Sensualist

This is my first submission, (Revised to meet age requirements) and I do so only after much needed help from Paris Waterman, whom many of you know. With his encouragement I managed to keep my sanity and the story going. It is a long story, but can be read from almost any point. It will take Mr. Donald Clark through his senior year in High School and on to college.

Perhaps we will go further, but that will be up to you, the readers. At any rate, I thank you and wish you much enjoyment, and by all means, please provide your comments.

All Sexual activities occur between persons 18 and older.

Chapter 1

The Early Years -- Miss Ginger's Luscious Globes -- Becoming a Voyeur -- Caught Jacking off -- Boorish Behavior -- Birthday Presents -- The Vertical Smile - More Lessons in Love

In the beginning I was not known as 'The Sensualist,' I was, and in most quarters still remain, Donald Stevenson Clark. I was born to wealthy parents in the heart of Savannah, Georgia, with its charming period architecture, oak-lined streets and antebellum hospitality. Our home was located on Gwinnett Street, and sat across the street from one of the many small parks the city is famous for.

My greedy bastard of a father, Jeremy Stevenson Clark, was an affluent banker, well acquainted with other nefarious bankers, realtors and developers, who was kind enough to pass on after acquiring several million dollars during and shortly after the Second World War.

If you get the impression I didn't care for him, you're absolutely right. He was a miserable father. He flaunted his other women in front of my mother, sisters and I.

I detested him for the way he demeaned my mother and yet here I am, detailing my own many dalliances with the fairer sex most likely because I have his genes raging relentlessly in my testes. And I should add that because of his actions, I have never entertained the thought of marrying anyone, although I have met and bedded quite a few promising women of whom I have little doubt would have made me happy as a loving wife.

My mother, Hillary Margaret Bronson, was the daughter of a United States Senator from California. Her vivacity and wit made our home a place people wanted to visit.

I think, and there are those who support me in this, my mother possessed most of the intellect in my parentage, with my father having all the financial skill; both of which I apparently inherited and consider great gifts in helping me wend my way through a decadent lifestyle.

At any rate, there were three of us—-Maureen, the oldest--Ashley, the youngest, and myself. We were all partially home schooled as well as having matriculated at a nearby private school run by Jesuits. Mother had set her mind against sending us off to the local public schools because a friend's daughter failed to get into Harvard, thus the additional tutoring at home.

Needless to say, my sister, Maureen did not gain admission to Harvard either, and had to settle for her second choice, Vassar College.

My sisters and I were met each afternoon at approximately four PM, unless a particular school activity intervened.

My eighteenth birthday was four days away when my mother's health began causing her problems that would eventually shorten her life. She would ultimately succumb to the cancer that riddled her body, and was gone a week before her forty-seventh birthday. I was twenty-one at the time.

With the onset of mother's illness, a new tutor, a young woman, scarcely five or six years older than my sister Maureen, answered the ad mother had placed in several newspapers statewide. The young woman, named Ginger Robleski, was selected from a group of twelve applicants, and in two short weeks became one of the family.

I can still recall Mother telling Miss Ginger, as she came to be called by my sisters and I, not to spare spanking any of us if we presented her with a problem in obeying her instruction, regardless of our age. Mother made a show of giving Miss Ginger, a sturdily made pointer with which she was to apply any needed discipline. Needless to say, we were sufficiently cowed, well, Ashley was; I never felt threatened by the pointer, for I was in love with Miss Ginger from the first.

Not that any of it mattered, for we were all enchanted by her, and she proved to be an excellent tutor and prepared us all for our collegiate experiences.

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Now, with Miss Ginger Robleski on the premises, things began to change. Perhaps I wasn't in love with her, per se, but I was certainly in awe of her physical attributes.

Miss Ginger, while not a Miss America candidate, was possessed of as fine a figure as any young woman might wish for. That's polite English for telling you she had a great pair of tits and a fine ass.

As for myself, I was nudging six feet, while impersonating a rail-thin scarecrow. My body was actually lean and sinewy from all the swimming I did on a regular basis. On making the college swim team I would fill out from working on weights and other vigorous exercises.

