.”

“She loves us, Robin,” Misty Sue said. “I can see it in her eyes. We could teach her so much. Imagine the three of us in bed together!”

“That’s your lust talking, Misty Sue. I’ll bet you a month of beers that she’s a virgin, that she’s never even had a boy yet. Let her explore her sexuality on her own. Later, when she’s of age, she may come to us. But let it be her choice.”

“You desire her too, Robin. I’ve seen the way you look at her. She’s a Western girl like me, there’s a lot more Montana in her than Wisconsin! She’s no different than a lot of the stable girls I had when I was on the rodeo circuit.”

“Her mother’s French, she spends her summers in France. She’s not a stable girl, Misty Sue, even though she works like one. So if you have any feelings for me, just leave her alone.”

I slunk out of the back door of the tack room and around the barn. I entered after them, pretending that I had just arrived.

“Oh, hi there, Johanna,” said Robin, when she saw me. “We’ll start the mucking out today. Can you take Helios out and exercise him?”

Helios was an 18-hand spirited stallion. He was owned by a local girl who loved him, but found him too much to handle. When we tired him out enough, she could sometimes get the courage up to ride him. I loved his spirit and he was my favorite mount. I wonder if Robin is using this to send a message to Misty Sue, I thought. As I saddled Helios, I watched Misty Sue’s strong, straight back as she bent over, mucking out the stall behind me. Her tight jeans highlighted rather than concealed her powerful, rounded haunches. I felt a tingle around my nipples. I wondered what it would be like to have her make love to me.

That evening after work, I hugged Robin just a bit tighter than normal and breathed in her ear. She pushed me away abruptly, but then kissed me on the cheek.

“You’re a sweet girl, Johanna, but you’re tough, too. You had to be, to survive everything you’ve lost. Don’t ever let your toughness smother your sweetness. It’ll protect you from pain, but it’ll turn you into a bitch like me.”

“You’re not a bitch, Robin,” I said, surprised.

“Not to you, I’m not,” she said softly.

*

I was in all the academically gifted classes in high school, but it was much cooler to hang out with the jocks. The football team was where the most desirable boys were and when Wes Collins, the star wide receiver began paying attention to me, I was flattered. He often dropped by the stables when I was working, and we went to the movies a few times. His dad was one of the area’s biggest insurance agents and quite affluent. Wes drove a late model Mustang convertible and always had plenty of money.

In the movies, we kissed and made out. His hands graduated from my neck to my breasts and eventually pushed between my legs. He got me excited, there was no question about it. A few weeks later, he asked if my mom would let me stay out late after the movie.

“How late?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Till midnight, I guess. I’ll drive us out to University Heights. We can park and look down on the lights of the city. I might be able to sneak whisky into a hip flask from my dad’s liquor cabinet.”

I asked Mom, but she was doubtful.

“I’ve never met this Wes Collins,” she said. “Who is his father? Does he work at the university?”

“No, Mom,” I said. “He’s an insurance agent.”

“Bring him home,” said Mom. “Then I’ll decide.”

I was bit embarrassed to tell Wes this, as I was sure that I was the only girl whose mom was so fussy. But I knew Mom would not give me permission otherwise. He was not keen on it.

“What does she want?” he asked. “To make sure I don’t have two horns and a tail?”

“I don’t know, Wes,” I said. “All I know is that she wants to meet you.”

He reluctantly agreed and picked me up at the stables the next day. He was dressed better than usual, in an Oxford shirt, clean, pressed slacks, and penny loafers. Even his hair was combed in a neat part, unlike his usual unruly, windblown look.

Mom was still in her work clothes. She always dressed more formally than most American women. Now she wore a white silk blouse, that showed hints of her black bra and a pearl choker. Her tight black skirt came to just below her knees, but had a thigh high slit that showed her shapely legs, her black stockings, and even traces of her garter when she sat down.

“Hello, Wes, I’m Ms. von Eschenbach, Johanna’s mother,” she said, putting out her hand.  

While he took her hand and shook it, he seemed struck dumb. I took Mom for granted, so it took me a moment to realize how she must look to him. Dressed and made up, on her stylish high heels, she was the picture of European sophistication. He tore his eyes from her breasts to look at her face, and then at me.

“Hi, Ms. von Eschenbach,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “Johanna has told me so much about you.”

“Really,” said Mom, leading the way into the living room. Wes stared at her ass as she walked. The way she walked seemed to mesmerize him. She’d laid out some tarts and delicacies that she always baked on weekends, and there was a pot of tea with cups. “You must tell me what Johanna says about me.”

“Only good things, Ms. von Eschenbach,” he said. “She told me you’re French.”

“I am French,” said Mom. “Is that all?”

“No,” stammered Wes. “I mean, yes …”

“Have some tea,” said Mom, helping him out.

Wes scarfed down Mom’s tarts with his tea, telling her between mouthfuls how good they were. The food provided a basis for conversation and things got easier from then on. I saw Wes out after about an hour and came back into the living room.

“I suppose I can’t keep you locked up till you’re married,” said Mom with a sigh. “He seems a nice enough boy. Just be careful, and don’t get pregnant.”

