Initiation

We all used to go to Bosky Lake in the summer time. My friends Remple and McDaniel would bring their girlfriends, or girls they picked up cruising the main street back in town. They were always girls with kinked hair, purplish black or bottle blond, and tank-tops and slinky jeans who stared into their cellphones and waited for guys to make a move. They said almost nothing, they floated to the car like wraiths. When they got to Bosky Lake, they'd wrap their arms around Remple and McDaniel and make out.
    Rarely was I the guy they were waiting for to make the move. Mostly I'd watch my friends palm those trim bodies, so slender they were almost translucent. Remple or McDaniel would talk about how Bosky Lake had a legend. One or the other would tell the story about the woman in the lake. When you saw her, it meant you were doomed. It was all very instrumental. Eventually, one or both of the girls would get freaked out. Then one pair would climb over to the backseat and the other would take the front. But not before they gave me a goodbye wave and kicked me out of the car.

Spring came early my senior year of high school. Bosky Lake thawed in March and by April you could swim in it. Remple and McDaniel picked up a couple of girls at the Sonic and we drove up to the boat launch. In record time, they succeeded in maneuvering their girls into the backseat, and I was sent off into the pitch-black picnic area. After all the tangling was over, the car went silent. Both of the temporary couples must've fallen asleep under their coats. That happened sometimes.

I lay down on a picnic table and waited. I waited and waited in the full stillness, eyes adjusting to the dark. I dozed off.

I woke up to the gentle lap of water. There was only a faint ripple on Bosky Lake. I pulled myself up and walked down to the water. As I approached, I saw a girl sitting there without any clothes on. She was fingering her cellphone, and I assumed she was one of the girls corresponding with her girlfriend.

I backtracked, afraid I'd look the pervert for even glancing upon her. As I backpedaled, I tramped into the dense foliage that lined water's edge, thrashing through underbrush and then stepping squarely upon a thick twig.

The girl turned around to look, halting me with her resolute gaze. I saw she wasn't a girl at all, but a grown woman of perhaps 40.

She beckoned me down to the water's edge. "Come here."

I stepped down gingerly to meet her, feeling like I had stumbled into a lecture about respecting privacy. I went forward, keeping my eyes lowered. She stood up and I turned in profile, averting my eyes.

"Don't worry," she said.

She dipped one foot in the water, held it up, then retrieved a lily white shoe and put it on the dripping foot. She followed suit with the other foot. She picked up a grey long-sleeve shirt of thin cotton and draped it over her forearm.

She took my hand. "Come. Walk with me."

I did as she asked, perhaps to atone in some silly way. As we walked, she talked about Bosky Lake in the spring. I murmured acknowledgments, confused, casting sidelong glances. Her hair was horse-chestnut brown and braided on one side. She had faint pink striations in the flesh of her hips that I was too young to register, letalone value negatively, as stretch-marks. She had a lot to say about Bosky Lake. Her voice was husky and bore a weariness, like she had said these same things many times. It gave her a texture that the temporary girlfriends did not have, I realized as we walked hand in hand.

We walked to an old covered bridge on the other side of the lake.

“Your friends won't see us here.”

She lay down the grey shirt and sat atop it. Palming her breasts, she told me to take off my clothes. I pulled off my shirt. I unzipped my pants.

“Don’t be hesitant,” she said, one half of her mouth curled in an encouraging smile.

She beckoned me to the other side of her and had me kneel. Spreading her legs where she sat, she licked her finger briskly, as if she was about to turn a page in a book. She placed the index finger of her left hand right at the top of her sex. She looked up at me searchingly as she began to massage herself.

“It's alright,” she said. “You can look at me.”

The lips of her vulva were dark, with a barely perceptible matrix of tiny wrinkles. They gave way to a vivid pinkness as she pulled them apart, dialing proficiently at her clit. She wore a wedding ring.

"You're very aroused," she said, and she was correct. I had had an erection since we’d walked across the beach.

     
     Her breasts were heavy, as were the muscles of her calves. She turned to her right hand, the one with the ring, and tasted the wetness on her hand, her long hair spilling over her flexed forearm.

