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All characters involved in sexual acts are 18 or older. PW

Chapter 1

Passing through Puberty

I guess they meant well – my parents, that is. I refer to their naming me Aubrey Morgenthall.

The Morgenthall was their surname, so that would have counted anyway you look at it, but Aubrey … well, it was all right until I reached seven. I mean, kids under seven usually don’t pick up on ways to make fun of one’s name until a little later.

In my case, later came soon enough. I was ‘Audrey this’ and ‘Audrey that’ until I hit a nice growth spurt at fourteen. It helped that I was taking some karate classes too. My mother only allowed that because I agreed to continue with my dance lessons.

Oh, yeah, dance lessons, which only prolonged the “Audrey” cat calls in the school corridors and led to guys challenging my manhood, forcing me to fight or flee.

I lost more than I won. That got me to demand—well, begging was more like it — those karate lessons mentioned earlier.

Just a week before my sixteenth birthday my mom and I were in a terrible car accident. The Chaplin for the Fire Department was racing to the scene of a fire that would take the lives of two firemen and severely injure three others.

Unfortunately for all concerned, the Chaplin, who was 75 years of age, lost control of his vehicle as he crossed an intersection and crashed head-on into our car.

My mother was spared serious injury, but I was not so fortunate. My back and legs were severely damaged and it would take almost two years before I would fully recover. Fully being the operative word in this case.

I should add that I was unconscious for over a month and had amnesia for another four months after that. I regained my memory, and began a strenuous (that’s putting it mildly) period of rehabilitation.

At first my rehab was confined to the hospital itself, eventually I was released and went home where I continued the rehab and when granted permission, resumed working out with the weights Aunt Nicole had given me just before the accident.

I missed a year and a half of school, only catching up one semester through home study courses. So I found myself with an entirely new set of classmates when I returned to school. I was eighteen and the oldest in my class.

I was suddenly being called “Bree” by my friends and “Handsome” by a few girls. The latter was a direct result of the dance lessons I had taken since I was eight, and a nickname bestowed on me by my Aunt Nicole. It seemed that very few guys in my class at school could dance, and those that did were fairly poor at it.

As for me, well, I could do all the latest steps and was fairly graceful on the dance floor. After all, I had participated in the annual

“Nutcracker” and several other ballets for several years prior to the accident and was earmarked for the male lead.

Following a growth spurt just before my eighteenth birthday, with what some called spectacular results; I was handed the male lead in a ballet performance calling for wearing tights and a bulging codpiece that caused my nickname, “Handsome” to reach a far wider audience than the few young ladies I actually danced with.

Not that any of this got me anywhere with the ladies sexually. I was still very much a virgin and would have remained so until God knows when, had it not been for Aunt Nicole. I’ll have more, much more to say about that wonderful lady later, but for the moment I’ll stick with a chronological listing of important events.

Of course, my mother took me shopping for new clothes, and when Aunt Nicole heard about the sudden growth, she had a set of weights delivered to my house more in keeping with my age and size replacing the earlier, set. I began using them immediately, and have Aunt Nicole to thank for the nicely muscled body I possess today.

Ever since receiving the weights I’ve maintained a weekly regimen of working out. Of course, these days I do it at school or the local gym, but back then I used the weights and a weight bench that I set up in my bedroom.

Thanks to the vigorous rehabilitation and weight training I was much more muscular than before, although I still had a long way to go before reaching my potential. I returned to school following that year’s Christmas Vacation.

The baseball season loomed ahead, beginning in only two weeks. And since I had returned to dance practice, I had a dance recital that weekend.

There were two girls that I kind of lusted after at dance, Summer and Erin, but they were Seniors and hardly ever looked at me, unless we were dancing together.

Dance was something I enjoyed, for it brought a freedom of expression one does not experience in many other subjects. It helped that I was good at it, having both a certain amount of grace, and athleticism to carry it off. I had been taking dance since I was eight years old, and was fairly proficient at it, especially ballet and modern dance.

