Paul Gazer
Introduction:
A pregnant girl in the neighbor’s eindow changed my life
Window Belly by Paul Gazer
I stood at my bedroom window, stunned by the sight of a naked, pregnant girl, framed in the neighbor’s window 20 feet away. Way back then, when I was 17, you never saw a naked woman, let alone a pregnant woman, for chrissake; but there she was, standing just quietly with her hands on her hips and her big gut pushed forward. After a few frozen moments, she smiled at me, then slowly reached a hand up, making her breasts lift and swing, and pulled down the blind as deliberately as a theater curtain. Show over.
It was only then that I realized that I was bare too and my bedroom lights were plenty bright enough to show my instant, instinctive boner. I’d been undressing for bed when I caught sight of the big-bellied girl and my own blind was up because old Miss Rogan next door never, EVER opened her blinds on our side, so why bother?
But that sure wasn’t skinny, dried up Miss Rogan tonight! Turning off my lights, I grabbed my pajama bottoms and, naturally, whacked off into them. I mean, Playboy was just a year old back then, but the magazine’s teasing display of maybe two coy nipple sets per month was more than enough to set me off big time. Stashing the pajamas in the back of my closet as always, I crawled into bed naked and lay in the dark staring up at an afterimage of bulging, beautiful girl.
Was she beautiful? The truth was, I’d been so entranced with her swollen, erotic body that I hadn’t paid much attention. Forcing my memory up from her straining belly and breasts, I recalled her face. Hm, not “beautiful,” maybe, but young, good-looking, and marked by signs of brains and personality. Her hair was some kind of dark but not black, and it curled around her shoulders…. Which led my imagination back downward and before I knew it, I was hard again (ah, to be 17!). I reached for my backup tissues on the nightstand and took care of Willy again.
Then I stared at the dark some more, thinking very uncomfortable thoughts. A lot of my friends had declared themselves breast men or butt men or leg men, and they understood and respected each other. You might prefer butts to boobs, but the boob guys accepted your preference.
But Bellies? I’d never heard such a thing. In 1955, “nice” people never acknowledged that pregnancy existed (because it was evidence that a pregnant woman was guilty of “you-know-what”). Women growing bellies wore blowsy tops styled by Barnum and Bailey and then mainly disappeared for the last two months before the baby came. Was it normal for me to have the hots for pregnant women? Because I suddenly realized I did – did I ever! But I imagined telling guys at the pool where I worked for the summer that huge, swollen guts made me cream my jockeys. They wouldn’t get it; wouldn’t even laugh. They’d just walk away from this sicko pervert and never come back. No sane man reacted the way I did, so therefore I must be some kind of crazy. I feared that if this got out they’d lock me away for the good of society. If I wanted to run around loose, I’d have to conceal my shameful condition forever, in my one-man closet like the homosexuals I’d read about but never seen in those long-gone innocent times.
The next day passed in one long agony of fear and doubt. I watched my every move, reviewed my every word, to make sure I wasn’t doing something else that revealed my disgusting sickness. When a guy at the pool said, “Hey, dig the tits on that chick,” I made a damn fool of myself, babbling, “Wow! They really are some knockers I really love boobs yeah I’m really a boob man,” and idiot jabber like that. He looked at me strangely, but shrugged and changed the subject while I kicked myself mentally.
Nevertheless, I left the blind open each night in my bedroom, very casually getting undressed while stealing quick glances at the window next door. It remained dark.
At dinner one night, I waited until my parents were deeply involved with pot roast and then said, oh-so-casually, “Is somebody visiting Old Miss Rogan?”
My father looked up with his mouth full and mumbled what must have meant “I don’t know.” Mother pushed a mouthful of roast aside and then attempted, “Why?” I did that dismissive teenage shrug that irritates parents and forked in a mouthful. She gulped, sipped some water, then managed, “I did hear about some girl.” As she remembered, her face took on her devilish Fresh-Juicy-Gossip look. “I believe she’s in a… delicate condition.” At my blank expression, she added primly, “She made her bed and now she’s got to lie in it.” Beds were clearly involved, but I couldn’t see what making them had to do with getting pregnant.
Closing a fist, my dad mimed a horizontal piston, in and out. “Knocked up,” he explained around his own pot roast.
“Wilmer!” But mother turned back to me. “I do believe that’s old Miss Rogan’s grand-niece from Cleveland, Peter. Miss Rogan’s keeping her out of sight, here, until she, well… has her, um, child.”
I carefully showed no further interest and my parents resumed their pot roast.
That same night I had turned out my lights and was sitting on the edge of my bed when the neighbor’s window lit up. The girl stood there, naked again, and waited while watching my window. Afraid to turn on my own lights or even move, I just sat there in the dark with my eyes bugging out. After a few minutes with her hands on her hips, the pregnant girl started rubbing her swollen belly, making slow deliberate circles with both hands. My rebellious cock went straight to full battle alert. I wanted to beat the meat there and then, but was afraid of revealing my shameful insanity. (In those days, we were assured that masturbation would quickly drive us crazy, so maybe it was my daily jerk-off sessions that’d unhinged me.) Sure, I was in the dark, but who knew if she could still see me a little. I watched in agony as she cupped her heavy breasts, lifted them, let them tumble and bounce on her belly dome. It was all I could do to keep from splashing cum all over the rug. After a few long minutes of watching, the girl shrugged with a disappointed look, turned so her big belly was in profile, and walked out of sight. I WHOOOSHED noisily, not knowing I’d been holding my breath.
Between night and morning, I romanced my pajama bottoms four different times.
The next afternoon I had to mow the lawn. Now, in the American Midwest, suburban property fences aren’t considered real friendly, so the long back yards of our block were all one uninterrupted river of grass, with ours next to last and Miss Rogan’s place last of all, except for a big, partly wooded vacant lot on her other side, where the developer’s cash had run out. I always started mowing with a swath down the property line to mark our border with those evil Johnsons that we didn’t get along with, but then mowed the lawn at right angles all the way to the end of Miss Rogan’s yard, to be neighborly with this nice old lady. It was humid and hot on this August day, my shirt was off, and I was sweating as I pushed the mower up one width and back down the next. I was well-tanned and muscled from my summer job at the pool. Anyway, I had finished mowing, removed the last carrier full of clippings, and come back for the lawn mower when a window on Miss Rogan’s lower floor opened up.
The girl stuck out her head and shoulders. “Hi, I’m Janice.”
I told her my name was Peter.
“Can I call you Pete?” She waited, smiled, and said, “Okay, Peter then. Want some water?” When I nodded, she disappeared from the window. A minute later her head popped back out. “I can’t find where Miss Rogan keeps a water pitcher.”
“Oh, uh, never mind then.”
“Come on in the kitchen. It’s only tap water.”
“But I’m all…” I raised my glistening arms.
“Oh, come on,” she repeated, and grinned.
So I walked into Old Miss Rogan’s prim, tidy kitchen. The girl, Janice, was covered head to foot by a big shapeless dress. (People would someday call these muumuus, but the word wasn’t common in 1955.) She looked fresh and pretty in daylight, and the sun through the kitchen window showed her hair was mixed up luxurious browns. She handed me a dish towel to wipe the sweat off and carried two glasses of water to the kitchen table.
“Come sit down,” she said, “so you can relax and not have to look at me.” At my puzzled expression, she plucked at the sleeve of her homely dress and then patted her belly.
I grinned ruefully. “You know how much I love looking at your body. I already gave myself away.” I sat down.
She smiled and pulled the sides of her dress tight to outline the half-globe she carried around. I continued quickly, “Sorry about my reaction the other night.”
When Janice chuckled, her round belly jiggled enticingly. “Why do you think I was standing there?”
“I meant my…” I gestured vaguely down at my groin.
Janice shrugged. “You got aroused; okay.” She sat down opposite. “That made me feel good. I’d been so depressed by my ugly shape. Hmh!” she snorted, “And for two more months it’ll only get uglier.”
“No!” I practically shouted. “You look beautiful and, well, sexy, REALLY sexy!”
Janice cocked her head, studying me. “You think pregnant bellies are sexy?”
“I…. Oh shit! Er, excuse my language.” Now I’d revealed to someone that I was insane. Now the boys in white with the great big nets would come and lock me up for sure. Still, confessing was a kind of relief, and after all, it was HER belly. “Ohhgod yes, yes I do. I’m sorry, but I just can’t help it.”
She chuckled again. “Why should you? Listen: I’m supposed to be some big sinner, right? Bad girl; let some guy stick it in her. Now we have to hide her shame.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I heard why you were staying here.”
She thrust out her chin defiantly. “Okay, He stuck it in me SIX TIMES and I let him because he said he loved me. And you know what? I really loved making love! The baby was an accident; so okay, I’m a sinful, immoral Fallen Woman. I don’t care; I STILL liked doing it.” She sipped her water, rubbing her belly under the table with her other hand.
Boy, that was something to think about. The world judged her so guilty she had to be hidden to have her shameful bastard child in secret. But watching her, I could tell her defiance wasn’t a brave front. She really didn’t care. I started to feel better and maybe not quite so insane after all.
Now she smiled. “Know what else? After the first three months of barfing every morning, I now think this is kind of fun. They say I’ll have to give up the baby, but….” She looked off in the distance a moment, then her face lost its wistful look and she stood up and walked over to me. “Want to see the brazen hussy?”
See? Did she really mean…? I could only nod and swallow. From my eye level I was looking at fabric where her breasts and belly would be under that tent she wore.
“Okay,” she said. Crossing arm over arm, she grabbed the dress at her hips and pulled it up, then held it, bunched in her armpits.
In those days, good girls wore “sensible” underwear: stiff bras that squeezed their boobs into tight, hard cones and white cotton panties that covered their belly buttons. (I mean, so they told me.) For comfort though, Janice’s panty top rode beneath the dramatic bulge of her gravid belly.
“Like it?” More idiotic nodding and swallowing. Unthinking, I raised one hand and let it hover in front of me. The hand was shaking visibly. “Want to touch it?” Janice whispered. Without waiting for an answer, she took my wrist and guided my palm onto her belly. Automatically, I brought my other hand up behind her to brace the small of her back. The skin felt warm there and soft. Her belly flesh was warm as well, but its smooth skin was stretched tight over the great hump of her womb. I smoothed my palm around the convex surface, pressing slightly here and there, feeling the thin layer of fat and then hard muscle.
I felt woozy, as if I’d run a mile and then got up too fast from resting, and all the while, my brain spun on: this is it, this is what I need, I’ll never get this again, got to remember every feeling, every inch of pregnant belly. Look at her belly button, almost at the surface. They’re supposed to pop out, aren’t they? What would it feel like when it did?
Without warning, my poor horny system betrayed me and my cock squirted semen into my jockey shorts while I sat there helpless. I glanced down and saw a small stain already spreading out into my blue jeans. “Ohhhhhgod,” I groaned.
She looked down too and grinned. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “but that makes me feel so good – I mean, to know I can do that. When I pulled my hand off her belly and dropped it to hide my shame, she continued, “It’s all right. Go up to the bathroom. Clean up. Take your underwear home in your pocket.”
Still trembling, I sidled up the kitchen stairs and did as she said. When I came back, she turned from the kitchen sink with a damp rag. “Come here.” When I obeyed, she struggled down into a kneeling position and mopped at my pants. In doing so, her hand stroked my cock beneath the fabric, which twitched again despite my sternest efforts. Janice felt this and her mouth wrinkled into a crooked line that showed she was suppressing laughter.