I bit down on my lip, trying to avoid a grossly premature finish.

“Please," she said, smirking. "Come here."

I walked on my knees, the wood of the bridge merciless on the skin of my kneecaps. I felt the scraping, yes, but somehow it did not register. She put her hand out, and I was afraid she would touch me, which would end it all. The teenage morning reverie would end. Somehow, without touching me, she guided me towards her welcoming vulva.

The contact did something peculiar to me, but not anything I might have expected. It transferred the warmth of her into me, a soothing warmth that calmed me and beckoned me deeper. I was in a good place, and it enwrapped me snugly.

Gooseflesh pricked up on her skin as it already had on mine, and she smiled and nodded up at me. Her palm caressed my arm once, twice, again. I moved back and forth, in and out of her, again and again. With each movement, my surprise gained, and then receded as I realized that I could keep on doing as I was doing. I brought myself closer to her and she helped to keep me steady, helped to ease me down. Her body tingled with sensation. I too tingled, yes, and it was as if I could feel her tingling in me. It was as if our separate lattices of gooseflesh had intertwined.

She placed a hand on my abdomen and drew back. She turned around and aimed her backside at me. It was very round and very protuberant but also alluringly squared on either side. I had never to that point fancied older women. It had never even occurred to me that I should. Yet I had never seen anything so breathtaking in my young life.

I gripped her on the fleshy, striated arcs of her hips and drew her back toward me so she could enwrap me again. I made love to her this way until she was rolling her neck, tossing the braid back and forth. Gaining speed, I felt like a great, benevolent conqueror. No sooner had that blissful hubris infused me than she seemed to gain a sense of it too. She drew back, forcing me down supine onto the bridge’s rugged planks. Miraculously, my member stayed firmly inset in her vulva. From a squatting position, she dropped her buttocks down onto me, and the loud clap echoed across the lake. Again and again that lovely, square-round ass rose and dropped, clapping down on my thighs and upper abdomen like a sublime printing block. This ass was not translucent. It comprised a whole midsection, a whole core. This wasn't something that waited for you to move upon it. It moved on you. Each thunderous clap took the breath out of me.

This is sex, I thought to myself as I absorbed the rapacious beating from her hind. Survival of the fittest, and only some survive. 

Finally, she checked her pace and lowered her knees to the planks. She leaned forward, shortening her enwrapping strokes. The skin of her back was cool against my palms, but our loins were ablaze together. Her vulva grew hotter and tighter, and I could stave myself no longer. I shot my teenage seed up into her.

It spurted and spurted, coating her vagina.

Once the final salvos had been unleashed, she very elegantly lowered herself down atop the length of me. I breathed hard into her back. We laid like that until our breaths evened out.

When she got up, she dressed me. Then, putting her shirt over her shoulders, she walked me back around the lake. The car came back into view, and it looked empty. She turned off to the dock, and I followed.

She walked to the end of the dock. She set aside her shirt and pulled off her immaculate white shoes. She knelt to wash her hands, backside pressed out demurely. My ejaculation was slowly overflowing her vulva, and it glistened in the morning sun. She sat up and swung her legs back into the water. She walked back into Bosky Lake, eyes closed against the morning cool, hair spilling over either breast.

As she submerged herself in the water, I thought for sure I'd met a wraith. I'd met the lady in the lake. My stomach hitched; my heart clenched up. I wondered what I'd given her, what she'd taken from me.

“Excuse me,” I asked, with intentions of finding out her name.

She turned that steady, stoic gaze to me, and then her cellphone rang. She doubled back to the pier, pulled aside her shirt and answered the call. She was consoling the person on the other end of the line, someone she kept calling "honey." After several minutes of this, she turned back to me again. She smiled and gave a goodbye wave.

Unwittingly, I walked backwards up the hill. Remple and McDaniel were sitting up in their cars now. Their female companions looked unimpressed.

“We were waiting.” Remple asked.

“Yeah,” McDaniel said. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t actually know.”

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Image credits: All photos by Ralf Roletschek [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html)]