Martha Crosses the Tracks

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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Being a woman of color and not a Rhodes scholar by any means, I was relegated to work with little or no future. See, back then, black people weren’t destined to rise through the ranks. Today it’s much better, but still not what most people would consider equal opportunity. Anyway, I’ve never been much for whining and I’m not going to start now.

I remember the ad in the papers that Sunday of 1978. It was for a non-residential housekeeper/nanny. I kind of liked that idea. I’d be taking care of a kid or kids, which I loved, and cleaning up after other people which I didn’t—kind of balanced, don’t you think? Best of all I’d be home at night. I applied.

The woman I spoke to gave me an address in Burlington Heights. Whoo, whoo, talk about fancy. I’ll bet the cheapest house in that area was well above the $150,000 level, which in 1978 bought a mansion. I hopped on the city transit train, crossed town and hopped on a bus to the area. It was a blessing to find out going there only required one transfer—train to bus. Yep, the old 1407 bus took me to within one block of the Jameson’s.

Looking out the window as the bus as it rolled along, I saw the houses getting bigger and bigger. Large well-manicured lawns on both sides of the street. Huge azaleas dotting most street side gardens. Anyone would be impressed. There I was a black 22 year-old in a white people paradise. I was a bit nervous about being out of my own realm but kept my confidence in spite of it. I wasn’t the only domestic on the bus. Those other women, most much older than me, seemed perfectly at ease as they made the trek to their white family worksites.

At first sight, the Jameson’s house was what one would call storybook. It was a large white framed two-story house with a detached three car garage. The black shutters outlined the windows and contrasted the whiteness of the siding illustrated the owner’s simple but conservative taste. The wrap around porch reminded me of an old plantation. Just what a black girl, out of her comfort zone needed to feel more comfortable [tic]. Talk about azaleas, the massive bushes were in bloom pinks and whites lining either side of the football field length of driveway. I amused myself with the thought that at least I wasn’t applying to be the gardner.

I paused and walked up to the red front door. After pressing the bell, I heard the rumblings of a child’s anxious desire to see who it was, “I’ll get it, Mom!”

As the door opened I was confronted by a little white boy in short-shorts and t-shirt. He had socks on but no shoes. He was a cute little guy with short black hair and from all appearances was very active—wired to the hilt. Certainly the sparkle in his eyes projected a hint of hyperactivity.

Momentarily I heard a very comforting voice, “Roger, let the nice lady in.” An adult woman walked up behind him. Hi, you must be Marsha. She actually extended her hand, which I shook. “I’m Jeanette Jameson, and this little guy is my son Roger.”

“I don’t want to pry, but Roger doesn’t go to school?” What possessed me to be so forward, I don’t know. I apologized for making such an opening remark. Mrs. Jameson didn’t seem too put out by the remark as she answered the question.

“Oh, no, Roger is only four. I’m afraid his birthday is such that he’ll almost be six when he gets to go to school. That’s basically why I need a “nanny” housekeeper. He can be challenging and looking forward to another year and a half of keeping up with him and meeting my outside obligations is a bit difficult.”

We sat and had coffee. What went through my head was this white lady wasn’t acting in the stereotypic model those of us from “the hood” had of rich white ladies. She was letting me drink out of her china cups. Actually, there wasn’t one moment I felt like she was being the least bit condescending. Her whole demeanor erased any chip I might have had on my shoulder.

After an hour or two of chatting about me and my background which included a complete lack of experience with kids or formal cleaning, she hired me anyway.

She took me on a tour of her house. I could have put six or seven of mine in the place. A second thought gave me pause about the whole job thing. How in the hell am I going to keep this place clean and keep up with the likes of a hyperactive four-year-old? But, I was game and I really needed the income.

Roger was to become my prime responsibility. I was to keep him occupied, bathe him and, as it turned out, keep him clothed. The kid loved to what we back then called streak. He’d strip naked and attempt to slip out the door to “air it out” in the front yard. Certainly, an unacceptable behavior for a Burlington Heights boy. Maybe not so much for those of us from the other side of the tracks, but most certainly not in Burlington Heights.