“Ugh! give me a hand,” she grunted, and I helped her stand up again. “Now, while that dries, let’s just sit and talk.” Janice sat at the table and, after a moment’s hesitation, I joined her.
We talked. And we talked. Turns out we both had a lot to say and each one found the other an intelligent listener, so we yakked about school and dating and college and the future and the usual Big Heavy Topics that have always preoccupied teenagers – well, anyway, on and off. After more than an hour I reluctantly said, “I think I better get back.”
Janice glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Yeah: 5:45; Miss Rogan will be home from work pretty soon.” She hauled her belly upright. “Will you come again?”
I nodded, “And you come to my place.”
She shook her head sadly. “I promised I wouldn’t leave – wouldn’t reveal my Terrible Shame to the world.”
My eyes widened. “You can’t even go out of this house?”
A wan smile. “Well, as far as the back yard, maybe, if no neighbors are around.”
“Except me.”
A grin broke up her sad expression. “Want a last feel?” She did the dress thing again, stripping it all the way off this time. I put a palm on each side of her belly and just held the warm, tight dome, thinking, “O Powers That Be, I do thank you!” I closed my eyes a moment to focus on simply feeling her wonderful swollen gut, and, in a moment, she raised her own palms, placed them on my chest, and rubbed me slowly.
When my eyes snapped open, she grinned at my surprise. “Tonight? Ten o’clock?” she whispered.
I slowly backed off, turned, and went to the kitchen door; then I turned back. “Ten o’clock what?”
She shot me that patient look that women reserve for slow-thinking males. “You’ll figure it out,” she said.
* * * *
We were half way through dinner when it hit me and I said loudly, “That’s it!”
“That’s what?” Mother asked.
“Uh… I… Oh, right! The… um, answer to some puzzle in… uh, in the um, um, newspaper.”
“Today’s?”
Hastily, “No no no no, some… a few days back. It just came to me. Sorry to shout.”
Mother stared at me and I imagined a Mother Radar Dish revolving on top of her head. My mother was far from stupid. I smiled unconvincingly, and she raised her eyebrows and cocked her head in an “oh well” shrug. Dinner resumed not a moment too soon.
At 9:30 I yawned elaborately, stood up, and said, “Guess I’ll turn in early. Mowing two lawns is hard work.” My parents said good night without paying much attention and I escaped to my room upstairs.
Where, first of all, I locked my bedroom door. Then I got ready for bed, got undressed, and sat down on the edge of the bed that faced my window. The lights were on and I was naked, except for my wristwatch, which crawled around toward ten o’clock with agonizing slowness. I imagined Janice as I had seen her today, and my cock stirred in my lap. Better not start that too soon. I thought of homework. At 9:50 I ran out of homework to think about. By 9:55 I was ready to scream.
Then a light went on in the bathroom next door. A long moment and then an indistinct figure was silhouetted against the window blind. Mygawd, what if it was Old Miss Rogan! It couldn’t be, could it? I mean, she never before…. At this point the blind slowly rose like a curtain and Janice stood at the window. I smiled and waved and she smiled back.
Before I could register disappointment at the muumuu she was still wearing, she grasped the fabric as before, and slowly, slowly pulled the dress up like a second theater curtain. She removed the dress and put it somewhere out of sight. Then she reached behind her and undid the mortar-cone bra. She hunched her shoulders forward (as I now know women do) and pulled the straps down. The bra rode, unsupported, around her big, taut breasts. She grasped it by its cup tips and pulled it off. It joined the muumuu. The panties were last. She bent forward and pushed them down, and as she lifted first one leg then another to step out of them, each thigh in turn pressed up and into the bulge of her pregnant belly. As it distorted and resumed its shape I realized I’d thought of it as rigid as a basketball. In fact, it was a complicated system that flexed with the mother while it cradled her baby.
Janice did all this matter-of-factly, without the slightest come-on look or provocative wiggle; but she already had me stiff and hard as a phone pole. Now, however, she started teasing me, cupping and rubbing her heavy breasts, pinching her nipples, sliding her hands around her belly slope to touch her pussy. She turned sideways, took a big breath, arched her back, and froze with her huge belly shoving forward aggressively. As she turned back toward me, she smiled, and this time there was seduction in that smile.
She beckoned to me repeatedly, lifting her hand and curling her fingers up in summons. Since we were 20 feet apart and 15 above the ground, this puzzled me; then I realized what she meant. I was suddenly embarrassed, but I found my courage and slowly, shyly, stood up straight, my enormous boner flying high. It wagged hello. Janice grinned and mimed approval. Then she made “go on, go on” impatient gestures. Not quite getting it, I lifted a tentative hand and cupped it under my penis. Her grin widened, and she curled her fingers around an imaginary cylinder and stroked them up and down. Hypnotized like a bird with a snake, I began to slowly jack myself off. As I did so, she rubbed her swollen breasts and belly, and pinched her nipples again and licked her lips as her hips revolved. Then she reached a hand around her gut and found her pussy. Janice was getting off too! We watched each other’s hands go faster, faster, until I lost control completely. Just in time, I crowded up to the wide-open window and spurted rope after rope of white semen into the hot September dark.
This must have set her off too, because she squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered, and her breathing drove her belly in and out, in and out, until she reared her head back and let go (what I hoped was) a silent scream. She came down in stages, bit by bit; and then we looked at each other, replete and sweating in the Midwest humidity. She blew a kiss and waved and turned and pulled the blind back down. After a moment her light went off, while I stood wiping stray jism off the windowsill with my long-suffering pajamas. Oddly enough, out of all her erotic display, what I thought of most was that kiss.
I spent most of the next day dreaming about that bathroom window crowded with big-bellied girl, and tugging at my pants to ease the world’s longest-lasting hard-on. By 9:50 I was back on station, naked in front of my window with my abused pajamas ready. Janice appeared right on schedule, but tonight she surprised, and I admit, disappointed me. Instead of peeling off her muumuu, she shook her head and waved her upright hand, palm-out to signal no. Then she repeatedly pointed down, I guessed at the kitchen below, and held up three fingers. I three-fingered back and she smiled, nodded, and disappeared for the night.
Kitchen; three. Three o’clock? She’d be down in the kitchen at three? That was damn late with school in the morning, but okay, a small enough sacrifice. I got dressed and lay on my bed. I didn’t dare relieve my poor aching cock and maybe compromise my late-night performance (as if I needed to worry at that age!) and the next five hours from ten to three lasted ten hours at least.
At three a.m. I snuck downstairs, shoes in hand, put them on at the kitchen door, and stepped out into the cicadas’ last summer chorus. The insistent rise and fall of their non-stop buzzing kept dialing up the tension as I watched for the kitchen light next door.
And watched. And watched some more. By 3:30 I knew Janice wasn’t coming down. Crushed as only a 17 year old can be crushed, I took off my shoes and dragged back up to my room. One ray of hope remained: maybe she meant tomorrow AFTERNOON at three! I romanced my pajamas as usual and drifted off in what little remained of the night.
At the breakfast table I thought hard and fast. Then, counting on my parents’ usual benign neglect, I said casually, “I start shooting for the yearbook today.”
Mother carried dishes to the sink. “Don’t you already take photos for the school paper?”
“Uh, yeah, but that’s only maybe three days a month.”
“What about sports? What about football?” my father asked from behind the paper (even a city our size had morning and evening newspapers back then).
But after trying to please my father through a Junior football season with my face mostly shoved into freezing mud, I was going to disappoint my old man this year. “They really need a good photographer; and when I told them you had taught me everything I know….”
“I guess that’s okay then,” Father said in a satisfied tone. (In fact, he used his expensive equipment and home darkroom roughly never, now that his latest hobby was a full year old. That was about par for the course for Father’s costly passions.)
“So I won’t be home ’til maybe five or six.” No answer from the Oldies, who were back to their news and dishes. Perfect!
It took some hustle, but I made it back from school by three, snuck through the wooded vacant lot on the far side of Old Miss Rogan’s house, and tapped on the kitchen door. It opened at once.
Janice said, “After I left the bathroom, I realized you might have mistaken my sign language for 3 a.m.”
Though I was stifling yawns, I offhandedly said, “Oh no, not at all.” As she turned back into the kitchen, I said, “Um, is there any place we could, maybe sit down?” I mimed side-by-side with my arms.
She grinned at me. “Because you want to start making out?”
“Well, not, ‘start,’ but, yeah, eventually; but I also like to talk with you, I mean…” oh, this was going badly! “Aw, it’s so hard talking to girls. Either you want to make out with them and don’t want to scare them off, or else you DON’T want to make out with them but don’t want to insult them by giving yourself away…. I’m sorry; but it’s always so complicated.”
Jennifer wrapped her hand lightly around my upper arm and studied the distress in my face. “It’s just as hard for girls, and you know, I don’t think it ever gets easier.”
“Oh! Well, I thought it was easier for you and me, anyhow. That’s why I love to come over – well, PART of the reason, I mean…”
Jennifer actually snickered. “Boy, when you dig you a hole, you dig it deep, don’t you?” At my stricken expression she laughed out loud. Then, “I’m sorry I laughed, Peter.”
For some reason, I wasn’t embarrassed at being embarrassed – not with Janice. I grinned and said, “That’s all right; sometimes I feel like Red Skelton; you know: stumbling around and knocking stuff over.”
“Yeah. C’mon.” She led me into the living room.
I looked around. “About Old…about Miss Rogan….”
She shook her head. “The library doesn’t close ’til 5:30 and then she has stuff to tidy up. The number 9 bus stops up at the end of the block at 6:11 every night. She’s never home before 6:15.” She sighed. “She’s so hidebound; I think she won’t use the crapper except on schedule. Oops!”
We both laughed (1955 was far less candid about bodily functions) and she sat us down on the couch.
So we talked again for an hour or more; and when things started running down, Janice said simply, “Okay, it’s make-out time. Now, does that make it easier?”
“Does it ever!” I put my left arm over her shoulder beside me, pulled her in gently and kissed her, not aggressively, but kind of exploring. Her lips were very warm and soft and her tongue was wicked when it got going.
After a long, long time, we came up for air and Janice said, “You hit the pitch; now you get on first base.” Her voice sounded breathy and sexy.
I placed a palm on her big left breast and felt it under her shapeless dress. Her nipple was hard and she sucked in her breath when I circled it with a finger. I cupped and lifted the heavy globe, thinking it felt filled with warm jelly or something. My pants were already hurting my cock. Janice put a hand on my crotch and just rested it there. It was agony, wondering if she’d move the hand, wondering what she’d do.
Almost absently, I said, Janice, it’s hard to find words to describe holding your, um, breast. It’s not… it’s not just sexy, it’s like… it reminds me of…”
When I trailed off, Janice finished, “Sucking milk out of mommy’s boobie.”
“No!” I thought some. “Well, maybe that really is partly true, if I admit it honestly.”
She leaned her head back to study my face; then she nodded. “And you do admit it, Peter; that’s unusual.” She thought a bit more and then pulled farther away and finally stood up. I thought, uh oh, I messed up, as always! “All right,” she said, “you can latch on to mommy.” Without waiting, she stripped the muumuu off and discarded it. Today she had no underwear on, so the heavy breast I’d been holding swung gently as she sat back down. “Feel me, Peter,” Janice whispered.
