Mrs. McConnal XVIII

Note From The Editor: The writer of this very nice story sent it to me and asked to remain anonymous. However, I have his e-mail address, so if you want to tell him what you think about his story you can email me ([email protected]) and I will make sure he gets your comments.

Chapter Eighteen: A New Experience

The summer of my 13th birthday was also the summer I discovered psilocybin mushrooms, magic mushrooms as they are often called. I first read about them in a book about Indians in the southwest, and later read that Indians in the south east had used them also. Their main growing place nowadays was in cow patties, which provides a lot of nutrients for them. The spores pass through a cow's digestive system and then can stay dormant for weeks, even months if necessary, in the piles of manure waiting for a warm rain to make things right enough for them to grow.

So, on steamy days, after a good summer rain, any cow pasture in our area was covered in one of the most potent psychedelic plants in the world. And at that time they had not yet drawn the attention of busy-body lawyers in the legislature, so were completely legal. (That has since changed, but laws never stopped them from growing - funny how that is.)

One possible drawback to ingesting them is that there are two mushrooms that look very much alike. The psilocybin mushroom is a gray, musty, color. Almost identical to it is a mushroom with an ocher tint to it; that one is deadly. So I checked pictures in herbals I got from the library, and made a point to pick both so I could be certain that I could tell one from the other before trying the right one for the first time.

Dad had friends who raised cows. I had known them since I was little and figured that if I asked first they wouldn't mind me looking over their field after a rain for the mushrooms. They were nice folks. Dad and I had walked their fields with them many times. They knew I wouldn't harass their cows, or leave the gate open or anything like that.

I was up front with them. I told them that I wanted to learn about those mushrooms that grew out of cow patties after a rain. ('That Jeremy, always wanting to learn more about something. Don't you wish all kids were like that?')

The field was covered with them. Rather than picking the first I saw, I roamed the field, first checking out the difference between the two types of mushrooms. Once I assured myself that I knew the right ones from the wrong ones, I let my feet guide me, picking the mushrooms that seemed to call to me to be picked -  the ones that faintly called, "I'm the one for you. Pick me."

I picked about a half dozen, took them back to the house, cleaned them and ate them straight away. Fortunately I had picked a day when I had no obligations and no one was likely to come looking for me.

Within minutes I felt a tremendous kick in my stomach. At first I thought maybe I had picked the wrong ones, but figured that if I had it was too late to do anything about it now since they were evidently already taking effect. I smoked a joint to settle my stomach, and as quickly as the blow had hit me it subsided.

And then . . . holy shit. With no easing in to it, I was higher than I had ever dreamed possible. These things really were powerful. And they had been right here all along. How could modern people have ignored them for so long?

I was moved to get out of the house since things which were not alive were moving all over the place and modern appliances seemed suddenly foreign and alien. We lived with a wood behind us with a path which led down to a creek. In the spring the waters were pretty high and swift, but by summer it was a favorite swimming place of mine. I walked down there and sat in the shade of an old oak tree, on the small beach, to watch the goings on of the world.

Gradually the world, or my perception of it, changed. No longer did trees look like trees nor did the flowing water look like flowing water. I saw everything as one type of energy or another, all fitting perfectly together.

Everything had a life of its own, yet everything was one. And I was a part of everything that was. Instinctively I knew that what I was being shown was real. This was no hallucination. And I knew that this was what I had wanted from church, but could never get it, a oneness with what is divine.

Around sunset, after 6-7 hours at the creek, I made my way back up to the house. I felt that wood nymphs, or some sort of spirits of the forest, were giggling as I walked, laughing at the kid who was paying them a visit but had no idea what he was doing. I didn't mind them laughing at me. I thought it was pretty funny myself.

I was still high. With a brief, "Hi. I'm home." to Mrs. Travis I went straight to my room and began writing poetry.

Without planning what to write, words started flowing from my pen as fast as I could write them. I didn't know what I was going to write until it was written, and by then I was frantically writing more.