During Miss Ginger's early weeks of tutoring us, I noticed my older sister practicing her femininity on me, trying out expressions and posturing that had not occurred prior to our tutor's arrival.

Was it deliberate? Inasmuch as women practice every pose endlessly to see how they would appear in public, I think that, yes, it was deliberate. But my reaction provided Maureen with some means of gauging their effect on a member of the opposite sex.

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Time passed swiftly, I was now eighteen and Ashley had her sweet turned sixteen party, and like most girls, began talking about boys constantly. However, mother had other ideas and forbid my timid sister from any dating at all. This stringent position caused poor Ashley to spend many hours languishing in front of her mirror crying and wailing that she would be an old maid for the rest of her life.

I should add that this sequestering, having been applied to Maureen when she was sixteen and until she went off to college, probably caused her to become the campus slut she became when finally free of Mother's overly protective hand.

I'll discuss this at length later on.

At any rate, being raised with two sisters served to instruct me about the ways of women in general. I learned many things about them, such as their way of analyzing everything a person said in their presence, to their concerns, which to a non-observer would appear meaningless while the woman regarded them as important as life itself; if only for that moment. I was also able to see how they reacted under stressful moments, and more importantly, how they acted when they thought no man was around.

All of the foregoing was but a prelude to my entry into manhood, of which, Miss Ginger would play a most meaningful role. But lest I get ahead of myself, I should return to her earliest days as our tutor. ________________________________________

I became enamored of Miss Ginger from the first. She wore a certain fragrance, a not overly expensive lavender that I trained myself to sniff out so as to know if she were nearby. And being bolder now that I was a senior and eighteen, I attempted to make bodily contact with her by placing myself on the other side of a the door and trying to go through it as she was entering the room.

The first two times I became giddy after brushing against those magnificent breasts and almost forgot to apologize. I was blissfully unaware that Miss Ginger knew exactly what I was doing and chose to ignore it; but she was much more careful about going and coming from room to room after the second time.

I was never the wiser until she confided it to me sometime later.

After a week or so, I became frustrated at no longer having the opportunity to bump into those luscious globes of Miss Ginger's; I devised a simple, but feasible plan. I will digress for a moment to say that I never felt any compulsion to arrange similar collisions with either of my sisters, although the thought of incest being repugnant never entered my mind. In fact---well I won't go there for now.

The plan was to drill a small hole in the wall of my bedroom, for on the other side resided none other than the gorgeous, Miss Ginger. I did the deed when everyone was outside enjoying a sunny afternoon. I snuck into Miss Ginger's room, swept up the plaster that had fallen on the floor and left after sniffing several of her under things, but not taking any for future use in helping my masturbatory dalliances.

At eleven that evening, sweating like a pig, I camped out by my peep-sight, and watched as she undressed. She had her back to me as she took off her shoes, but turned slightly toward me as she rolled down her stockings, providing me with a long look at her lovely legs. My eyes widened as she removed her dress and stood before me in her bra and a half-slip.

I recall it as if it was yesterday. I remember wiping my eyes after a bead of sweat rolled off my forehead and into it, obscuring my heavenly vision for a long moment. By the time my eyes cleared she was reaching behind her back and unclasping the fastenings of her bra and exposed a pair of high rounded, creamy globes, the likes of which I'd tried to imagine for years. I tried to stifle a sob of joy, but couldn't and nearly fell to the floor from my suddenly useless knees.

That was all I dared to do that night, but from then on I remained glued to my peep-hole to watch as Miss Ginger removed her clothing each and every night.

Oh, I saw her hairy pussy too, but she never played with it, at least not while I was watching. Looking back, I realize that my mother must have been aware of my manhood's arrival from the seemingly perpetual erection I displayed and from the remains of all those nocturnal and other emissions on my sheets. But nary was a word ever spoken about it. Mothers tend to keep such things to themselves.

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Days passed, and to my smarmy, sex-addled mind it seemed that every other night Miss Ginger would present her body in a more provocative series of poses then she had the night before. Actually she was merely repeating her previous performance in that she was a very meticulous person, and seldom varied her personal actions.