This time I cupped her right breast, lifting it gently, feeling its sensuous weight. I bent my head and took her nipple in my mouth, then opened wide enough to surround the pink aureole around it. I suckled her very gently. Of course there wasn’t any milk there yet, but I must have triggered something because Janice suddenly shuddered. “Ho-oh-oh!,” she said in a shivery tone, “that does something. I’ve rubbed them but never felt that!”
When I lifted my head momentarily, she raised her right arm, draped it over my neck, and pulled me back down onto her resilient breast. I teased the button nipple and circled it with my tongue. Janice kept trembling. As I cupped and kneaded her swollen boob I was looked down at the hill of her swollen belly. That pink, distended dome strained outward, and every few moments, its surface rippled smoothly. The baby! That was the baby. Since her belly button hadn’t quite poked out yet, I couldn’t see her navel. I transferred my hand to the slope of her convex gut and started caressing in slow circles. Janice’s shivers turned into long soft sighs of pleasure.
Janice whispered, “Fair play now, take off your shirt.” We unwound enough so she could undo my buttons. I stripped the shirt off and Janice once again placed her palms over my own male nipples. “Mmm,” she murmured, “muscles!” She slowly rubbed her hands all over my chest. It made me glad I’d done all that swimming. Then she snaked her arms around my back and the awkwardness of this position unconsciously made us stand up. We embraced as closely as her big belly allowed. “Hoo, cold!” she said and immediately jerked her gut backward.
“That’s my belt buckle. Want me to get rid of it?” I added hopefully.
She just looked at me, so I thought, well, maybe not yet. Still, her pregnant belly was irresistible. Sinking to my knees, I embraced her, grasped her tight backside cheeks, then leaned in and Eskimo-kissed her navel with my nose. Janice giggled. I kissed it properly and licked it, fighting to contain my threatening orgasm (though in those innocent days, I didn’t know it was called that). Then I brought my arms back around and bracketed the tight sides of her warm, heavy belly. I thought I’d go nuts now if I hadn’t before. Slowly, hesitantly, I cocked my head sideways, slipped under the big slope of her lower gut, grasped the backs of her warm thighs, and buried my mouth in her sparse, brown curls. I kissed her mound and simply held there.
Janice ruffled my hair and chuckled. “I’ll have to show you how to do that right,” she said, “but you stand up now and I’ll give you a present.” Wondering what she meant, I reluctantly rose to my feet.
With a wicked look, she hooked her left hand in the waistband of my jeans, her fingers warm against my hard, flat belly. With her right, she undid my belt buckle. Working the stiff fly buttons was tough going and my insistent erection made the job even tougher. Top button, second button, third, last, then she peeled back the front and tugged the heavy fabric off my hips. Janice paused and looked into my eyes, knowing the suspense was killing me.
“Janice!” I groaned.
Her smile widened into a saucy grin as she pulled my jockey shorts down in front (their design was the same half a century ago) and hooked the elastic waistband under my balls. “Ooooh,” she breathed, tickling them gently with slim fingers. “You know you’re nice and big, Peter,” she chuckled, “or should I say, you have a nice big peter, Peter.”
“Uhh, ho ho that’s rich. Janice, please!!”
Then, cautiously managing her heavy belly, she sank into a catcher’s squat before me, now holding on to my shaft to steady herself. She gazed up at me and shook her hair back out of her face. Looking down at her, I gasped at the size of her pregnant gut, now hanging, almost dangling between her wide-spread legs. I could see her breasts were swollen too, their sides bulging with their growing burden. My cock was twitching uncontrollably.
She didn’t calm it any by bending slowly, lips pursed, and kissing all around its purplish cap. Her tongue shot out and lapped the pre-cum off the tiny hole. Then she lifted my cock and went to work on my balls, teasing, licking, pulling gently at the wrinkled skin with her teeth; rolling, tickling my full scrotum. It was an agony I never wanted ended.
She took my cock into her warm, wet mouth, in an inch and out, in again farther; and so, inch by inch, she pulled my pulsing shaft to the very back of her mouth, until all seven inches were engulfed. As she did this, she sucked me in rhythmic pulses, helping each little spasm by tightening her lips in rhythm.
“Janice! You’re going to make me… I can’t hold… Janice!!”
She deliberately pulled back and out, long enough to say, “Do it, Peter, go ahead and shoot. Cum for me, sweetheart, shoot for me!” Slowly, still deliberately, she sucked me into her mouth again.
That did it. The familiar pressure built and built in my testicles, moved into and up my cock and erupted into Janice’s eager mouth. Again and again I spasmed and spurted into her. She gulped and swallowed quickly, but white sticky cum still surged around my cock and out the corners of her mouth. It rained down on her heavy breasts and the shiny dome of the great belly that hung between her cradling knees; and all the while, she looked up at me with a happy, loving expression. I could have died and gone to heaven on the spot.
When I had finally finished loading her with spunk, and nearly stopped shaking all over, she pulled her mouth away at last, looked up again, and said, “Ooh, I think you’ve been practicing, Peter. Hey, my knees are locking, give me a hand, lover.”
Lover! Overcome with feeling, I wordlessly raised her to her feet, turned her, and sat us down on the sofa. It felt scratchy on my naked ass. When I could speak again I said ruefully, “I’m afraid that practicing is as far as I’ve ever got. If I practice much more, I’ll go blind.” In 1955 we half-believed those masturbation scare stories.
Janice was rubbing semen all over her breasts, making them bulge and wobble. Then she slathered it around her belly-dome like lotion. “A girlfriend told me this is good for stretch marks.” (I looked wise, though I didn’t know what those were back then.) Janice laced her hands below her swollen gut, pulled up, and also took a giant breath and arched her back. Her belly seemed to inflate like a great pink balloon. The sight almost set me off again. She said, “Obviously, I have more experience, but only those six times I told you of.” She deflated somewhat and her look turned sad. “I really never was the bad girl they thought me.”
“Well, I never thought so, Janice.” Another thought floated into what little was left of my brain. “You said you were going to show me how to do something.”
She sighed. “Well, that’ll have to wait. What time is it?”
My watch said 5:25. “Oh, I don’t want to go, Janice.”
“But you’ve got to. Look: we’ve got four – five weeks at least. Come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow and every other day. I already told my folks a good excuse.” Reluctantly, we got dressed and tidied up. Janice had done such a good job of sperm control that there were no cum stains on the carpet.
So every day at three o’clock I snuck into Old Miss Rogan’s kitchen, lugging my father’s Exacta camera (remember, I was supposed to be shooting for the yearbook). Before I went home I did a different kind of shooting all right; but when I asked again what she was going to show me, Janice waved around at the prim living room and said it was too hard to do there. It was enough to play with her pussy and finger her inside. She led me to the button there and showed me how to make her groan and shake and cream. I was astounded that girls got wet too. Meanwhile, her straining belly bulged ever outward, her belly button popped as advertised, and her breasts grew so full they finally sagged enough to touch the slope of her great pink gut. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Then one day when she was well over eight months gone, Janice said, “Something’s been driving me crazy. Why do you bring that camera every single day?” I told her my ruse to see her, explaining about my dad’s expensive hobbies that changed about every three months. We even had a home dark room in the basement. Janice looked thoughtful, then said slowly, as if thinking out loud, “You know, my family won’t let me keep my baby and I’ll never have anything to remember this time.” She studied me, head on one side. “Are you a good photographer?” I nodded. “Then how about some pictures of me. You can make extras and keep them after I’m gone.”
I said that would take a little thought. In those days, fine-grain film was not sensitive enough to use indoors. You had to have a flash, which gave that deer-in-the-headlights look, or studio lighting, which I didn’t have. Then I had a brainstorm. Because we were in the last gasp of Indian summer, which can be damn hot in the Midwest, we could work outdoors. That empty, wooded field beside the house would offer perfect cover, ten steps from her back door.
So we planned it: Janice would bring herself and extra underwear (she did have a black strapless bra for her one formal dress) and maybe a blanket. IF I could con my parents into letting me skip school. We agreed to do the upstairs window trick that night at ten, when I’d let her know thumbs-up or down about our scheme.
That night at dinner, I started casually. “You know I’m getting straight A’s again this semester.” My mother said that was good and dad said maybe I’d get that college scholarship. I waited a few minutes, then resumed, “But frankly, I’m exhausted. I could really use a day off.”
“What, just lounge around?” my father asked.
“Oh, maybe spend the day downtown, hit the flicks – there’s a great double feature at the Rialto. I’d like to take some pictures too – you know, city scenes. I mean, I’m tired of shooting just sports and school clubs and stuff.”
“Well, you would be working to improve your photography.” (Mother wanted to give in but needed a “responsible” reason.) “I guess I could write a note, say you had a cold or something.”
I thanked them and told them they were very understanding. It was done!
At ten p.m. I moved, buck naked, into my bedroom window. When the blind across the way rolled up, Janice was bare too, in all her big-busted, great-bellied glory. I gave her thumbs-up, and then we masturbated together. The sight of her swollen gut heaving up and down, and out, as her hips bucked set me off faster than I wanted but stronger than I’d ever managed on my own. Still, tomorrow I hoped to do better, MUCH better.
The next morning I slipped out the kitchen door while my mother was in the living room, then angled quickly across Old Miss Rogan’s back yard and around the rear of the hedge bordering the empty field. It was technically just a vacant lot, but out here at the edge of 1955 suburbia, the lot was no more than an extension of the fields and woods beyond it. The only street frontage was a dead-end turnaround that nobody ever used, well-masked by tall weeds and such. Miss Rogan’s boundary hedge ran eight feet high down the whole side between her lot and the field. To the rear and on the other side, the nearest buildings were a mile away. A big old hardwood tree sat in the middle of the space where the back yard would have been if the house had ever been built, and soft grass covered most of the lot, except for volunteer shrubbery scattered here and there. Perfect! No one could see us from any direction.
At exactly ten a.m. Janice appeared around the border hedge, wearing her usual muumuu. I led her behind the big tree, wrapped my arms around as much of her as I could reach now, and kissed her slowly. The basket she had with her carried her black bra and panties, a dark blanket, and some snacks. “Woo! I’m not walking so well these days,” she said. As she panted to catch her breath, her now-astounding belly cycled in and out under the muumuu, prodding my much flatter front. I got hard at once. It felt delicious.
She seemed a bit nervous, which wasn’t surprising. In 1955 most girls wore one-piece swimsuits, some with stupid looking little skirts attached, and nobody, but NOBODY wore a bikini, except in France. Women who posed nekkid for photos were of doubtful virtue if the pictures were “art” and sluts if they showed up in men’s magazines. (In both types of publication, pubic hair never appeared, and it was only decades later that I realized that the models shaved it even back then.) But here I was proposing to record Janice totally bare-assed, with swollen, dark-nippled breasts, pubic hair, a blimp-size belly above it, and a navel so popped out you could use it as a handle. Part of me thought it was funny. She was stripping naked for me every day now in the kitchen next door, but somehow this was PUBLIC, though no one could possibly see us.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” she asked uncertainly.