“Mom!” I exclaimed.

“I may be over 50, Johanna, but I was young once, you know. Your father was not the first man I had sex with.”

I did not want to hear about my mother’s sexual escapades, it was too gross. I changed the subject.

“How was it when Roberta was in high school? Was it the same with her? I was too young, I don’t remember much of it.”

“It was much more difficult,” said Mom. “I was newly separated, Roberta was a bit angry and acting out. And she was so gorgeous that there was a parade of boys that wanted to take her out. I can’t count the number of nights I sat up waiting for her to come home from a date, worrying about all the things that could happen.” She brightened. “Thank goodness, I haven’t had to worry too much about you! You’re pretty enough, but I suppose the boys prefer more feminine girls. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t have a date before you graduated from high school, especially after that fiasco with your Junior Prom. So it’s nice that a boy is finally interested in you.”

*

I ate lunch with Wes at school the next day. We had twenty minutes after we ate till our next class, and he asked me to walk outside. We walked behind the stadium bleachers where he took me in his arms and kissed me. I kissed him back, but when he tried to put a hand up my skirt, I stopped him.

“What’s the matter, Johanna?” he asked, breathlessly. “You’ve let me do that before.”

“We only have a few minutes before class, Wes,” I said. I was not sure how to put it, but I plunged on artlessly. “I saw you staring at my mom yesterday.”

He took a step back and put his hands in his pockets in an attempt to conceal his incipient erection.

“You mom’s a MILF,” he said, looking down at the ground.

“What’s that?”

“A ‘mother I’d like to fuck,” he said.

“That’s disgusting!” I snapped. “How can you even say that!”

“It’s not just me,” said Wes. “All the guys say so. She’s hot, your mom. After meeting her, you turn me on even more.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“With a mom like that, there must be more to you, Johanna.” He put an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, I like you as you are. But she adds to your appeal.”

As I sat in my next class, I could not stop thinking about what Wes had said. I thought, when he’s making out with me now, will he be thinking about me or about Mom? Does it even matter? The more I thought about it, the surer I became that I did care.

Wes agreed to pick me up at home at six on Friday. He had tickets to a 7:30 show and we were going to get a quick dinner together before that. I took a long time getting ready.

I put on one of the sexy French push-up bras that Mom had gotten me, along with matching panties, and black stockings with snap-on garters. I begged Mom for her black silk choker ribbon with the gold snake pendant and the matching gold snake bracelets. I chose a tight long skirt that covered my knees, but with a slit that was nearly hip high. I slipped on a white mesh top that ended just below my breasts so that my belly and my nicely defined abs were bare. Finally, I slipped on a pair of strappy slippers with platform heels that made me about 6 feet tall.

I looked at myself in my bedroom full length mirror and struck poses. First, I put my hand on my hip like a classic Hollywood vamp. Let me try something naughtier, I thought, something out of a men’s magazine. I put a hand in the slit of my skirt, fingers on my crotch. I moved bit too quickly and let out a gasp as I touched my pussy through my panties.

“I’m a hot babe!” I mouthed to my reflection.

I went to Mom’s study, where she was just finishing work for the evening. She stood up when she saw me and gave me a hug.

“You look sexy, cherie,” she said. “Not at all like my horsey Johanna in her jeans and boots and spurs.”

“Do you like it?”

“Well,” she considered for a moment. “I love your skirt, très chic. I’d wear everything you have on, except for that top. It’s a bit too short and risqué for an older woman like me. But maybe I would if I was your age … ”

“Mom, I have one more favor to ask.” She cocked an eyebrow in her characteristic Gallic manner. “Could you please not come to see Wes before we leave?”

“Why, cherie?” Her voice was gentle.

“Because if he sees you, he’ll, … he’ll, … you know, … see how sexy you are. And he’ll think of you instead of me when we’re making out.”

“I’ll stay in my study,” said Mom, giving me a light kiss on the lips. “Have a good time. Be home before midnight. And remember what I said about getting pregnant.”

We had dinner at a chain pizza place and the movie was a slasher flick in which a very sexy young girl was pursued by a ghoulish serial killer. It was not a genre I particularly cared for. I concentrated on kissing Wes and guiding his hands under my top and my skirt to make sure he didn’t get too adventurous in public. We both in a bit of state when the credits came on, and it took me several minutes to get my clothing adjusted back to normal. I asked Wes how the movie ended as we walked out, but he didn’t know either. I went to the ladies’ in the theater and repaired my make-up and lipstick before heading out with Wes to his car.

He had the top down and drove very fast up the winding country road to University Heights. I knew he was trying to impress me and that if I looked scared, he was just go faster. So I acted nonchalant, hair flying in the wind, even though his driving was at best erratic. He parked on a grassy knoll, screened from the road by a stand of trees. The way he drove straight there made me sure that he had been here before.

He cut the engine and the sudden silence was overpowering. He pulled a hip flask out of his pocket, took a swig and offered it to me. I took a sip and gagged as the burning liquid went down my throat. I’d had fine wines in France since I was quite young, but this was my first taste of hard liquor.

“What is it?” I asked, coughing.