Since my return it was canlı bahis common to see me cavorting around the studio dressed in black sweat pants, black t-shirt, black convertible tights, and black jazz oxfords. The girls wore black camisole leotards, black convertible tights, and either black jazz oxfords, or tie or slip-ons. And they had to wear their hair in a pony tail.

I had just entered the upper level student division class. Essentially this involved a concentration on the coordination of body movements in jumps, turns, and leaps. For the uninitiated, my ballet classes taught all of the basic positions, proper execution of the turnout of the leg, correct use of the feet, arms, and head, and the French Ballet vocabulary. I was just beginning to understand that dance, especially ballet, helped develop strength, flexibility, and grace, as well as my musicality.

The modern classes I was taking complemented the ballet program and expanded my movement with a free and expressive style of dance. The boys training ran parallel with that of the girls; however boys had the option to take an additional class specially designed to engage their physical energy. I chose to tie this in with some Karate lessons that I dropped after a short time.

With baseball, the team played at a more competitive level, and that involved a certain amount of travel to other nearby and some not so near cities. My play seemed to improve with each passing week. I had not played much the past two seasons, and had to catch up with my peers.

I didn’t play in the first game, but started the next when Billy Jennings sprained his ankle so badly he couldn’t even walk.

We were playing Totowa, a school from the southern part of our state, and they had a lanky lefthander pitching for them, who threw smoke, as they like to say about a guy with a great fastball.

I came to bat in the first, with Allen Temple on base with a walk. The Totowa lefty threw me nothing but smoke. The first two pitches were balls and gave me the opportunity to time him. I swung at the next pitch and missed, but not by much. Still, he was faster than anyone I had ever faced before. He came back with yet another fastball on the next pitch. Once again, I swung a tad late, but managed to make contact and drove the ball into right field for a base hit. Allen raced to third, and I held up at first.

Lou Clemons, our catcher, usually welded a heavy bat, often driving the ball to the deepest parts of the ballpark. But when he struck out on three straight fastballs and went back to the dugout shaking his head, I knew he wouldn’t get anything off the lanky lefty that day. He had a habit of quitting on himself whenever he did poorly at the plate. Still he was a great defensive catcher, and you never knew when he would throw out a runner at second, or make the tag at home plate.

Dennis Woods was our next batter. The pitcher had found his groove, and struck Dennis out on four pitches. That left it up to Craig McGregor, a left-handed first baseman. He was a good fastball hitter, and ripped the first pitch foul down the first base line. I was surprised at his being able to pull the ball off the lefty fireballer. He missed the next pitch by at least six inches, and I found myself holding my breath as the Lefty went into his windup looking to end the first inning threat against him.

Later, Coach Raymond used what happened next to illustrate proper pitching technique to our pitching staff. The lanky lefty came in with another fastball and Craig managed to pull it just to the right of their first baseman, who knocked the ball down. Craig hustled down the line. The ball dribbled a few feet from the first baseman’s glove, forcing him to go after it.

He got to the ball in plenty of time, but the lefthander had not thought to cover first base in time, and Allen Temple raced home with the first run of the game, while I scampered over to third.

Now we had men on first and third with two out, and the lefthander was fuming at himself for his failure to cover first base. He walked Tickie Smith on four straight pitches to load the bases.

The Totowa coach walked out to the mound and talked to the pitcher. Evidently the discussion worked, for he got our pitcher, Leo Scarpa on a towering pop-up to short, and the inning was over.

I should mention that our games usually went seven innings, not the usual nine, of course there was always the chance of extra innings, but most of our games lasted seven. Anyway, Scarpa held them scoreless for six innings, but tired in the seventh and gave up a leadoff triple to their right fielder who wound up scoring when the next batter singled up the middle to tie the game.

We went into the tenth inning that way. No one seemed to be able to get on base, as batter after batter made out on easy plays, mostly grounders to the middle infielders, or by striking out.

When I looked at the box score in the paper the next day, I noticed that the lefthander had struck out seventeen bahis siteleri of us. Scarpa hadn’t done so badly either, striking out thirteen of them.