For a change, I was more sensitive than usual to other people’s feelings. “Well, undo those four buttons at the back of your neck – here; I’ll do it.” The buttons ended between her shoulder blades, so the muumuu didn’t slip at all. “Okay, now sit down with your legs to one side in front of you and your back against the tree.” She obeyed, then looked up with an “is that all?” expression.
I had the exacta loaded and ready. In those days you had to use a hand-held light meter, but I’d already measured the open shade beneath the tree. “Okay, smooth the muumuu down to outline your tummy. Can you get it any tighter?” Her belly button pushed at the fabric. “Fine.” I took a couple of pictures. (With just 36 frames per roll of film, we didn’t shoot hundreds then.) “Now pull the hem up to the top of your thighs. [CLICK, CLICK.] “Pull your neckline down as far as it will go. [I’ll spare you further CLICKs.] Pull your right arm out through the neckline opening.” I waited until her arm was free, then took some shots. “Okay, Janice, now reach your left hand into you neckline, pull your right, um, breast free, and hold it up with your hand. No, look at it, not me; I’m not even here.” I moved into a low, close shot, using the wide angle lens (no zooms back then). Looking down, her face was serene, but the taut, straining bag of her swollen breast was powerfully erotic.
And so it went for over an hour and four rolls of film. By getting Janice slowly accustomed to the idea, I coaxed her out of her dress and into ever-sexier poses. (We forgot the bra and panties.) She knew her belly and breasts turned me on, so she thrust them at the camera at every opportunity. The indirect sun bouncing off the matted yellow grass bathed her hips, belly, and breasts in soft light that wrapped around their extravagant curves. Janice was patient, the day was plenty warm, and my cock required intense concentration to ignore. Because I really was a serious photographer, I managed – barely.
Then I spread the blanket, which we had also forgotten in our nervous haste, and we lounged under the tree, eating sandwiches crushed from being stuffed into my photo gadget bag. Janice ate half of hers, then set the other half down. “I don’t seem to have much room to spare,” she grinned, looked at the small mountain in front of her, and scratched her popped-out belly button. “I think I better get dressed.”
“No, I’ll join you instead.” I quickly got out of my clothes and lay down beside her. “You’ve been promising to show me something.”
She looked at me then said seriously, “Ever eat a girl out?” I shook my head, not even knowing what she referred to. Janice rolled onto her back, spread her legs, and propped herself up on her forearms. When I looked at her blankly, she frowned at me. “Do I have to spell it out? Geez!” She sighed. “Okay, put your face in my pussy and lick it.”
I was so naive I thought at first she meant her pubic hair, and wondered what that would do. I lay on my stomach between her legs, face hovering above her mound, and shot her a puzzled look.
Another sigh. “Boy, you really haven’t been around have you?” I humbly shook my head. Janice reached around Mount Belly and spread her lips. They were plump, pink, and glistening. “There!”
Thinking of icky stuff like pee, I dropped my mouth onto her and doubtfully pushed my tongue in. Janice squeezed her butt cheeks and shoved her pussy upward, so my nose dove between her folds. Suddenly I got it! My nose smelled the erotic smell and my tongue tasted the sensual taste of pussy for the first time. Instinct took over and I burrowed in, lapping, nipping, sucking. I got my tongue tip as far as her vagina and she murmured, “Now up front: find the button.”
Button? But I obeyed and there it was. The moment I touched it, Janice jerked her hips and cried out softly. I asked, “Did I hurt you?”
“Christ no,” she wailed, “keep going!”
And so I did. Janice guided me and made suggestions as we went. If we both hadn’t been shaking with lust, this step-by-step tutorial might have seemed funny. Janice shook with one orgasm, then another.
Panting, turgid breasts and belly heaving, she grabbed my hair and pulled my face out of her cunt. “I think…” she gasped, “I think you… think you earned it. Come up here.” Lifting my body on my arms, I scootched up, trying not to press her swollen gut too hard, until my face was above hers. She kissed me, pulled away, wiped both our sopping mouths with a hand, and kissed again. “Now,” she paused to catch her breath, “know where you put it?”
Put what – oh, IT!! Shaking with anticipation, I grabbed the base of my cock and slipped it into her flowing pussy. It took a moment’s hunt and then my searching mushroom cap found her hole and went down it. It was tight; I was hard; I won the contest and slid in and in until I hung up on her belly. “I can’t – uh, your tummy’s in the way.”
“Off!” she barked.
Afraid I’d hurt her, I pulled out and rotated over onto my butt. She turned on her side, facing away, and lifted her upper leg clear of her cunt, which split and opened like a Venus flytrap. “Now try,” she gasped, “and hurry!”
Fitting myself to her luscious butt, I guided my dripping pecker back inside – all the way this time. I somehow knew enough to take it slowly, like a great, slow piston, in and out, in and out.
“Faster, Peter!” I speeded up my strokes and Janice started moaning, not loudly but in a low tone that pulsed in sync with my urgent thrusts: Aww – Aww – Aww — !
On this, my first time, I couldn’t keep control. “Janice, I can’t help it, I’m gonna…”
“Shut up and go!” she groaned, and as I spasmed and shot cum into her, one, two, three – on and on – she shuddered and wailed softly like a madwoman.
We quieted together and just lay there. With my upper hand I slowly rubbed her great belly and near-side breast. “Oh, Janice, I…”
She rolled suddenly to face me and wrapped her arms around me. “Shh, Peter, just shh, lover.” We kissed again, then lay there panting, grinning at each other.
Then we talked and talked as we so often did, while I caressed her gorgeous, swollen body and watched the face that had me so entranced. I know it’s corny, but that warm, gold autumn afternoon stays with me after all these decades.
Eventually, as we lay facing each other, I revolved to lay my head on her soft thigh, my face just inches from her pussy. She raised her leg and I started tonguing her again as she cupped my balls and worried my cock to full attention. We ate each other then, she a big mouthful and I a whole face full. When we were both panting and grunting, I rolled away, pulled her up to doggy position, knelt behind her, and fumbled into her wet vagina. Once I got there, it was paradise regained.
It was only four o’clock by then, but the October day was already losing Indian Summer heat. I took more frames of Janice as she lay there, sated, then helped her dress and gather up the blanket.
That night I locked myself in the dark room for three hours, patiently loading film into small tanks, and cycling chemicals through them. My exposures were right on the money, and even the tiny negative images made my cock stiffen. I left them hanging with weight clips on them, to dry overnight.
The next morning at the breakfast table, my mother announced to the newspaper hiding my father, “Well! All kinds of excitement when I brought that paper in today.” My father’s “Hmm,” said he was paying no attention, as always. “Yes, indeed,” she continued, not to be deterred, “there was a cab out front next door and Miss Rogan was leading that GIRL down her front steps.” My ears pricked up. “From the way her arms were wrapped around her middle, I’d say she’s off to have her baby.” Mother humphed. “From the size of that middle, I’d say that, for sure.”
It took every ounce of discipline I had to appear offhand. “Where?”
“Well, how should I know? There must be a dozen hospitals in the city.” Mother frowned slightly. “Why do you ask, Peter?”
“Ah, no reason. Maybe I’ll go say congratulations… or something, when she um, comes back.”
“Oh? You know her?”
Careful, careful! “Well, no, but it would be, I don’t know, neighborly.”
Mother looked at me a moment. Father snaked an arm around his paper, groping for his coffee. Then the topic faded away.
That night and three nights more, I printed pictures. Out of 144 frames, I got maybe 60 good ones, including about 20 that were downright great. I made two sets of prints of those, one for Janice, one for me. Then I made sure absolutely nothing incriminating was left in the darkroom (or its wastebasket). My nightly whack sessions all involved those arousing images and I waited impatiently for Janice to return.
But she never did, and I was left with no address, no phone number, and no way to get them. I mourned Janice as if she’d died, and as the weeks and months dragged by, I polished my memories of those afternoons. Funny: despite the help of my well-thumbed photos, my most vivid recollections were of Janice talking, laughing, listening to me. I’d been so besotted by her swollen breasts and belly that I hadn’t realized how special was the person inside. One late night, I found myself weeping over her photo, and was too unhappy to even be embarrassed by this sissy stuff.
Almost a year later I was getting flat feet in an endless freshman registration line at State U. when I thought I recognized her from the back. I asked the guy behind me to hold my place, and, to avoid looking obvious, circled around and ahead, glancing back oh-so casually. Yes, it was Janice! Still hugging the walls, I snuck around until I was back of her. Then I tiptoed up, paused just behind her, and did an elaborate pantomime for the guy in line there: I pointed to her, mimed “shhh,” nodded toward her, puckered for a kiss, and pointed to the space in front of him. He grinned okay and let me in.
I put two hands on her waist, leaned in close, and murmured, “I have some pictures for you, Janice.” She spun around, mouth falling open. When I opened my arms in welcome, she moved into them, but hesitantly. I said into her ear again. “This is so wonderful. Look, you’re about four people closer to your table than I am to mine. Will you wait for me?” She nodded into my shoulder, then pulled back, and studied my face doubtfully. I whispered, “Please!” and she repeated the nod.
Half an hour later, we shared a booth in the student union snack shop. After several minutes of slurping sodas and trading feelings about this new school, I finally got up my courage. “When you didn’t come back, I didn’t know what to do.” She smiled wanly. I continued, “I was crazy; I’ve BEEN crazy for a year.” She looked at my hand on the table and covered it with hers. I persisted, “Did, uh, things come out okay?”
She shook her head. “Just one thing came out, a baby girl. I saw her when the doctor held her by her ankles and tapped her feet. She started crying, loud.”
“Aw…”
“Then they took her away.” Janice kept her eyes on our hands. “I asked for days and days, but they said it was better this way. I never saw her again.”
“I don’t know what…”
Janice plowed on, woodenly, “My boobs hurt, for maybe three days.” Her eyes lifted to mine, “Then they didn’t anymore, and I went — home.” She said “home” as if it were in quotes. “I just held on, held on – waiting to get out of there and start college.” She made a valiant effort to smile. “And I made it; here I am.”
“I am so very glad you are, Janice.” I looked at her miserable face. “Listen: why don’t I get us a cheeseburger?”
Janice shook her head, slowly. “We can’t pick up where we left off, Peter.” She made a feeble joke: “Besides, you were crazy for my pregnant belly but that’s gone now.”
I stepped very, very carefully. “I meant start over, not ‘pick up.’ We meet, I buy you early supper, we sit and talk, we walk back to your dorm, where I say goodnight out on the sidewalk. If things work out, I might rate a second date. If we get as far as five I’ll try to cop a feel through your clothes.”
That produced a real smile and the Janice I had known shone through it. She rubbed her abdomen absently. “You know, I am still sort of round down there. My tummy never got all the way flat after the baby came.”
I smiled back. “Yeah, I admit it. I was – I am – crazy for big bellies; but you know what? I remember our conversations every bit as well as your body. That’s why I want to see you, Janice.” I thought a bit before adding, “Though I’m glad your belly’s a little bit round.”
Janice rubbed her front where I couldn’t see, below the table edge. “Mostly the part below my belly button.” Then reluctantly, “More than just a little, to be honest.” She added bravely, “No stretch marks though. Remember why?”
I had a sudden flash image of Janice smearing my semen around the straining dome of her huge, tight belly. I nodded, then jumped up, suddenly embarrassed. “How about I get those cheeseburgers?”
Janice nodded. “I’d like a coke with mine.”