I don’t want you to take this wrong, but there’s a stereotype I’ve heard that white people have about black boys’ penises. They think black boys are endowed with the longest penises of any race. My experience is, like with whites, DNA plays a role in that and black boys are not so different than white ones—you got your longs, averages and nubs. Those who were cut or as some put it peeled also outnumber the intacts by significant numbers. Let’s just dispel that crap right now.

The reason I bring it up is anyone who thinks white boys are at a disadvantage in that area needs to take in my little streaker. He’s hung like, well let’s just say, a pony. Yeah it surprised me too. That very day, I was asked to give Roger a bath and dress him to go shopping with his mother. I dove right in. The cute little imp didn’t hesitate removing all of his clothes as I knelt in front of him. As soon as those little boy briefs were pushed down, that penis caught my eye. I’d guess it was at least three or three and a half inches long. His little pecker head looked like a red grape prominently displayed on the limp appendage. No really, what went through my head was, “Yeah and black boys are all hung longer? Maybe not.”

I’m in no way a pedophile, but I was quite anxious to get my soapy hands on that little guys appendage. I don’t know whether it was my motivation to get it stiff or just feel it’s soft, wet-noodle like texture as I washed it, but I did want to feel it. His cute little backside was smooth and tight. A highlight of the bath was prying those pert cheeks apart so I could ensure his little orifice was clean. There was no objection on his part to me cleaning any of his sensitive areas.

As I ran my hands down his legs the trip was roller coaster like. Clearing the knees the calves were the final climb before descending to his little ankles and feet.

I dried him off and realized I hadn’t had the chance to inventory his clothing nor had I bothered to bring underpants. So, I wrapped the towel around him, picked him up and headed to his bedroom. Mrs. Jameson approached from down the hallway. In the way of explanation, I told her I’d forgotten his clothes. She surprised me, “Oh, just put him down. You don’t need back problems, he too big to tote around. We just usually let him run naked after bath and air dry. He doesn’t have an ounce of shyness. What’d you think of his ‘item of interest’?”

I was so floored by the question at the end of that remark, I just acted like I didn’t hear her.

She must have read my hesitance to acknowledge it, so she clarified, “His penis. What’d you think of his penis?”

What in the hell do you say to something like that? I mean, if I commented it would indicate the genitals were items of my interest, not that they hadn’t been. They were, but it’s just not something you talk about. Here was the kid’s mother being front and center about her son’s penis length. I was so dumbfounded I couldn’t formulate and answer.

She continued without my answer, “God knows where in the blood line that thing came from, but I assure you his Dad probably wasn’t that gifted at four.” She took a breath and waved me on, “He’ll need some dressy shorts, a knit shirt, shoes, socks, top left drawer, his underwear is in the middle drawer. Oh, I should just let you explore. It’s the best way to find out where everything is. I’ll go down and keep an eye on him until you can round up some clothes.”

The naked little guy was now running down the hallway toward the stairs.

When I had gathered up Roger’s clothes I managed to catch up with him in the family room. His naked backside was pressed against the cold floor tiles and he was glued to the TV watching the “Beverly Hillbillies”. I thought, “how appropriate”.

As I summoned the kid so I could dress him, he ignored me and kept staring at the tube. I called to him again. I got an, “I don’t want to” response. Not loud, not rude, but definitely defiant.

I switched to explaining his mother wanted him to be dressed to go shopping with her and that he needed to come to me so I could help him get dressed. I even mentioned he could watch TV while we did it. This time he raised his voice, “I don’t want to, I said!”

I’m really not sure about cultural differences, but back than nine out of ten black boys wouldn’t have offered that retort. If they did, they’d get their asses worn out so bad, they couldn’t sit down. No self-respecting black woman, mother or not, would take that from any boy in my neighborhood. But, I was in white world and wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.