I wrote all night and fell asleep, exhausted, with the dawn.

I had thought it sounded pretty good as it was being written. When I awoke that afternoon I read it again. What I had written was a 53 page poem with a meter and rhyme scheme more complex than anything I had ever read before.

It was a story of a world being put to sleep and being hidden by a dark shadow that mimicked death, and being awakened by an adult who died and was reawakened as a child. It included mythological allusions from classical as well as old English sources.

Not bad for a 13 year old.

Needless to say, I knew that if Mrs. McConnal knew that I had taken the mushrooms she would whip me but good. But I also knew that she would love the poem. So that didn't seem to pose a problem since I had no intention of telling her about the mushrooms, but I did have every intention of doing them again as soon as I felt strong enough to handle it (they take a lot out of you).

I could type her a copy, but that didn't seem good enough. So I went to an art supply store and bought some old fashioned dip type pen shafts, some straight nibs (for regular writing) and several flat nibs (for what is now called calligraphy). I also got several large sheets of parchment, and a small book on bookbinding.

Each evening for two weeks I spent carefully copying out the poem I had been given onto the folded and cut sheets of parchment. Then I sewed them together, got some nice paper for a flyleaf and glued it to the book I had made, and then bound the whole thing using a blank binding I had removed from another book.

It was finished only the evening after Mrs. McConnal returned from her trip. I had wanted it to be ready when she returned, but this was OK since I decided that she'd rather see her family and get some rest before having me drop by.

While all this was going on my butt was healing from the blistering that Gloria had given me. I was hoping that she would not tell her mother what I had done to deserve it. I didn't think Pretty Lady would spank me again, since Gloria had done a more than adequate job on her own, but I didn't want Mrs McConnal to know that I had been riding my bike drunk. I wanted her to think I was becoming more responsible, not less so.

At our next lesson I asked Gloria again not to tell her mother what I had done, that it would only upset her.

"She's going to ask how you were, Jeremy, you know that." Gloria reminded me.

"I know, but can't we just keep that between us?" I pleaded.

"You wouldn't lie to her yourself, would you?" she asked.

"No." and I wouldn't if she asked me directly.

"So you wouldn't want me to lie to her would you?"

"No," and after thinking a bit, "but can't you at least wait until I'm here and then tell her? I mean if she asks before that, can't you tell her that you promised me that you'd wait until we were all three together?"

She promised she would.

"And you will tell her that you already spanked me real good for it, won't you? I don't want her to wear me out again the first time I see her." I was begging now. I wanted it to be a happy welcome home, not one where she felt she had to greet me with a blistering.

"Of course I will, little brother. I wouldn't have her spank you again for something I've already spanked you for. What do you take me for?"

Of course Gloria would never do something like that.

So our lessons continued. And I was getting pretty at ease with dancing with her. I especially enjoyed the slow dancing with her, holding her close, even though I was smaller than her it still felt like a comfortable fit. Also, being shorter, it felt more natural to let my hands slide from her waist down to her lively round fanny.

"Jeremy." she would almost sing.

"Hmmm?" as if I didn't know what she was getting to.

"Get your hand off of my butt." still singing so sweetly.

"Oh. I didn't even realize." I would say, never missing a beat in dancing.

"Bull shit." But she still held me and we still danced easily together.

"But you've got such a wonderful butt, Gloria." I meant that from the bottom of my heart. (From the bottom of my heart to the heart of her bottom?)

"You've got a cute bottom, too." she replied. "Would you like me to massage it with my hairbrush again?"

My hands went back to her waist. Oh well, I got to feel her lovely fanny for a few moments. And we were still holding each other. Another advantage to being shorter than her was that my hard dick was not pressing against her stomach as it would have been had I been a little taller. She probably knew it was hard for her anyway, but didn't feel compelled to break away from me.

"And don't forget, Gloria," I added softly with a grin, "You've got 22 licks on your bare fanny coming from me in a few months."

"We'll see." was all the commitment she would make.
 

The End