“You got it.” Walking over to the fast food grill, I was very nearly dancing.
I stood at my bedroom window, stunned by the sight of a naked, pregnant girl, framed in the neighbor’s window 20 feet away. Way back then, when I was 17, you never saw a naked woman, let alone a pregnant woman, for chrissake; but there she was, standing just quietly with her hands on her hips and her big gut pushed forward. After a few frozen moments, she smiled at me, then slowly reached a hand up, making her breasts lift and swing, and pulled down the blind as deliberately as a theater curtain. Show over.
It was only then that I realized that I was bare too and my bedroom lights were plenty bright enough to show my instant, instinctive boner. I’d been undressing for bed when I caught sight of the big-bellied girl and my own blind was up because old Miss Rogan next door never, EVER opened her blinds on our side, so why bother?
But that sure wasn’t skinny, dried up Miss Rogan tonight! Turning off my lights, I grabbed my pajama bottoms and, naturally, whacked off into them. I mean, Playboy was just a year old back then, but the magazine’s teasing display of maybe two coy nipple sets per month was more than enough to set me off big time. Stashing the pajamas in the back of my closet as always, I crawled into bed naked and lay in the dark staring up at an afterimage of bulging, beautiful girl.
Was she beautiful? The truth was, I’d been so entranced with her swollen, erotic body that I hadn’t paid much attention. Forcing my memory up from her straining belly and breasts, I recalled her face. Hm, not “beautiful,” maybe, but young, good-looking, and marked by signs of brains and personality. Her hair was some kind of dark but not black, and it curled around her shoulders…. Which led my imagination back downward and before I knew it, I was hard again (ah, to be 17!). I reached for my backup tissues on the nightstand and took care of Willy again.
Then I stared at the dark some more, thinking very uncomfortable thoughts. A lot of my friends had declared themselves breast men or butt men or leg men, and they understood and respected each other. You might prefer butts to boobs, but the boob guys accepted your preference.
But Bellies? I’d never heard such a thing. In 1955, “nice” people never acknowledged that pregnancy existed (because it was evidence that a pregnant woman was guilty of “you-know-what”). Women growing bellies wore blowsy tops styled by Barnum and Bailey and then mainly disappeared for the last two months before the baby came. Was it normal for me to have the hots for pregnant women? Because I suddenly realized I did – did I ever! But I imagined telling guys at the pool where I worked for the summer that huge, swollen guts made me cream my jockeys. They wouldn’t get it; wouldn’t even laugh. They’d just walk away from this sicko pervert and never come back. No sane man reacted the way I did, so therefore I must be some kind of crazy. I feared that if this got out they’d lock me away for the good of society. If I wanted to run around loose, I’d have to conceal my shameful condition forever, in my one-man closet like the homosexuals I’d read about but never seen in those long-gone innocent times.
The next day passed in one long agony of fear and doubt. I watched my every move, reviewed my every word, to make sure I wasn’t doing something else that revealed my disgusting sickness. When a guy at the pool said, “Hey, dig the tits on that chick,” I made a damn fool of myself, babbling, “Wow! They really are some knockers I really love boobs yeah I’m really a boob man,” and idiot jabber like that. He looked at me strangely, but shrugged and changed the subject while I kicked myself mentally.
Nevertheless, I left the blind open each night in my bedroom, very casually getting undressed while stealing quick glances at the window next door. It remained dark.
At dinner one night, I waited until my parents were deeply involved with pot roast and then said, oh-so-casually, “Is somebody visiting Old Miss Rogan?”
My father looked up with his mouth full and mumbled what must have meant “I don’t know.” Mother pushed a mouthful of roast aside and then attempted, “Why?” I did that dismissive teenage shrug that irritates parents and forked in a mouthful. She gulped, sipped some water, then managed, “I did hear about some girl.” As she remembered, her face took on her devilish Fresh-Juicy-Gossip look. “I believe she’s in a… delicate condition.” At my blank expression, she added primly, “She made her bed and now she’s got to lie in it.” Beds were clearly involved, but I couldn’t see what making them had to do with getting pregnant.
Closing a fist, my dad mimed a horizontal piston, in and out. “Knocked up,” he explained around his own pot roast.
“Wilmer!” But mother turned back to me. “I do believe that’s old Miss Rogan’s grand-niece from Cleveland, Peter. Miss Rogan’s keeping her out of sight, here, until she, well… has her, um, child.”
I carefully showed no further interest and my parents resumed their pot roast.
That same night I had turned out my lights and was sitting on the edge of my bed when the neighbor’s window lit up. The girl stood there, naked again, and waited while watching my window. Afraid to turn on my own lights or even move, I just sat there in the dark with my eyes bugging out. After a few minutes with her hands on her hips, the pregnant girl started rubbing her swollen belly, making slow deliberate circles with both hands. My rebellious cock went straight to full battle alert. I wanted to beat the meat there and then, but was afraid of revealing my shameful insanity. (In those days, we were assured that masturbation would quickly drive us crazy, so maybe it was my daily jerk-off sessions that’d unhinged me.) Sure, I was in the dark, but who knew if she could still see me a little. I watched in agony as she cupped her heavy breasts, lifted them, let them tumble and bounce on her belly dome. It was all I could do to keep from splashing cum all over the rug. After a few long minutes of watching, the girl shrugged with a disappointed look, turned so her big belly was in profile, and walked out of sight. I WHOOOSHED noisily, not knowing I’d been holding my breath.
Between night and morning, I romanced my pajama bottoms four different times.
The next afternoon I had to mow the lawn. Now, in the American Midwest, suburban property fences aren’t considered real friendly, so the long back yards of our block were all one uninterrupted river of grass, with ours next to last and Miss Rogan’s place last of all, except for a big, partly wooded vacant lot on her other side, where the developer’s cash had run out. I always started mowing with a swath down the property line to mark our border with those evil Johnsons that we didn’t get along with, but then mowed the lawn at right angles all the way to the end of Miss Rogan’s yard, to be neighborly with this nice old lady. It was humid and hot on this August day, my shirt was off, and I was sweating as I pushed the mower up one width and back down the next. I was well-tanned and muscled from my summer job at the pool. Anyway, I had finished mowing, removed the last carrier full of clippings, and come back for the lawn mower when a window on Miss Rogan’s lower floor opened up.
The girl stuck out her head and shoulders. “Hi, I’m Janice.”
I told her my name was Peter.
“Can I call you Pete?” She waited, smiled, and said, “Okay, Peter then. Want some water?” When I nodded, she disappeared from the window. A minute later her head popped back out. “I can’t find where Miss Rogan keeps a water pitcher.”
“Oh, uh, never mind then.”
“Come on in the kitchen. It’s only tap water.”
“But I’m all…” I raised my glistening arms.
“Oh, come on,” she repeated, and grinned.
So I walked into Old Miss Rogan’s prim, tidy kitchen. The girl, Janice, was covered head to foot by a big shapeless dress. (People would someday call these muumuus, but the word wasn’t common in 1955.) She looked fresh and pretty in daylight, and the sun through the kitchen window showed her hair was mixed up luxurious browns. She handed me a dish towel to wipe the sweat off and carried two glasses of water to the kitchen table.
“Come sit down,” she said, “so you can relax and not have to look at me.” At my puzzled expression, she plucked at the sleeve of her homely dress and then patted her belly.
I grinned ruefully. “You know how much I love looking at your body. I already gave myself away.” I sat down.
She smiled and pulled the sides of her dress tight to outline the half-globe she carried around. I continued quickly, “Sorry about my reaction the other night.”
When Janice chuckled, her round belly jiggled enticingly. “Why do you think I was standing there?”
“I meant my…” I gestured vaguely down at my groin.
Janice shrugged. “You got aroused; okay.” She sat down opposite. “That made me feel good. I’d been so depressed by my ugly shape. Hmh!” she snorted, “And for two more months it’ll only get uglier.”
“No!” I practically shouted. “You look beautiful and, well, sexy, REALLY sexy!”
Janice cocked her head, studying me. “You think pregnant bellies are sexy?”
“I…. Oh shit! Er, excuse my language.” Now I’d revealed to someone that I was insane. Now the boys in white with the great big nets would come and lock me up for sure. Still, confessing was a kind of relief, and after all, it was HER belly. “Ohhgod yes, yes I do. I’m sorry, but I just can’t help it.”
She chuckled again. “Why should you? Listen: I’m supposed to be some big sinner, right? Bad girl; let some guy stick it in her. Now we have to hide her shame.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I heard why you were staying here.”
She thrust out her chin defiantly. “Okay, He stuck it in me SIX TIMES and I let him because he said he loved me. And you know what? I really loved making love! The baby was an accident; so okay, I’m a sinful, immoral Fallen Woman. I don’t care; I STILL liked doing it.” She sipped her water, rubbing her belly under the table with her other hand.
Boy, that was something to think about. The world judged her so guilty she had to be hidden to have her shameful bastard child in secret. But watching her, I could tell her defiance wasn’t a brave front. She really didn’t care. I started to feel better and maybe not quite so insane after all.
Now she smiled. “Know what else? After the first three months of barfing every morning, I now think this is kind of fun. They say I’ll have to give up the baby, but….” She looked off in the distance a moment, then her face lost its wistful look and she stood up and walked over to me. “Want to see the brazen hussy?”
See? Did she really mean…? I could only nod and swallow. From my eye level I was looking at fabric where her breasts and belly would be under that tent she wore.
“Okay,” she said. Crossing arm over arm, she grabbed the dress at her hips and pulled it up, then held it, bunched in her armpits.
In those days, good girls wore “sensible” underwear: stiff bras that squeezed their boobs into tight, hard cones and white cotton panties that covered their belly buttons. (I mean, so they told me.) For comfort though, Janice’s panty top rode beneath the dramatic bulge of her gravid belly.
“Like it?” More idiotic nodding and swallowing. Unthinking, I raised one hand and let it hover in front of me. The hand was shaking visibly. “Want to touch it?” Janice whispered. Without waiting for an answer, she took my wrist and guided my palm onto her belly. Automatically, I brought my other hand up behind her to brace the small of her back. The skin felt warm there and soft. Her belly flesh was warm as well, but its smooth skin was stretched tight over the great hump of her womb. I smoothed my palm around the convex surface, pressing slightly here and there, feeling the thin layer of fat and then hard muscle.
I felt woozy, as if I’d run a mile and then got up too fast from resting, and all the while, my brain spun on: this is it, this is what I need, I’ll never get this again, got to remember every feeling, every inch of pregnant belly. Look at her belly button, almost at the surface. They’re supposed to pop out, aren’t they? What would it feel like when it did?
Without warning, my poor horny system betrayed me and my cock squirted semen into my jockey shorts while I sat there helpless. I glanced down and saw a small stain already spreading out into my blue jeans. “Ohhhhhgod,” I groaned.
She looked down too and grinned. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “but that makes me feel so good – I mean, to know I can do that. When I pulled my hand off her belly and dropped it to hide my shame, she continued, “It’s all right. Go up to the bathroom. Clean up. Take your underwear home in your pocket.”
Still trembling, I sidled up the kitchen stairs and did as she said. When I came back, she turned from the kitchen sink with a damp rag. “Come here.” When I obeyed, she struggled down into a kneeling position and mopped at my pants. In doing so, her hand stroked my cock beneath the fabric, which twitched again despite my sternest efforts. Janice felt this and her mouth wrinkled into a crooked line that showed she was suppressing laughter.