Mrs. Anderson came in ready to go and we’d actually made no progress toward meeting her schedule. “What’s the problem, here?”

I told her Roger refused to cooperate and get dressed. Then I heard something that made me rethink my stereotype of the white parent.

“Have you ever spanked a little boy?”

I had to admit, I’d never really done that. I’d certainly seen it done on numerous occasions, but I’d never done it. Then something amazing happened. Mrs. Jameson had retrieved a hair brush and she handed it to me. “Pick him up. Drape him over your lap and really tear him up with the back of that brush. Don’t stop until his backside is as pink as those azaleas out front. Then say, “Now, let’s get dressed. The kid is testing you. You need to ace this test. Really aim to hurt him.”

Now there was a refreshing change in my paradigms about white kids, especially rich little white boys. In my neighborhood, as I’ve already said, a black boy, his age, giving his mother or grandmother a ration would get his little black ass busted on the spot. And, the spanking wouldn’t stop after a few swats. Over the years, observing white kids and their parents, I was quick to think they never got wailed on. They always seemed to get “a good talking to”, which for boys is ineffective as hell.

Another eye opener was Mrs. Jameson’s ease at giving me permission to wear her son out when I felt it was needed. Who’d have thought?

“Remember Martha, if you spank him make sure it hurts or you’ll just be spinning your wheels.” She left the room and rounded up the little brat.

The thrill of being the four-year-old’s chief disciplinarian was the second most exciting thing I had happen that year. It lit a maternal feeling in me. I had been given the ultimate authority over the imp.

That was also the year I found out I was pregnant. Nine months later I gave birth to a baby girl—Carisa. My mother took care of her for me so I could continue working for the Jamesons. There were times I had to bring her with me because of conflicts in Mom’s scheduling. Mrs. Jameson was always very understanding and even spent time with my baby. She was remarkably good with babies.

There was one difference in how Roger was to be treated and how Carisa, even as a baby was treated. Roger was allowed, no required to spend time running around naked, Mrs. Jameson called it erasing his tan lines. As a black girl tan lines were least of my worries. Every day the boy was to spend a minimum of two hour naked and outside if weather permitted. More often than not, he’d be naked for closer to half the day inside and out. My eyes were opened to a social taboo. Carisa wasn’t allowed to be naked at any time. Oh, on more than one occasion, I’d change her with Roger present, but I was expected to get her covered as quickly as possible.

My doting white employer pushed toward her values. “Carisa is a girl and young ladies had to learn to be modest.”

I’m not sure it’s cultural but Mrs. Jameson continued to explain the remark, “Boys need to be forced to avoid developing modesty. But, girls should be taught to be modest.” I’d never heard that before, but she was signing my checks and who was I to question it. Come to think of it, I never was permitted to run around naked as a kid, but some of the boys in the neighborhood did on occasion. That’s how I learned what penises and ball sacks looked like in the first place. Anyway, I internalized that credo—boys shouldn’t be allowed modesty, girls should develop an abundance of it.

When Carisa was two, Roger was six. I undressed him planning to keep him naked for a few hours as was the rule. Mom had two doctors’ appointments so I had to bring my daughter with me. It was that particular day, I became aware that my little girl had developed curiosity. As Roger lay naked and splayed on the floor of the family room, Carisa toddled over and grabbed his exposed penis in what was nothing less than a death grip. Roger giggled and rolled over. I corrected my off-spring telling her that was Roger’s penis and she shouldn’t be pulling on it. Roger just laughed and took it instead.

Over the next two years, I didn’t hesitate to take the brush to Roger’s backside. But as time went on, he was getting too big for me to hold him on my lap during a spanking. Mr. Jameson happened by the door of his study to see me, Roger naked from the waist down, draped over my lap and me trying desperately to hold him still while I used that brush to mete out justice. My leg was pinning his down, but after a few not so gentle pats with the brush, his kicking and wiggling rendered me helpless to hold him.