But they took the lead in the top of the tenth on a double by their catcher, and two outs later, Tickie tried a diving catch but failed to hold onto the ball and the runner scored. The batter was thrown out at third, and we got out of the inning without further damage.

As luck would have it, I led off the bottom of the inning. The lefty, a very durable pitcher to say the least, was still pitching for them. He was tired, or so I figured, and so I took a rip at the first pitch. I hit it right on the sweet spot of the bat, lining it right at the tall lefthander. It hit him on the ankle, but caromed over to the first baseman and I was an easy out. But the lefty was limping around on the mound, and his coach took him out and brought in a relief pitcher.

Lou Clemons and Dennis Woods followed me to the plate. I had hopes that we would reach the new pitcher and score the winning runs off him. But he was a curveball specialist, and after facing nothing but smoke all afternoon, both Lou and Dennis could only manage a pop up and a grounder to short in that order, and the game was over.

We lost, 2 — 1 and I was feeling pretty low until Coach Raymond took me aside, and said, “Aubrey, you had a pretty good day for us.”

“Thanks, Coach, but we lost.”

“Yes, we lost,” he said and then smiled down at me. “Did you know the lefty you faced is the top rated high school pitching prospect in the country?”

“Um, no sir.”

“He’s probably going to turn pro after this season.”


“You reached him twice today, Aubrey. Getting a scratch single and lining the ball off his leg. That’s a pretty dang good day for any ball player.”

Flushing, I replied, “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate the nice words, but we lost and all.”

“It’s not about winning or losing, son. It’s how you conduct yourself. Some games are won or lost by deserving teams. Some aren’t. A dang pebble jumps in front of a grounder and the ball scoots over the infielder’s glove. Or, maybe the hitter swings late and the ball goes through a hole because the defense is playing the hitter to hit the other way.”

I realized he was referring to my first hit, and put my head down.

“Those are the breaks, Aubrey. Over time, they usually average out; at least I’ve found it so. Anyway, as of now, you’re my second baseman. And, for the time being, you’ll hit second in the order.”

I went home walking on air. And the next day, behind the sterling pitching of Johnny Wisnewski, we won easily over a team from Redwood County, 8 — 2.

That was good enough to place second in the tournament and get the team’s picture in the local newspaper.

Oh, by the way, I went 2 for 4, and scored twice.


I need to add a word of thanks to Tommy Daily, Georgie Tiedemann, and “Bone” Cleary, all of whom worked with me every day after practice.

I managed to improve so much that the coaches began spending more time with me as well. From then on, my batting average kept climbing until I had the second best average on the team.

We had three days before our next game, and something strange happened to me the second night. I had what’s called a growth spurt. I woke up hurting everywhere for a while.

After making certain that I wasn’t sick, my mother took a tape measure and held it against me and the door frame. We had been doing this ever since I can remember. We were both surprised to see that I had grown four inches overnight!

Even more important to me, was the fact that my voice had gotten lower. I was a genuine baritone… at least most of the time. For my voice also cracked occasionally in mid-word, or from word to word. That was embarrassing, but Mom told me that it wouldn’t last too long, and that satisfied me.

Oh, I should also mention that my penis also benefited from the sudden growth spurt and I had a series of spontaneous erections occur that proved embarrassing to both my mother and I. My mother insisted that I call my Aunt and discuss matters with her, telling me that she was too embarrassed about such matters to talk to me in a helpful manner.

I called Aunt Nicole, who had been prepped by my mother, and she managed to convey that erections and the nocturnal emissions that followed at night were a natural consequence and further signs of my sexual maturity.

Three days later, on seeing me bulging out of my shorts, my mother overcame her embarrassment and found the strength to mention that my father had had a ten inch penis, and had told her he recalled it growing some when he was 14 and even more at 18. In my room, I measured my penis and found it to be eight and one quarter inches when erect.

I liked that. Like father, like son. Yeah, that was cool news. I was more thrilled with the news that I was kind of following in my father’s bahis şirketleri footsteps than with the fact that he had had a ten inch dick, and that I might be getting even longer than I already was at 8 inches.