“Ugh! give me a hand,” she grunted, and I helped her stand up again. “Now, while that dries, let’s just sit and talk.” Janice sat at the table and, after a moment’s hesitation, I joined her.
We talked. And we talked. Turns out we both had a lot to say and each one found the other an intelligent listener, so we yakked about school and dating and college and the future and the usual Big Heavy Topics that have always preoccupied teenagers – well, anyway, on and off. After more than an hour I reluctantly said, “I think I better get back.”
Janice glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Yeah: 5:45; Miss Rogan will be home from work pretty soon.” She hauled her belly upright. “Will you come again?”
I nodded, “And you come to my place.”
She shook her head sadly. “I promised I wouldn’t leave – wouldn’t reveal my Terrible Shame to the world.”
My eyes widened. “You can’t even go out of this house?”
A wan smile. “Well, as far as the back yard, maybe, if no neighbors are around.”
“Except me.”
A grin broke up her sad expression. “Want a last feel?” She did the dress thing again, stripping it all the way off this time. I put a palm on each side of her belly and just held the warm, tight dome, thinking, “O Powers That Be, I do thank you!” I closed my eyes a moment to focus on simply feeling her wonderful swollen gut, and, in a moment, she raised her own palms, placed them on my chest, and rubbed me slowly.
When my eyes snapped open, she grinned at my surprise. “Tonight? Ten o’clock?” she whispered.
I slowly backed off, turned, and went to the kitchen door; then I turned back. “Ten o’clock what?”
She shot me that patient look that women reserve for slow-thinking males. “You’ll figure it out,” she said.
* * * *
We were half way through dinner when it hit me and I said loudly, “That’s it!”
“That’s what?” Mother asked.
“Uh… I… Oh, right! The… um, answer to some puzzle in… uh, in the um, um, newspaper.”
“Today’s?”
Hastily, “No no no no, some… a few days back. It just came to me. Sorry to shout.”
Mother stared at me and I imagined a Mother Radar Dish revolving on top of her head. My mother was far from stupid. I smiled unconvincingly, and she raised her eyebrows and cocked her head in an “oh well” shrug. Dinner resumed not a moment too soon.
At 9:30 I yawned elaborately, stood up, and said, “Guess I’ll turn in early. Mowing two lawns is hard work.” My parents said good night without paying much attention and I escaped to my room upstairs.
Where, first of all, I locked my bedroom door. Then I got ready for bed, got undressed, and sat down on the edge of the bed that faced my window. The lights were on and I was naked, except for my wristwatch, which crawled around toward ten o’clock with agonizing slowness. I imagined Janice as I had seen her today, and my cock stirred in my lap. Better not start that too soon. I thought of homework. At 9:50 I ran out of homework to think about. By 9:55 I was ready to scream.
Then a light went on in the bathroom next door. A long moment and then an indistinct figure was silhouetted against the window blind. Mygawd, what if it was Old Miss Rogan! It couldn’t be, could it? I mean, she never before…. At this point the blind slowly rose like a curtain and Janice stood at the window. I smiled and waved and she smiled back.
Before I could register disappointment at the muumuu she was still wearing, she grasped the fabric as before, and slowly, slowly pulled the dress up like a second theater curtain. She removed the dress and put it somewhere out of sight. Then she reached behind her and undid the mortar-cone bra. She hunched her shoulders forward (as I now know women do) and pulled the straps down. The bra rode, unsupported, around her big, taut breasts. She grasped it by its cup tips and pulled it off. It joined the muumuu. The panties were last. She bent forward and pushed them down, and as she lifted first one leg then another to step out of them, each thigh in turn pressed up and into the bulge of her pregnant belly. As it distorted and resumed its shape I realized I’d thought of it as rigid as a basketball. In fact, it was a complicated system that flexed with the mother while it cradled her baby.
Janice did all this matter-of-factly, without the slightest come-on look or provocative wiggle; but she already had me stiff and hard as a phone pole. Now, however, she started teasing me, cupping and rubbing her heavy breasts, pinching her nipples, sliding her hands around her belly slope to touch her pussy. She turned sideways, took a big breath, arched her back, and froze with her huge belly shoving forward aggressively. As she turned back toward me, she smiled, and this time there was seduction in that smile.
She beckoned to me repeatedly, lifting her hand and curling her fingers up in summons. Since we were 20 feet apart and 15 above the ground, this puzzled me; then I realized what she meant. I was suddenly embarrassed, but I found my courage and slowly, shyly, stood up straight, my enormous boner flying high. It wagged hello. Janice grinned and mimed approval. Then she made “go on, go on” impatient gestures. Not quite getting it, I lifted a tentative hand and cupped it under my penis. Her grin widened, and she curled her fingers around an imaginary cylinder and stroked them up and down. Hypnotized like a bird with a snake, I began to slowly jack myself off. As I did so, she rubbed her swollen breasts and belly, and pinched her nipples again and licked her lips as her hips revolved. Then she reached a hand around her gut and found her pussy. Janice was getting off too! We watched each other’s hands go faster, faster, until I lost control completely. Just in time, I crowded up to the wide-open window and spurted rope after rope of white semen into the hot September dark.
This must have set her off too, because she squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered, and her breathing drove her belly in and out, in and out, until she reared her head back and let go (what I hoped was) a silent scream. She came down in stages, bit by bit; and then we looked at each other, replete and sweating in the Midwest humidity. She blew a kiss and waved and turned and pulled the blind back down. After a moment her light went off, while I stood wiping stray jism off the windowsill with my long-suffering pajamas. Oddly enough, out of all her erotic display, what I thought of most was that kiss.
I spent most of the next day dreaming about that bathroom window crowded with big-bellied girl, and tugging at my pants to ease the world’s longest-lasting hard-on. By 9:50 I was back on station, naked in front of my window with my abused pajamas ready. Janice appeared right on schedule, but tonight she surprised, and I admit, disappointed me. Instead of peeling off her muumuu, she shook her head and waved her upright hand, palm-out to signal no. Then she repeatedly pointed down, I guessed at the kitchen below, and held up three fingers. I three-fingered back and she smiled, nodded, and disappeared for the night.
Kitchen; three. Three o’clock? She’d be down in the kitchen at three? That was damn late with school in the morning, but okay, a small enough sacrifice. I got dressed and lay on my bed. I didn’t dare relieve my poor aching cock and maybe compromise my late-night performance (as if I needed to worry at that age!) and the next five hours from ten to three lasted ten hours at least.
At three a.m. I snuck downstairs, shoes in hand, put them on at the kitchen door, and stepped out into the cicadas’ last summer chorus. The insistent rise and fall of their non-stop buzzing kept dialing up the tension as I watched for the kitchen light next door.
And watched. And watched some more. By 3:30 I knew Janice wasn’t coming down. Crushed as only a 17 year old can be crushed, I took off my shoes and dragged back up to my room. One ray of hope remained: maybe she meant tomorrow AFTERNOON at three! I romanced my pajamas as usual and drifted off in what little remained of the night.
At the breakfast table I thought hard and fast. Then, counting on my parents’ usual benign neglect, I said casually, “I start shooting for the yearbook today.”
Mother carried dishes to the sink. “Don’t you already take photos for the school paper?”
“Uh, yeah, but that’s only maybe three days a month.”
“What about sports? What about football?” my father asked from behind the paper (even a city our size had morning and evening newspapers back then).
But after trying to please my father through a Junior football season with my face mostly shoved into freezing mud, I was going to disappoint my old man this year. “They really need a good photographer; and when I told them you had taught me everything I know….”
“I guess that’s okay then,” Father said in a satisfied tone. (In fact, he used his expensive equipment and home darkroom roughly never, now that his latest hobby was a full year old. That was about par for the course for Father’s costly passions.)
“So I won’t be home ’til maybe five or six.” No answer from the Oldies, who were back to their news and dishes. Perfect!
It took some hustle, but I made it back from school by three, snuck through the wooded vacant lot on the far side of Old Miss Rogan’s house, and tapped on the kitchen door. It opened at once.
Janice said, “After I left the bathroom, I realized you might have mistaken my sign language for 3 a.m.”
Though I was stifling yawns, I offhandedly said, “Oh no, not at all.” As she turned back into the kitchen, I said, “Um, is there any place we could, maybe sit down?” I mimed side-by-side with my arms.
She grinned at me. “Because you want to start making out?”
“Well, not, ‘start,’ but, yeah, eventually; but I also like to talk with you, I mean…” oh, this was going badly! “Aw, it’s so hard talking to girls. Either you want to make out with them and don’t want to scare them off, or else you DON’T want to make out with them but don’t want to insult them by giving yourself away…. I’m sorry; but it’s always so complicated.”
Jennifer wrapped her hand lightly around my upper arm and studied the distress in my face. “It’s just as hard for girls, and you know, I don’t think it ever gets easier.”
“Oh! Well, I thought it was easier for you and me, anyhow. That’s why I love to come over – well, PART of the reason, I mean…”
Jennifer actually snickered. “Boy, when you dig you a hole, you dig it deep, don’t you?” At my stricken expression she laughed out loud. Then, “I’m sorry I laughed, Peter.”
For some reason, I wasn’t embarrassed at being embarrassed – not with Janice. I grinned and said, “That’s all right; sometimes I feel like Red Skelton; you know: stumbling around and knocking stuff over.”
“Yeah. C’mon.” She led me into the living room.
I looked around. “About Old…about Miss Rogan….”
She shook her head. “The library doesn’t close ’til 5:30 and then she has stuff to tidy up. The number 9 bus stops up at the end of the block at 6:11 every night. She’s never home before 6:15.” She sighed. “She’s so hidebound; I think she won’t use the crapper except on schedule. Oops!”
We both laughed (1955 was far less candid about bodily functions) and she sat us down on the couch.
So we talked again for an hour or more; and when things started running down, Janice said simply, “Okay, it’s make-out time. Now, does that make it easier?”
“Does it ever!” I put my left arm over her shoulder beside me, pulled her in gently and kissed her, not aggressively, but kind of exploring. Her lips were very warm and soft and her tongue was wicked when it got going.
After a long, long time, we came up for air and Janice said, “You hit the pitch; now you get on first base.” Her voice sounded breathy and sexy.
I placed a palm on her big left breast and felt it under her shapeless dress. Her nipple was hard and she sucked in her breath when I circled it with a finger. I cupped and lifted the heavy globe, thinking it felt filled with warm jelly or something. My pants were already hurting my cock. Janice put a hand on my crotch and just rested it there. It was agony, wondering if she’d move the hand, wondering what she’d do.
Almost absently, I said, Janice, it’s hard to find words to describe holding your, um, breast. It’s not… it’s not just sexy, it’s like… it reminds me of…”
When I trailed off, Janice finished, “Sucking milk out of mommy’s boobie.”
“No!” I thought some. “Well, maybe that really is partly true, if I admit it honestly.”
She leaned her head back to study my face; then she nodded. “And you do admit it, Peter; that’s unusual.” She thought a bit more and then pulled farther away and finally stood up. I thought, uh oh, I messed up, as always! “All right,” she said, “you can latch on to mommy.” Without waiting, she stripped the muumuu off and discarded it. Today she had no underwear on, so the heavy breast I’d been holding swung gently as she sat back down. “Feel me, Peter,” Janice whispered.