The boy’s father entered the room and gently took the brush from my hand. “Here, Charisse, let me help you.” He raised the boy up, “Roger get all your clothes off now. Everything off. I want you naked.” The kid looked at his stern father with fear and anger, but removed his clothes as instructed. Standing naked before the two of us, he and I both watched as Mr. Jameson pulled a side chair to the center of the room. “Roger, grab the cushion of this chair.” Slowly the boy complied. It was evident from his turning and staring that he didn’t know what was happening. Once he was bent over his father spread his muscular little legs apart. I could see the bottom of his pink scrotum and penis head hanging between his spread legs. Mr. Jameson unbuckled his belt and slid it out from the loops in his dress trousers.

“I think he’s at an age where you should use a belt on him. I’ll leave one in the bottom desk drawer. You make him stand just like this. Make sure you make him strip. It’ll definitely make a better impression on him when the leather hits that bare butt. You won’t have to hold on to him, now it’s his responsibility to control himself. If he dances around before you’re done add a few extra lashes. Do you hear what I’m telling her, son?”

The boy turned his head back to make eye contact. His facial expression seethed with anger. “Yes” he responded insolently.

“Good. Now Charisse there are two ways you can go about this. First, you can swing the belt at full length. If you do, you won’t get the as good results as if you fold it over like this and use the shorter loop. Here, give it a go.”

He handed me the belt. “Just swing away. Bring it back and swing it forward as forcefully as you can. Like you’re beating a rug.”

I couldn’t believe some white guy was giving me a black woman instruction on whipping some insolent eight-year-old’s bare backside. But, really, though I’d often seen mothers in my neighborhood tearing up some boy’s, more often than not bare backside, I’d never had the privilege of spanking one before I came to work here.

I brought that doubled over belt forward and heard a loud snap. Roger lurched forward and made a slight grunting sound. I liked the feel of making my point with the kid. Mr. Jameson complimented the swing but ordered me to be “Harder. Hit him harder!” I really put some muscle into the next swing. I think it nipped at the bottom of Roger’s exposed little ball sack. He screamed loudly when the contact was made. I felt apologetic but was told to ignore it by my employer. The last part of my first lesson in belt wielding was “Take your time Martha. Let the lesson sink in. You don’t have to rain them down. Leave five or ten seconds between each. It’ll give him time to think about it.”

As was my habit with the brush, once I’d sufficiently beaten the boy’s backside, I made him spend fifteen minutes of naked time in the corner of his father’s den/office. I kind of enjoyed the boy’s naked time. Even then, I was still really entertained watching him romp naked, especially those unpredictable times his penis was hard as a tree limb.

When Roger approached nine years of age, he began to express his desire for privacy and was no longer easy going about being naked in front of his parents and more surprisingly me much less those times I was expected to take him outside to “erase his tan lines”.

I was a bit concerned, if he got his way, I would no longer be able to fondle that appendage of that handsome boy much less be entertained watching it bounce around as the kid moved about outdoors. I liked the times he’d spread his muscular legs as he straddled my lap and asked me to “rub my peepee”, or he’d run to greet the delivery men or mailman naked as the day he was born. I actually shared pride in showing him off to complete strangers, neighbors, and family friends. I loved seeing that evenly tanned body as it glistened from the water coating it as he got in and out of the backyard pool.

There were times that other little rich boys would visit. They too, more often than not, were forced to swim naked. It was a veritable Chippendale parade and I really loved it. I found it interesting how they would actually spend time in what Mr. Jameson referred to as little boy grab ass. They’d actually openly assault each other’s penises and backsides. I wondered if black boys did that too. Never seen them doing it. Then again, I never knew black parents who required them to be naked for large periods of the day either.