I woke up one morning, and as usual, all thoughts eventually turned to Miss Ginger's body and in short order I was imagining myself plowing into her hairy cunt. That, and the pleasurable feelings generated by my fingers on my stiff cock were enough to blot out everything else in my little universe.

And so, with my eyes closed and my hand a blur as it jerked my cock, I sensed rather than heard the door to my bedroom open.

My eyes few open. My hand leapt away from my cock as if it was molten steel and as the door closed. I heard a muffled, "Ooop's, sorry," and footsteps on the stairs. There was no mistaking it---that had been Miss Ginger's voice.

In my mind, I crawled into the tiniest hole possible and slammed the hatch closed on it. Whatever shame I felt, my cock obviously didn't share it. I stared at it as it jerked inches from my shaking hand--- stiff as a crowbar, waiting for me like a contented cow to finish milking it off.

I thought about my dilemma. How could I bring myself to look her in the eye at our tutoring session only minutes away? Would she mention it in front of my sister, Ashley? Or far worse, would she mention it to my mother?

The more I thought about it the hornier I got, and it wasn't long before I was rubbing another one off, imagining Miss Ginger wanting to handle my big boy for me.

That afternoon before our lesson, Miss Ginger joined Ashley and me at the pool. As usual, my almost perpetual erection surfaced and it was impossible to keep it hidden from Miss Ginger.

However Miss Ginger had caught me whacking off and I had no idea how to handle this certain confrontation. But she said nothing out of the ordinary to me or to Ashley. However I did catch her showing more than a passing interest in my groin, and just like that I began to understand the power of the penis over women. I said women, not girls, with good reason, and will amplify my reasons shortly. It wouldn't be long before I decided to act upon my 'certain knowledge.'

________________________________________

With all sorts of possibilities racing through my mind, my subconscious was also at work and I realized that I had resumed whacking off again.

I closed my eyes and waited for euphoria to overtake me. In my mind's eye, Miss Ginger was diddling herself and smiling at me whilst I watched her through the peephole. I exploded, sending perhaps the biggest load of sperm I'd ever discharged onto the sheets, my hand, and a corner of the blanket.

A few minutes later, Miss Ginger and I found ourselves face to face across the dining room table we used for our lessons. I was quite nervous about this unavoidable confrontation. I had spent considerable time thinking of a way to avoid this meeting, but had come up empty.

Fortunately for me, my sister, Ashley had some inane idea about a story she was writing and kept pestering Miss Ginger who apparently wasn't her usual self. Even I, as self-centered as a teenager can be saw this, but failed to realize its import just then, and so instead of using it to my advantage, I allowed my teenaged mind to wander off again, zeroing in on my lesson for the day, and then going off on various sexual tangents

Needless to say it wasn't long before I had a hard-on evident to anyone who cared to look.

I glanced nervously at my sister, Ashley, who was still engrossed in her stories plot, and therefore not looking at me or the bulge in my slacks. But it took me considerably longer to garner the courage to peek over at Miss Ginger.

She was looking directly at me, or should I say, my erection. "Can't you sit still, Donald?" she said coolly, although I was hardly moving. And then to add to my confusion and embarrassment, she began to discuss Ashley's plot with her, seemingly dismissing me as one might an irritating child.

I doubt that I had been fidgeting up to then, but mortified as I was by her comment, now I couldn't sit still. Moreover, I was thoroughly confused, Miss Ginger had burst into my room and caught me in mid-jack-off only that morning. Now she was treating me like a boy of five or six.

Confusion notwithstanding, my erection remained intact, even seemed to continue to grow, threatening to burst the seams of my slacks and slay the two females in the room. Of course, that was my imagination running amuck. Still, it was a formidable erection, and was certainly becoming a problem of monumental proportions---at least so far as I was concerned.

As best I recollect, two things happened in quick order. First, my sister left the room for some unknown (to me at least) reason. And second, Miss Ginger sighed and got my undivided attention before asking, and I quote: "Are you going to make it go down or not?"

