Entrance Window

When, as a child, I first caught sight of my mother naked, I thought she was being punished. The rain was beating on the roof of my troubled dreams, and the thunder roaring, raging. I was frightened. My bedroom window looked out across the long driveway into the trees, and it was dark, the trees quaking like ghosts. I wanted my Mother, I wanted to pee. I began crying and got out of bed, wandering down the dark corridor and then along the balcony that looked down into the living room, Mummy! Mummy! But my voice was smothered by the storm and the howling wind. Then a flash lit up everything like bright day and I saw them below for an instant, both pale and raw-looking. My father was doing something terrible to my mother, humping and jerking on top of her, and she was crying and groaning. I was filled with amazement. Then I went back to bed very quietly, although I wanted my Mother even more than before. I lay awake for a long time but I was no longer frightened of the storm.

The Entrance Toilet Window

When I was only about four or five, Melle, as my mother called her (for “Mademoiselle”), a stocky, tough, mustached Frau, raised me to face level and swilled my little penis about in her mouth with some gusto. Melle was German. My mother had been raised by her. Perhaps it is to this premature act that I owe my special predilection? Or perhaps not. Of course I was quite helpless in her muscular grip, but I have no reason to think that I wanted to resist this tender rape. On the contrary. But Melle was a hard, dominant old bitch. And what was my mother’s attitude in all this (she certainly suspected something)? Approval, I guess. Or at least understanding.

Father’s Bedroom Window

The first time I wore my mother’s silk panties, they were much too big, they kept slipping off—my little penis was stiff and they slid down over, and I would pull them up again, exacerbating the sweetness. I had deliberately avoided looking in the tall closet mirror, and would only just peek at myself prancing out there, doubled, just glancing out of the corner of my eye so that I—I mean I in the mirror—wouldn’t appear to notice that I was watching. And I out there in the room, pretended not to see either, hardly turning my head, so that both of us seemed not to be watching the other, and I could see me as I really was, almost without anything of myself being involved. I forgot the other me with the slithery sweet touch of the panties about my bottom and between my thighs, stroking my little balls like feathery fingers. I danced and skipped so that the panties would slip off by accident and I would be revealed, and then I pretended not to see myself out there with the same stiff little penis watching me, and I’d look away quickly. Of course I had to come back and forth again each time, otherwise I would go off the edge, and I couldn’t go beyond this invisible barrier either. Now I knew how Mummy must feel her softness inside. Soon my cock and balls became moist with the silky caress of the panties and I could hardly breathe, and the mirror cracked! No, it was the door that opened in the mirror! I couldn’t move. I heard a light laugh tinkling, and the door closed again. I took off the panties in a rush, not easy because they were tangled and wet with my penis, which stayed hard despite my shame, and I ran to the closet drawer and stuffed them back where I found them, and gave one last look at the big mirror and saw myself, funny- looking, very small, naked, white-faced, my penis still sticking out. But why didn’t she come to spank me? How long did she watch, I wondered with a thrill of panic.