When Roger was ten, his parents took him to a doctor who specialized in attention disability hyperactive disorder (ADHD). She was a psychologist who believed little boys with the disorder could be controlled by increasing the amount of sensory stimulation. Her suggestions for stimulating the skin were cutting edge. At least that’s what Mrs. Jameson told me.

An interesting element of the therapy was daily massage sessions for the target child. The massages were full body and the boy had to be completely naked. I identified two problems with the whole idea. First, Roger had slipped deeper and deeper into what I preferred to call body shyness. To the point of locking bathroom and bedroom doors. He absolutely refused to do naked play time even refusing to skinny dip in the in-ground pool in the backyard with visiting friends. His parents had succumbed to the boy’s wishes, but it wasn’t without frustration and concern over his psycho-sexual development.

Apparently, the doctor felt we could turn that all around even at the end of a belt if we had to.

“Martha, we’re going to go back to requiring abundant naked time from Roger. The doctor said the more the better. He doesn’t want to cooperate, as you can well imagine, but we will force the issue with a belt if we need to. You up to it?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I kind of miss watching him run around naked. His freedom back then was cute to watch.”

“Good. Now, she wants all primary caregivers, that’d be you and his dad and me, to give him at least one daily massage. Since you’ve been the boy’s nanny for the past six years, his father and I feel that could be another of your responsibilities. Bill (Roger’s Dad) is completely uncomfortable with the idea of him massaging the boy because a certain amount of the attention is centered on Roger’s penis, scrotum and anus. Bill’s kind of a homophobe, if you know what I mean. He thinks it’d be teaching Roger the wrong lessons even though the process isn’t really all that sexual.”

Truth be told, the idea that I’d be working on the boy’s genitalia during these massage sessions made me a bit horny. I couldn’t wait to get started. Once again, I’d been given full consent to fondle the boy’s rather sizable package only this time he wasn’t four, he was a preteen. Exercising my dominance over him with his body shyness felt empowering. The battle over humiliating the boy was exciting to me.

Maybe my disguised excitement over the new therapy arrangement wasn’t as hidden as I thought. I was asked by Mrs. J if I’d break it to Roger. Me? I was the housekeeper/”nanny”, I didn’t seek the treatment, even though I loved it. Thank God, Mr. Jameson stepped forward stating they were the parents and they should be the ones to tell Roger his clothes were going to have to go.

Within minutes the boy was in the room with us. Missus started the conversation. She went into their concerns about his body shyness and how there was a push to get things turned around before he was a teenager. She specifically told him his reluctance to expose himself around them and me was a big concern. “Boys your age should not be the least bit shy about being naked, especially around other little boys and adults. It just isn’t normal for you to be so modest.” I could see his face go flush after that remark. You had to be an idiot not to pick up on where that conversation was going.

Mr. J jumped in then with, “What your mother is trying to say is we’re going to go back to making you run around the house and yard naked for big chunks of the day. You will swim naked. And, yes, it won’t matter if the other kids strip or not nor if Carisa or other little girls are here. You’ll be naked regardless. Furthermore, we will be making arrangements to take you places where little boys can be naked without criticism.” Roger just sat there stoically, eyes tearfully watering, and his mouth hanging open as his father continued. “You will be getting a massage session to stimulate your skin at least once a day. Your mother or Martha or whoever else they might appoint will be doing the honors. Any trouble from you will be met with a belting which is going to be my contribution. If Mom or Martha has one bit of problem with you about being naked or during the massages they have to give you, I will whip your bare backside until you won’t sit for a week. I know it’s scary thinking about it, but it’s for your own good, Roger. So, let’s make it as pleasant for us all as possible. Now, I need for you to get undressed. Just stand up and take the clothes off right here.

The boy was flush with embarrassment. He stood, motionless. Then he began to argue. Mr. Jameson held up his index finger in a warning posture. “Just take off all your clothes. You aren’t going to change our minds.”