My brain functioned sufficiently to allow me to respond, "Whatever are you talking about. Yes, deny-deny-deny, was my single safe refuge.

This interchange, as it were, provided the impetus for me to make the dammed thing subside in size, at least to the point where it was no longer a major talking point to everyone in the room.

"I can't teach someone whose mind is so obviously elsewhere. Go on, get out of here. And Donald, do something about that, it's nauseating."

And as soon as I got to my room, I did just that.

________________________________________

It was that night that I had my revenge on Miss Ginger. Well, not revenge exactly, but more of pro quid pro as it were. Peeking in on her as she was about to retire for the night, I could see the outline of her legs under the thin summer blanket, one straight out, the other bent at the knee so her thighs were wide apart and higher than her waist. Now this was something I hadn't seen in my other peeping sessions---she closed her eyes, but I knew she couldn't have fallen asleep so soon. More importantly, her hand stirred under the blanket. I knew where that hand was as the genitals, both male and female, are located in approximately the same anatomical area of the body, and further, having jerked off a thousand times under my own blanket.

Miss Ginger was masturbating!

Instant hard on!

A split second later I surmised what had caused Miss Ginger to touch herself like this. It was me! Or more likely, it was my cock. My wonderful, steel-like, thick-veined throbbing prick!

It occurred to me as I jerked off while watching my gorgeous tutor do likewise, that she had not stopped to take her evening bath. Naturally I had a colossally stupid idea; I grabbed my robe and a towel, quietly slipped out of my room and across the hall to the guest bath, to which Miss Ginger had exclusive use.

My nerves grew frayed as I waited impatiently for the tub to fill, and when it was I climbed in and lay down. As quietly as I could I soaped my cock and balls, got them nice and slippery and began a slow stroke, satisfied that having just ejaculated in my room I could do this indefinitely, or at least until Miss Ginger made her greatly anticipated appearance.

I tried to envision her reaction on finding me in her tub playing with my dick. I thought of her doing it---slipping her finger in and out...in and out---Oh, what a lovely picture that was!

I was squeezing the base of my prick to keep from cumming when the bathroom door opened and Miss Ginger took two steps into the bathroom before freezing in mid-step and took in the tableau I'd laid out for her benefit.

You know what they say about the best laid plans often going awry. Mine went down the drain the moment she gave me a disdainful look and said, "You have your own bathroom, I believe. Your mother gave me this one. Would you mind leaving it?"

And before I could form a sensible reply, she added, "Must you constantly play with your doodle, Donald?"

My doodle? I don't think I'd ever heard the term before, but I took her point and covered myself as best I could, climbed out of the tub, accepted the towel she had the good grace to extend to me and abashedly returned to my room.

Twenty minutes later I heard her return to her own room, and now dried and semi-clothed, I went to my peephole. Miss Ginger had just entered the room; and after placing the wet towel on the hamper to dry, let her robe drop forming a puddle of blue on the floor, joined soon after by a pair of her black panties.

I gasped in awed appreciation at this wonderful view of her hairy cunt. It was by far the best look I'd had of it thus far. But the best was yet to come.

Instead of climbing into bed, Miss Ginger settled down in the arm chair and cradled a breast in her hand. Specifically, it was her right hand cupping her left breast, and then she began strumming her thumb over the nipple. The nipple wasted no time in spurting out about a half inch and then she did the same to the other. Then with both nipples thick and stiff, she leaned down and took the right teat into her mouth and gave suck!

I can't tell you how much I wished that it were me nursing away on that teat!

It took me less than four strokes of my cock before I shot a rope of jizm onto my bed, covering a good sized portion of the sheet. And as Miss Ginger switched nipples, my cock remained rampant and I continued deriving pleasure with each and every stroke.

But she was not done. After nursing on her teats for several delightful minutes, she hooked a leg over the arm of the chair. I had this ghoulish thought that her cunt was an eye and was staring right at me through the peephole. I took several deep breaths and managed to compose myself, at least to the point where I resumed looking through the hole and was rewarded with fantastic view of her fleshy nether lips and somewhat shiny opening, just a slit, actually, but I knew what lay inside!