My mother also mentioned that girls developed at this age too, becoming curvier as their breasts developed. Of course, I had already noticed this phenomenon on my own.


So, there I was, four inches taller, at six feet even, trying to put my old uniform on for the next game. My teammates hooted and hollered as I stood there turning this way and that, trying to stretch the tightest fitting clothing that I had ever tried on. The problem was that there was nothing in my new size available to me. I was in the starting lineup, and would have to take the field looking like Beefo the Clown.

The Coach took me aside and told me to make the best of it, and that he would personally see to it that I had a uniform that fit before the next day. And so, biting my lip, I trotted out to second base to start the game. I managed to get through the top of the first without incident.

But as I jogged toward the dugout, several of the girls from our high school took note. To make matters worse, my body picked that moment to develop a spontaneous erection. Even my teammates noticed it, and of course every girl, or should I say, every female at the ball park took note, and a murmuring began that grew louder as I drew closer to the spectators in the bleachers alongside third base.

In that moment, my life changed, I didn’t know it then, I was too embarrassed with the skin tight uniform and my all but too noticeable erection. But the girls, and even several of the women in the stands set their sights on me, and I became their prey.


I think it best to tackle the girls in order, and so I’ll tell you about Karen and me. Several days later, following practice, I was in the woods behind my house with my .22 rifle. I had set up several old beer cans on a stump and was taking some practice shots when this girl from my class, suddenly popped up from nowhere. At least it seemed that way, as I was intent on my practice with the rifle.

Later I recalled having seen Karen from a distance as I walked from school several days before. At any rate, I blew up, accusing her of nearly walking into one of my bullets.

“Didn’t you hear the sound of the shots?” I barked, not trying to hold back my temper.

“I didn’t hear anything except the birds and the breeze,” she answered innocently.

“That breeze might have been a bullet whizzing past your head, you know!”

“It wasn’t. I came from that direction,” she said, pointing away from the target cans on the stump.

“Yeah,” I replied skeptically, “sure, there’s a lake back there, you couldn’t have come very far in that direction.”

That stopped her for a moment, and then she said, “Well I did! I walked right around the lake.”

I knew she was lying, but wanting to get back to my target practice, I let it pass.

I took two more shots, hit both cans and walked over to the stump, picked up three cans and reset them.

“Why are you shooting at the cans?”

There was something about the entire situation that made me uneasy. Usually when pestered by a girl, I would either throw a stick at them, or I’d be too embarrassed to utter a word; the former if she wasn’t pretty, the latter if she was.

What I did was answer her questions patiently. “I’m shooting at the cans because I want to join the Marines when I get out of high school.”

“Do you ever hunt animals?”

“No, I don’t hunt animals. I have plenty of food at home. You should only hunt critters if you’re hungry. At least that’s how I look at it.”

Karen fell back to the age old ruse women use when buttering up a man, flattery. She told me she was fascinated by my shooting, and encouraged me to tell her more about myself.

Well, I ran on about what a war hero I was going to be. How I would return home covered in medals and such. The fact is I never did join any military force; I only knew that my father was killed over in Iraq, and I wanted to emulate him, for I had worshipped him. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Karen kept staring at me, and I felt myself getting nervous. It finally occurred to me to ask myself, had she followed me into the woods? And if so, why?

Feeling secure on my own turf, I was much more direct than normal, and asked her, “I was just wondering, why you’re lookin’ at me like that?”

She giggled and dropped to her knees then sat in a cross legged position. I gave no thought to the fact that she wore a dress and not jeans, but was more concerned about getting back to firing my .22 than anything else.

I studied her face, she seemed excited about something, but I couldn’t figure out just what it was. She was a pretty girl, tall and kind of skinny, with dirty blond hair. Her figure was stick-like, no noticeable bumps in her chest, and a raw scrape on her left knee, probably caused by a fall. One attribute stood out; her smile.

It was a very winsome smile, and I have never forgotten it, nor have I forgotten her.

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