The ten-year-old stripped naked right before us. I especially remember the unveiling of his five inch erect penis and how it bounced as he removed his Hanes briefs. I could hardly wait to get my hands on it after an almost two year dry spell. From the look on Mrs. Jameson’s face and seeing her staring at her boy’s penis, I was convinced she was as anxious as I was.

You know I look back at those days and really think it wasn’t so much a sexual thing for us. I really believe we like to play with his package because it made him feel better. At least it made him feel better after the initial hesitation he always displayed. Not, to mention it did, as the doctor predicted, make him slow down quite a bit for hours afterward.

One other interesting event was the first day my now almost six year old Carisa accompanied me to work. I made Roger strip naked for his “outdoor time” at the pool outback. I no longer required him to run around the front yard naked as we did in years past. I knew that would have really devastate him being on display to all passersby.

Carisa’s initial reaction to the naked boy, whom she hadn’t seen in the altogether for two years, was to stare. It was like she was seeing his boy parts for the first time. After a few minutes of that her attention to his boyhood was sporadic. It was apparent my girl was satisfied and accepting and not at an age where there was anything worth more than a cursory look to see.

What I was overtaken by was Roger’s immediate move to cover his boy parts. I corrected that in short order. “Carisa has seen your penis many times before, Roger. Move you hands and I don’t want to see you covering up ever again. Just go on with what you were doing. We’ll massage you later.”

Yeah, I actually said “we’ll” it was truly an unconscious slip about what I was anticipating. I wanted to humiliate the kid for some reason. I mean he hadn’t pulled my string that day. I just liked the air of embarrassment and humiliation he’d displayed when Carisa stared at him. Maybe it was my ability to exercise dominance over the rich white boy. Maybe it was I wanted Carisa to share that feeling of dominance. Or, perhaps, a little bit of each. Guess we could analyze that all day. What did it matter? Carisa was going to help me stimulate his penis and ball sack and that was final.

Back when the massages were a two or three times a day event, Mrs. Jameson and I had trained the boy to lie on his back, arms outstretched, legs drawn up until the sole of his feet were pressing against each other. I really highlighted his package when he was in that position. It also gave us clear access to his anus, which I must confess was penetrated by one of my fingers on more than one occasion. I mean who could resist? As white boys go this kid was beautiful.

As I ordered him into position on the picnic table the admiration of his body returned while I watched him climb up there. He had hardened as he moved into position and was finally awaiting the massage. His flagpole stuck straight upward. Carisa eyeballed the appendage. I gave her instructions to feel his glans (or as I actually playfully referred to it, “buff his knob”). I think his glans was her favorite part to feel as even years before she showed interest in it. He just lay there staring upward as if not watching the process would make it more bearable. Carisa encircled his penis tip and gently rubbed it. I encouraged her to make sure she did the shaft and his jewel purse as well. She moved on to them, frequently returning to his glans.

“Mommy is going to rub his other parts, you just keep rubbing his boy things okay? Be gentle, Honey.”

Frankly, I loved rubbing the kid’s legs. They were muscular and well defined. The skin was smooth and soft. I liked to watch that penis twitch as I did the inside of his thighs too. But, today I’d have to give up watching that as he was getting a continuous massage his boyhood by my six-year-old while I did the rest of his body.

Carisa reached for the boy’s erect appendage. Her facial expression was enough evidence of her anxiousness to feel the thing. As she grasped it, Roger sat up and repelled her from doing so. “Don’t even think of touching me there, Carisa. Go away. Leave me alone.” My daughter’s determination was strengthened by Roger’s commitment to prohibit her from touching his penis and he pushed her. She fell to the floor and cried.

I was a bit put out by his fight. After all, I had endorsed her desire to feel the boy’s penis. I don’t think she’d ever seen a twelve-year-old’s erect penis, or, for that matter, even flaccid one, and I knew she’d never touched one before. I really saw this as a learning experience for her. It wasn’t really bad for Roger either. I firmly believed and continue to believe having more and more people, especially little girls, fondling that gem would erase some of his body shyness. That was the stated goal, wasn’t it?

