The Legacy

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I knew it was her by her eyes. I had changed a lot, but she hadn’t. I remembered those eyes.They weren’t the first thing I noticed the first time I saw her. Her breasts, covered yet displayed by a peach scoop-neck pullover, were large enough to need a bra. But the thin cashmere fabric plainly showed the contours of her nipples and the absence of an undergarment.Her eyes matched the dark-chocolate brown of her hair and held a conspiratorial promise. Her demeanor reflected the free rebelliousness of the era as she lifted her top off over her head, her hair somehow staying unmussed.Bending to remove her shorts made her mounds hang but not dangle. When she turned and straightened up, in profile her nipples added a darker outcropping to the enticing curve of her bosom. Her round butt overflowed her thighs like a proper scoop of ice cream.She raised her arms, stretching joyfully into the air, lifting those symmetric spheres. Her face glowed with the delight of the spontaneous liberty she had taken without a care for the context or potential consequences in that subway station. Turning to leave, she looked back over her shoulder to acknowledge the plaudits of everyone who saw her performance.That brief, anonymous encounter affected me over the years in untraceable ways. As in the plot of a rom-com, unexpected events led to a reunion.Uncle Bob had died and Aunt Helen moved into an assisted living apartment, so she no longer needed their house. At loose ends, I agreed to help get it ready to sell. My aunt had it appraised “as-is” and said she would split any extra with me if I got it into better shape.“Here are the keys to your uncle’s workshop,” she said. “You can use, keep or sell whatever is in there.”I confess to wistful excitement at finally being allowed to see istanbul travesti the workshop. When my family would visit, it was always off-limits. Uncle Bob was loved for making clever and fun gifts for us, sometimes taking months to complete them, and he enjoyed surprising us.“Sometimes he would spend the whole day in there,” she recalled. “He had a recliner so he could take a nap without coming upstairs.”With my list of things to fix, I descended the steps into the dimly-lit basement. Opening the workshop door, I entered a bright, tidy, organized work area. Various tools hung on the pegboard walls; boards and larger materials were against the far wall. A fan had turned on with the light to bring in fresh air.One wall was lined with tall metal cabinets. Unlocking the first revealed sturdy metal shelves filled with additional tools, fasteners, parts, and materials, all properly stored and clearly labeled.Expecting more of the same in the second cabinet, I was confused when I opened it. From floor to ceiling, about a foot apart, were shelves holding hundreds of magazines—men’s magazines. Consistent with the rest of the workshop, the shelves noted the publication name and dates below each stack. The third cabinet was like the second. A glance showed issues going back over fifty years.My first encounter with such magazines was when my older brother left for college. Whether he forgot them or intentionally left them for when he came home, a handful of issues were hidden in the attic. My mom didn’t like to climb the ladder so she would send me to retrieve or store things for her. When I discovered them, I couldn’t stop to investigate.Although I had technically masturbated by then, I had not done it to climax. Teachers and priests had told me that travesti istanbul even touching myself was wrong; my parents were probably too embarrassed to even discuss it. Needless to say, I did it anyhow, guiltily, and earned regular reprimand in the confessional. The boys all preferred Father George, who gave empathetic penances.The naughty excitement amplified the pleasurable stirrings when I would massage my genitals. With my privacy insecure and temporary, I hadn’t yet done it long or intensely enough to discover the ultimate destination of that journey. I waited until I knew I had the house to myself for a few hours before returning to the attic.The warm summer day made it hot, but I was also flushed with anticipation. To that point, I had not seen a naked woman; pictures of women in bikinis or lingerie were enough to inspire my sinful behavior. I lingered on the sexy but non-nude cover photo, caressing myself through my pants, before daring to explore further.Stunning is the right word for the first picture I saw. It immobilized me. My penis pulsed and swelled as my eyes drank in the exposed skin. It begged for more room and more contact, so I lowered my pants and underwear. The underside of the head seemed almost to ache and I cradled it in my palm. My gentle touch seemed to relieve it somehow, but it twitched against my hand.Turning the pages, I scrutinized the other views of the model. The poses seemed alternately provocative and awkward with my limited understanding of human anatomy and how the law of gravity affected this previously unseen flesh. My excitement and enjoyment grew until I reached some pages of text.Flipping forward, it was not long before I reached more pictures. It seemed impossible, but the new female form drove istanbul travestileri the first from my mind. Would it have been the inverse if I had encountered them in the other order? Suddenly, what I had thought was the summit was merely the base camp. As I opened the center page, I knew Miss March was the pinnacle.Unknowingly, my body had reached the same conclusion. The grip of my hand on my organ, intended to soothe the strange agitation building there, had the opposite effect. Only in retrospect, with repetition and calmer appreciation, did I come to understand what was happening.At the time, the mixture of fear and surprise at what had been triggered was overwhelmed by the wave of ecstasy that flashed through me. Only when the pulsing warned of an emission did I turn in panic from the vision of carnal delight to see my eruption spurt forth.I watched helplessly as the uncontrolled jets hit my shirt, the magazine, and the surrounding area. My body jerked in electric exhilaration, allowing me no thoughts, no intentions. How, when, or why it stopped, I didn’t know. I had run out of substance to pump, but my muscles kept going through the motions, paying lesser but still sweet dividends.For a few minutes, I wallowed in drowsiness from the experience and the heat of the attic. The discomfort of my position on the unfinished boards brought me around and I stared at my situation in aghast. Unprepared, I used my t-shirt to mop up the fluid that littered the attic and desecrated the magazine. Fortunately, the other issues were untouched, so I decided to take the one I had damaged, hoping my brother wouldn’t miss it.I found my own hiding place for the magazine I stole, revisiting it and meeting the other women residing in its pages. Better prepared, I studied the other issues in the attic when I had the opportunity. Over time, I learned how to please myself in various ways, never quite repeating the surprising and saturating intensity of that first time. Only later was that event transcended by the addition of a partner.

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