“Jack Daniels,” he said. “The finest Tennessee sour mash. My dad swears by it.”

He took another swig and offered it to me, but I put up my hand. He shrugged and took another swallow before putting it into the glovebox. He put his arms around me and kissed me again. I responded with much more fervor than in the theater, twisting my body and using my tongue aggressively. He seemed pleased and pushed up my mesh top to fully expose my bra. He kneaded my breasts before pulling down the cups and playing with my nipples. The night air had a bit of a nip and they stood out proudly. My aureoles were small and red disks crowning my diminutive breasts. They were bases for my equally red nipples that were thin in repose, but grew thicker and very long as they hardened. He was delighted with them and spent a great deal of time licking and sucking them, while continuing to knead my breasts.

I heard his zipper and then he raised himself to pull down his pants and underwear. I saw his erect cock for the first time in the moonlight and my eyes grew round with shock. Even looking back with my experienced eyes, he was quite large. I sensed what he wanted, but I hesitated. He put his hands in my hair and pulled my face down toward his crotch. I put my tongue out, almost as a defensive mechanism. My tongue tasted his pre-cum on his cock tip. Up close, his cock seemed enormous. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth wide and swallowed his cockhead. He was in a hurry and immediately arched his back and pushed my head down, pushing his entire length into me. I had no idea what to do and began to choke and splutter.

“Suck on me, Johanna! Come on! Blowjob is only a figure of speech!”

It did not take long. Even with my inexperience, the very act of having his cock in my mouth, my lipstick coating his shaft, was enough. He began to cum.

“Swallow, Johanna,” he groaned. “Come on, swallow it all!”

I swallowed his gooey ejaculate through two thrusts. It tasted was salty, musky, and not very pleasant. As I learnt, semen is an acquired taste.

We sat back in our seats. I looked up at the moon. He pulled off his pants and underwear. I left my breasts bare, my mesh top rucked up and my bra cups down. My skirt was bunched up around my waist.

“Was it your first time?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Did it show?”

“Yes,” he said. “But you’ll get better.”

I wanted him to talk to me, to put his arm around me, to tell me that I was beautiful. I wanted to say something about the poetry of emotion, of passion. But he just took my hand and put it on his cock, while he fondled my pussy through my panties. His focus on his body and mine deterred me from saying anything.

With the vitality of youth, his erection was back in less than half an hour.

“Let’s fuck,” he said.

He made no mention of my virginity, of initiating me into the joys of sex. He grabbed a blanket from the back seat and spread it out on the edge of knoll. The lights of the city were spread out below us. The moon was half full and brightened the night with pale luminescence. The sky was beautiful, bejeweled with stars. I wanted to commit it all to memory, to record this momentous rite of passage indelibly in my mind.

But Wes was impatient. He pushed me on to my back, ripped my panties as he pulled them off in haste, hurriedly slid on a condom, and pushed his cock into me. My virgin pussy was barely moist and very tight. He really hurt me as he shoved his entire length into me in one harsh thrust. I screamed in pain, and he ground out, “Shut up and take it! You asked for it!”

He had a great deal of energy, but no finesse. The sharpness of the pain subsided, but he continued to hurt me as he kept fucking me hard. Mercifully, he did not last long, and came with a series of grunts, his body spasming as he made the last few short, stabbing thrusts into me. He was sweaty, and held me forcefully in his muscular arms. I was not nearly as warm, and felt his full weight as he lay on me, panting. After a few moments, he rolled off me, sat up, pulled off the condom and threw it into the bushes. He stood up, went to his car and pulled on his underwear and pants. He leaned on the hood, looking down at me, breasts and pussy still exposed.

“That was a good fuck,” he said. “Want to go home?”

We drove home in silence. He did not walk me to my door. But he did wait in his car till he saw I had opened the front door. He drove off screeching his tires and I watched his taillights disappear before going into the house.

Mom was sitting on the sofa in the living room in her dressing gown. I sat down beside her wordlessly.

“How was your date?”

“Okay,” I said.

We sat together and I stared straight ahead, not looking at her, hands on the cushion of the sofa. She took my hand nearest her and held it in hers. Out of nowhere, I surprised myself by bursting into tears. Mom took me in her arms, saying, “Shush, shush, cherie. I’m here for you.”

“He seemed so nice, Mom! But he treated me like a piece of meat! He didn’t care about me! Not one bit!”

“Boys are like that, cherie. Some of them grow up. Most don’t.”

Later, after I calmed down, I asked her, “Was Dad like that? When he was young?”

“Your father was never a boy,” she said. “He was always a man. That’s what made me love him. But it’s also why we fought so much.”

“I miss him,” I sniffed.

“I do too, cherie,” Mom said. “I could never find another like him. Believe me, I tried.”

*

A week later, the high school principal called me and told me that I was named salutatorian of the graduating class. When I came home and told Mom, she let out a squeal of delight.

“I’m so proud of you!” she said.

We went to the family room, where she took a bottle of French champagne out of the small bar fridge, and opened it with a pop. She poured out flutes for us and we toasted.

“Roberta was valedictorian,” I said after we had taken a few sips.

“That was then, cherie,” said Mom, raising her flute. “This is now.”