That little incident led me to discipline the boy the way I’d longed to do for that entire year. “Carisa, remember when Momma showed you the belt? Go and get it. We’re going to teach Roger not to treat little girls like that.”

When she returned, Roger’s attitude had done a one eighty. He tired to justify what had happened with “I didn’t mean to! Please Martha, I didn’t mean for her to fall.” It was very apparent the shove he gave her was meant to send her to the deck. His pleas and explanations were bullshit and I knew it. I took the belt and told the boy, begging as he sat on the atop the picnic table, to lie down and roll over. He continued to plead, I slammed the leather across the top of his leg narrowly missing the still erect penis. “I said lie down on your stomach. Do it now!” I raised the belt again. His right hand went up to ward off the potential swing. Slowly, he laid down on his stomach. I wasted no time whipping the fire out of his completely vulnerable, naked posterior. I really got into the feeling of my power over this kid. I enjoyed the dozen or so dark pink stripes I planted on him. Even Carisa was in awe at the punishment.

Two things entered my mind during the spanking. First, I wondered how the kid was going to avoid getting splinters in that penis or scrotum of his as the original finish had chipped away and the exposed lumber looked quite dry. That with him lunging forward each time the belt hit must have invited such a thing. Second, I was, and still am, astounded that some young black woman had unlimited authority to whip the fire out of this handsome, rich, little white boy’s bare ass whenever she saw fit. How often did that happen? Talk about feelings of empowerment and domination. It didn’t get any better than that.

After he’d stopped crying and was into sniffling back the nasal discharge, I took Carisa’s little hand in mine and while the still angry boy lay there splayed and completely vulnerable, I guided her hand to his knob. “Squeeze it, Baby. Go ahead you can squeeze it.” She did, albeit cautiously so as not to awaken his temper again. With eyes tear filled from anger at the domination he’d just suffered Roger stared skyward. “Go ahead Carisa you can touch it all over. Move it around. Just do what you want to. Don’t forget to feel his little bag there too.” She twisted and turned the shaft, pulled on it, and fingered Roger’s scrotum. It was amusing to watch her as she explored the male body.

“Carisa, you play with Roger’s boy parts there while Mommy massages the rest of him. Just keep playing with him until I tell you to stop.”

I didn’t have to tell her twice. She all but pounced on Roger’s stiffy. It was evident his glans was her favorite target as she pinched it, examined the urethral opening, wiggled it, and commented on its pink color and questioned its shape. In a few years, I’d tell her about foreskins and circumcisions but that day I didn’t go there. There’s no way a five-year-old, especially one who didn’t have a penis, would visualize such a concept.

I spent an inordinate amount of time working on the boy’s legs. They were the second most pleasing area of his young body for me to caress. Rubbing my hands over his legs for some reason was erotic to me. Maybe it was sliding my hands over the smooth softness of the boy’s skin and feeling the firmness of the muscle tissue beneath. Whatever it was a total turn on.

My little girl continued playing with Roger’s equipment. At some point I decided to take the opportunity to further humiliate the twelve year old. “Carisa, let me show you something else I’d like you to do to help me. See Roger’s butt hole?” She nodded that she did and looked to me with that questioning look. “Honey, I need you to stick one of your fingers all the way in there. We need to rub that part too.”

Assholes! Everybody has one. Isn’t that the old saying? You’d think she’d jump at the chance to penetrate the boy. But, no. She got a disgusted facial expression and actually said, “Eeewwww, no, Mom, I’m not going to. There’s poop in there.”

“Okay, Baby, if you don’t want to, just rub around it. Like this.” I took my fingertip and circled the rim. I figured she’d eventually be driven to penetrate. Kind of a desensitization process. Didn’t happen though.

To this day, I find it amusing that my now grown little girl’s first penis contact was a white boy. Who’d have even remotely thought? Just my way of dispelling stereotypes and disarming prejudices I guess.

(End of File)