This time I cupped her right breast, lifting it gently, feeling its sensuous weight. I bent my head and took her nipple in my mouth, then opened wide enough to surround the pink aureole around it. I suckled her very gently. Of course there wasn’t any milk there yet, but I must have triggered something because Janice suddenly shuddered. “Ho-oh-oh!,” she said in a shivery tone, “that does something. I’ve rubbed them but never felt that!”
When I lifted my head momentarily, she raised her right arm, draped it over my neck, and pulled me back down onto her resilient breast. I teased the button nipple and circled it with my tongue. Janice kept trembling. As I cupped and kneaded her swollen boob I was looked down at the hill of her swollen belly. That pink, distended dome strained outward, and every few moments, its surface rippled smoothly. The baby! That was the baby. Since her belly button hadn’t quite poked out yet, I couldn’t see her navel. I transferred my hand to the slope of her convex gut and started caressing in slow circles. Janice’s shivers turned into long soft sighs of pleasure.
Janice whispered, “Fair play now, take off your shirt.” We unwound enough so she could undo my buttons. I stripped the shirt off and Janice once again placed her palms over my own male nipples. “Mmm,” she murmured, “muscles!” She slowly rubbed her hands all over my chest. It made me glad I’d done all that swimming. Then she snaked her arms around my back and the awkwardness of this position unconsciously made us stand up. We embraced as closely as her big belly allowed. “Hoo, cold!” she said and immediately jerked her gut backward.
“That’s my belt buckle. Want me to get rid of it?” I added hopefully.
She just looked at me, so I thought, well, maybe not yet. Still, her pregnant belly was irresistible. Sinking to my knees, I embraced her, grasped her tight backside cheeks, then leaned in and Eskimo-kissed her navel with my nose. Janice giggled. I kissed it properly and licked it, fighting to contain my threatening orgasm (though in those innocent days, I didn’t know it was called that). Then I brought my arms back around and bracketed the tight sides of her warm, heavy belly. I thought I’d go nuts now if I hadn’t before. Slowly, hesitantly, I cocked my head sideways, slipped under the big slope of her lower gut, grasped the backs of her warm thighs, and buried my mouth in her sparse, brown curls. I kissed her mound and simply held there.
Janice ruffled my hair and chuckled. “I’ll have to show you how to do that right,” she said, “but you stand up now and I’ll give you a present.” Wondering what she meant, I reluctantly rose to my feet.
With a wicked look, she hooked her left hand in the waistband of my jeans, her fingers warm against my hard, flat belly. With her right, she undid my belt buckle. Working the stiff fly buttons was tough going and my insistent erection made the job even tougher. Top button, second button, third, last, then she peeled back the front and tugged the heavy fabric off my hips. Janice paused and looked into my eyes, knowing the suspense was killing me.
“Janice!” I groaned.
Her smile widened into a saucy grin as she pulled my jockey shorts down in front (their design was the same half a century ago) and hooked the elastic waistband under my balls. “Ooooh,” she breathed, tickling them gently with slim fingers. “You know you’re nice and big, Peter,” she chuckled, “or should I say, you have a nice big peter, Peter.”
“Uhh, ho ho that’s rich. Janice, please!!”
Then, cautiously managing her heavy belly, she sank into a catcher’s squat before me, now holding on to my shaft to steady herself. She gazed up at me and shook her hair back out of her face. Looking down at her, I gasped at the size of her pregnant gut, now hanging, almost dangling between her wide-spread legs. I could see her breasts were swollen too, their sides bulging with their growing burden. My cock was twitching uncontrollably.
She didn’t calm it any by bending slowly, lips pursed, and kissing all around its purplish cap. Her tongue shot out and lapped the pre-cum off the tiny hole. Then she lifted my cock and went to work on my balls, teasing, licking, pulling gently at the wrinkled skin with her teeth; rolling, tickling my full scrotum. It was an agony I never wanted ended.
She took my cock into her warm, wet mouth, in an inch and out, in again farther; and so, inch by inch, she pulled my pulsing shaft to the very back of her mouth, until all seven inches were engulfed. As she did this, she sucked me in rhythmic pulses, helping each little spasm by tightening her lips in rhythm.
“Janice! You’re going to make me… I can’t hold… Janice!!”
She deliberately pulled back and out, long enough to say, “Do it, Peter, go ahead and shoot. Cum for me, sweetheart, shoot for me!” Slowly, still deliberately, she sucked me into her mouth again.
That did it. The familiar pressure built and built in my testicles, moved into and up my cock and erupted into Janice’s eager mouth. Again and again I spasmed and spurted into her. She gulped and swallowed quickly, but white sticky cum still surged around my cock and out the corners of her mouth. It rained down on her heavy breasts and the shiny dome of the great belly that hung between her cradling knees; and all the while, she looked up at me with a happy, loving expression. I could have died and gone to heaven on the spot.
When I had finally finished loading her with spunk, and nearly stopped shaking all over, she pulled her mouth away at last, looked up again, and said, “Ooh, I think you’ve been practicing, Peter. Hey, my knees are locking, give me a hand, lover.”
Lover! Overcome with feeling, I wordlessly raised her to her feet, turned her, and sat us down on the sofa. It felt scratchy on my naked ass. When I could speak again I said ruefully, “I’m afraid that practicing is as far as I’ve ever got. If I practice much more, I’ll go blind.” In 1955 we half-believed those masturbation scare stories.
Janice was rubbing semen all over her breasts, making them bulge and wobble. Then she slathered it around her belly-dome like lotion. “A girlfriend told me this is good for stretch marks.” (I looked wise, though I didn’t know what those were back then.) Janice laced her hands below her swollen gut, pulled up, and also took a giant breath and arched her back. Her belly seemed to inflate like a great pink balloon. The sight almost set me off again. She said, “Obviously, I have more experience, but only those six times I told you of.” She deflated somewhat and her look turned sad. “I really never was the bad girl they thought me.”
“Well, I never thought so, Janice.” Another thought floated into what little was left of my brain. “You said you were going to show me how to do something.”
She sighed. “Well, that’ll have to wait. What time is it?”
My watch said 5:25. “Oh, I don’t want to go, Janice.”
“But you’ve got to. Look: we’ve got four – five weeks at least. Come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow and every other day. I already told my folks a good excuse.” Reluctantly, we got dressed and tidied up. Janice had done such a good job of sperm control that there were no cum stains on the carpet.
So every day at three o’clock I snuck into Old Miss Rogan’s kitchen, lugging my father’s Exacta camera (remember, I was supposed to be shooting for the yearbook). Before I went home I did a different kind of shooting all right; but when I asked again what she was going to show me, Janice waved around at the prim living room and said it was too hard to do there. It was enough to play with her pussy and finger her inside. She led me to the button there and showed me how to make her groan and shake and cream. I was astounded that girls got wet too. Meanwhile, her straining belly bulged ever outward, her belly button popped as advertised, and her breasts grew so full they finally sagged enough to touch the slope of her great pink gut. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Then one day when she was well over eight months gone, Janice said, “Something’s been driving me crazy. Why do you bring that camera every single day?” I told her my ruse to see her, explaining about my dad’s expensive hobbies that changed about every three months. We even had a home dark room in the basement. Janice looked thoughtful, then said slowly, as if thinking out loud, “You know, my family won’t let me keep my baby and I’ll never have anything to remember this time.” She studied me, head on one side. “Are you a good photographer?” I nodded. “Then how about some pictures of me. You can make extras and keep them after I’m gone.”
I said that would take a little thought. In those days, fine-grain film was not sensitive enough to use indoors. You had to have a flash, which gave that deer-in-the-headlights look, or studio lighting, which I didn’t have. Then I had a brainstorm. Because we were in the last gasp of Indian summer, which can be damn hot in the Midwest, we could work outdoors. That empty, wooded field beside the house would offer perfect cover, ten steps from her back door.
So we planned it: Janice would bring herself and extra underwear (she did have a black strapless bra for her one formal dress) and maybe a blanket. IF I could con my parents into letting me skip school. We agreed to do the upstairs window trick that night at ten, when I’d let her know thumbs-up or down about our scheme.
That night at dinner, I started casually. “You know I’m getting straight A’s again this semester.” My mother said that was good and dad said maybe I’d get that college scholarship. I waited a few minutes, then resumed, “But frankly, I’m exhausted. I could really use a day off.”
“What, just lounge around?” my father asked.
“Oh, maybe spend the day downtown, hit the flicks – there’s a great double feature at the Rialto. I’d like to take some pictures too – you know, city scenes. I mean, I’m tired of shooting just sports and school clubs and stuff.”
“Well, you would be working to improve your photography.” (Mother wanted to give in but needed a “responsible” reason.) “I guess I could write a note, say you had a cold or something.”
I thanked them and told them they were very understanding. It was done!
At ten p.m. I moved, buck naked, into my bedroom window. When the blind across the way rolled up, Janice was bare too, in all her big-busted, great-bellied glory. I gave her thumbs-up, and then we masturbated together. The sight of her swollen gut heaving up and down, and out, as her hips bucked set me off faster than I wanted but stronger than I’d ever managed on my own. Still, tomorrow I hoped to do better, MUCH better.
The next morning I slipped out the kitchen door while my mother was in the living room, then angled quickly across Old Miss Rogan’s back yard and around the rear of the hedge bordering the empty field. It was technically just a vacant lot, but out here at the edge of 1955 suburbia, the lot was no more than an extension of the fields and woods beyond it. The only street frontage was a dead-end turnaround that nobody ever used, well-masked by tall weeds and such. Miss Rogan’s boundary hedge ran eight feet high down the whole side between her lot and the field. To the rear and on the other side, the nearest buildings were a mile away. A big old hardwood tree sat in the middle of the space where the back yard would have been if the house had ever been built, and soft grass covered most of the lot, except for volunteer shrubbery scattered here and there. Perfect! No one could see us from any direction.
At exactly ten a.m. Janice appeared around the border hedge, wearing her usual muumuu. I led her behind the big tree, wrapped my arms around as much of her as I could reach now, and kissed her slowly. The basket she had with her carried her black bra and panties, a dark blanket, and some snacks. “Woo! I’m not walking so well these days,” she said. As she panted to catch her breath, her now-astounding belly cycled in and out under the muumuu, prodding my much flatter front. I got hard at once. It felt delicious.
She seemed a bit nervous, which wasn’t surprising. In 1955 most girls wore one-piece swimsuits, some with stupid looking little skirts attached, and nobody, but NOBODY wore a bikini, except in France. Women who posed nekkid for photos were of doubtful virtue if the pictures were “art” and sluts if they showed up in men’s magazines. (In both types of publication, pubic hair never appeared, and it was only decades later that I realized that the models shaved it even back then.) But here I was proposing to record Janice totally bare-assed, with swollen, dark-nippled breasts, pubic hair, a blimp-size belly above it, and a navel so popped out you could use it as a handle. Part of me thought it was funny. She was stripping naked for me every day now in the kitchen next door, but somehow this was PUBLIC, though no one could possibly see us.
“Well, what do you want me to do?” she asked uncertainly.
For a change, I was more sensitive than usual to other people’s feelings. “Well, undo those four buttons at the back of your neck – here; I’ll do it.” The buttons ended between her shoulder blades, so the muumuu didn’t slip at all. “Okay, now sit down with your legs to one side in front of you and your back against the tree.” She obeyed, then looked up with an “is that all?” expression.
I had the exacta loaded and ready. In those days you had to use a hand-held light meter, but I’d already measured the open shade beneath the tree. “Okay, smooth the muumuu down to outline your tummy. Can you get it any tighter?” Her belly button pushed at the fabric. “Fine.” I took a couple of pictures. (With just 36 frames per roll of film, we didn’t shoot hundreds then.) “Now pull the hem up to the top of your thighs. [CLICK, CLICK.] “Pull your neckline down as far as it will go. [I’ll spare you further CLICKs.] Pull your right arm out through the neckline opening.” I waited until her arm was free, then took some shots. “Okay, Janice, now reach your left hand into you neckline, pull your right, um, breast free, and hold it up with your hand. No, look at it, not me; I’m not even here.” I moved into a low, close shot, using the wide angle lens (no zooms back then). Looking down, her face was serene, but the taut, straining bag of her swollen breast was powerfully erotic.
And so it went for over an hour and four rolls of film. By getting Janice slowly accustomed to the idea, I coaxed her out of her dress and into ever-sexier poses. (We forgot the bra and panties.) She knew her belly and breasts turned me on, so she thrust them at the camera at every opportunity. The indirect sun bouncing off the matted yellow grass bathed her hips, belly, and breasts in soft light that wrapped around their extravagant curves. Janice was patient, the day was plenty warm, and my cock required intense concentration to ignore. Because I really was a serious photographer, I managed – barely.
Then I spread the blanket, which we had also forgotten in our nervous haste, and we lounged under the tree, eating sandwiches crushed from being stuffed into my photo gadget bag. Janice ate half of hers, then set the other half down. “I don’t seem to have much room to spare,” she grinned, looked at the small mountain in front of her, and scratched her popped-out belly button. “I think I better get dressed.”
“No, I’ll join you instead.” I quickly got out of my clothes and lay down beside her. “You’ve been promising to show me something.”
She looked at me then said seriously, “Ever eat a girl out?” I shook my head, not even knowing what she referred to. Janice rolled onto her back, spread her legs, and propped herself up on her forearms. When I looked at her blankly, she frowned at me. “Do I have to spell it out? Geez!” She sighed. “Okay, put your face in my pussy and lick it.”
I was so naive I thought at first she meant her pubic hair, and wondered what that would do. I lay on my stomach between her legs, face hovering above her mound, and shot her a puzzled look.
Another sigh. “Boy, you really haven’t been around have you?” I humbly shook my head. Janice reached around Mount Belly and spread her lips. They were plump, pink, and glistening. “There!”
Thinking of icky stuff like pee, I dropped my mouth onto her and doubtfully pushed my tongue in. Janice squeezed her butt cheeks and shoved her pussy upward, so my nose dove between her folds. Suddenly I got it! My nose smelled the erotic smell and my tongue tasted the sensual taste of pussy for the first time. Instinct took over and I burrowed in, lapping, nipping, sucking. I got my tongue tip as far as her vagina and she murmured, “Now up front: find the button.”
Button? But I obeyed and there it was. The moment I touched it, Janice jerked her hips and cried out softly. I asked, “Did I hurt you?”
“Christ no,” she wailed, “keep going!”
And so I did. Janice guided me and made suggestions as we went. If we both hadn’t been shaking with lust, this step-by-step tutorial might have seemed funny. Janice shook with one orgasm, then another.
Panting, turgid breasts and belly heaving, she grabbed my hair and pulled my face out of her cunt. “I think…” she gasped, “I think you… think you earned it. Come up here.” Lifting my body on my arms, I scootched up, trying not to press her swollen gut too hard, until my face was above hers. She kissed me, pulled away, wiped both our sopping mouths with a hand, and kissed again. “Now,” she paused to catch her breath, “know where you put it?”
Put what – oh, IT!! Shaking with anticipation, I grabbed the base of my cock and slipped it into her flowing pussy. It took a moment’s hunt and then my searching mushroom cap found her hole and went down it. It was tight; I was hard; I won the contest and slid in and in until I hung up on her belly. “I can’t – uh, your tummy’s in the way.”
“Off!” she barked.
Afraid I’d hurt her, I pulled out and rotated over onto my butt. She turned on her side, facing away, and lifted her upper leg clear of her cunt, which split and opened like a Venus flytrap. “Now try,” she gasped, “and hurry!”
Fitting myself to her luscious butt, I guided my dripping pecker back inside – all the way this time. I somehow knew enough to take it slowly, like a great, slow piston, in and out, in and out.
“Faster, Peter!” I speeded up my strokes and Janice started moaning, not loudly but in a low tone that pulsed in sync with my urgent thrusts: Aww – Aww – Aww — !
On this, my first time, I couldn’t keep control. “Janice, I can’t help it, I’m gonna…”
“Shut up and go!” she groaned, and as I spasmed and shot cum into her, one, two, three – on and on – she shuddered and wailed softly like a madwoman.
We quieted together and just lay there. With my upper hand I slowly rubbed her great belly and near-side breast. “Oh, Janice, I…”
She rolled suddenly to face me and wrapped her arms around me. “Shh, Peter, just shh, lover.” We kissed again, then lay there panting, grinning at each other.
Then we talked and talked as we so often did, while I caressed her gorgeous, swollen body and watched the face that had me so entranced. I know it’s corny, but that warm, gold autumn afternoon stays with me after all these decades.
Eventually, as we lay facing each other, I revolved to lay my head on her soft thigh, my face just inches from her pussy. She raised her leg and I started tonguing her again as she cupped my balls and worried my cock to full attention. We ate each other then, she a big mouthful and I a whole face full. When we were both panting and grunting, I rolled away, pulled her up to doggy position, knelt behind her, and fumbled into her wet vagina. Once I got there, it was paradise regained.
It was only four o’clock by then, but the October day was already losing Indian Summer heat. I took more frames of Janice as she lay there, sated, then helped her dress and gather up the blanket.
That night I locked myself in the dark room for three hours, patiently loading film into small tanks, and cycling chemicals through them. My exposures were right on the money, and even the tiny negative images made my cock stiffen. I left them hanging with weight clips on them, to dry overnight.
The next morning at the breakfast table, my mother announced to the newspaper hiding my father, “Well! All kinds of excitement when I brought that paper in today.” My father’s “Hmm,” said he was paying no attention, as always. “Yes, indeed,” she continued, not to be deterred, “there was a cab out front next door and Miss Rogan was leading that GIRL down her front steps.” My ears pricked up. “From the way her arms were wrapped around her middle, I’d say she’s off to have her baby.” Mother humphed. “From the size of that middle, I’d say that, for sure.”
It took every ounce of discipline I had to appear offhand. “Where?”
“Well, how should I know? There must be a dozen hospitals in the city.” Mother frowned slightly. “Why do you ask, Peter?”
“Ah, no reason. Maybe I’ll go say congratulations… or something, when she um, comes back.”
“Oh? You know her?”
Careful, careful! “Well, no, but it would be, I don’t know, neighborly.”
Mother looked at me a moment. Father snaked an arm around his paper, groping for his coffee. Then the topic faded away.
That night and three nights more, I printed pictures. Out of 144 frames, I got maybe 60 good ones, including about 20 that were downright great. I made two sets of prints of those, one for Janice, one for me. Then I made sure absolutely nothing incriminating was left in the darkroom (or its wastebasket). My nightly whack sessions all involved those arousing images and I waited impatiently for Janice to return.
But she never did, and I was left with no address, no phone number, and no way to get them. I mourned Janice as if she’d died, and as the weeks and months dragged by, I polished my memories of those afternoons. Funny: despite the help of my well-thumbed photos, my most vivid recollections were of Janice talking, laughing, listening to me. I’d been so besotted by her swollen breasts and belly that I hadn’t realized how special was the person inside. One late night, I found myself weeping over her photo, and was too unhappy to even be embarrassed by this sissy stuff.
Almost a year later I was getting flat feet in an endless freshman registration line at State U. when I thought I recognized her from the back. I asked the guy behind me to hold my place, and, to avoid looking obvious, circled around and ahead, glancing back oh-so casually. Yes, it was Janice! Still hugging the walls, I snuck around until I was back of her. Then I tiptoed up, paused just behind her, and did an elaborate pantomime for the guy in line there: I pointed to her, mimed “shhh,” nodded toward her, puckered for a kiss, and pointed to the space in front of him. He grinned okay and let me in.
I put two hands on her waist, leaned in close, and murmured, “I have some pictures for you, Janice.” She spun around, mouth falling open. When I opened my arms in welcome, she moved into them, but hesitantly. I said into her ear again. “This is so wonderful. Look, you’re about four people closer to your table than I am to mine. Will you wait for me?” She nodded into my shoulder, then pulled back, and studied my face doubtfully. I whispered, “Please!” and she repeated the nod.
Half an hour later, we shared a booth in the student union snack shop. After several minutes of slurping sodas and trading feelings about this new school, I finally got up my courage. “When you didn’t come back, I didn’t know what to do.” She smiled wanly. I continued, “I was crazy; I’ve BEEN crazy for a year.” She looked at my hand on the table and covered it with hers. I persisted, “Did, uh, things come out okay?”
She shook her head. “Just one thing came out, a baby girl. I saw her when the doctor held her by her ankles and tapped her feet. She started crying, loud.”
“Aw…”
“Then they took her away.” Janice kept her eyes on our hands. “I asked for days and days, but they said it was better this way. I never saw her again.”
“I don’t know what…”
Janice plowed on, woodenly, “My boobs hurt, for maybe three days.” Her eyes lifted to mine, “Then they didn’t anymore, and I went — home.” She said “home” as if it were in quotes. “I just held on, held on – waiting to get out of there and start college.” She made a valiant effort to smile. “And I made it; here I am.”
“I am so very glad you are, Janice.” I looked at her miserable face. “Listen: why don’t I get us a cheeseburger?”
Janice shook her head, slowly. “We can’t pick up where we left off, Peter.” She made a feeble joke: “Besides, you were crazy for my pregnant belly but that’s gone now.”
I stepped very, very carefully. “I meant start over, not ‘pick up.’ We meet, I buy you early supper, we sit and talk, we walk back to your dorm, where I say goodnight out on the sidewalk. If things work out, I might rate a second date. If we get as far as five I’ll try to cop a feel through your clothes.”
That produced a real smile and the Janice I had known shone through it. She rubbed her abdomen absently. “You know, I am still sort of round down there. My tummy never got all the way flat after the baby came.”
I smiled back. “Yeah, I admit it. I was – I am – crazy for big bellies; but you know what? I remember our conversations every bit as well as your body. That’s why I want to see you, Janice.” I thought a bit before adding, “Though I’m glad your belly’s a little bit round.”
Janice rubbed her front where I couldn’t see, below the table edge. “Mostly the part below my belly button.” Then reluctantly, “More than just a little, to be honest.” She added bravely, “No stretch marks though. Remember why?”
I had a sudden flash image of Janice smearing my semen around the straining dome of her huge, tight belly. I nodded, then jumped up, suddenly embarrassed. “How about I get those cheeseburgers?”
Janice nodded. “I’d like a coke with mine.”
“You got it.” Walking over to the fast food grill, I was very nearly dancing.
