Brittany Ben And The Mentors

Author's Note and Advisory:

In a nondescript area outside Philadelphia, a secretive men's organization seeks to liberate and empower young, working-class women. To this end, they teach the women to embrace their own sexuality, overcome their inhibitions, and--with the help of the organization's members--put their new beliefs into action.

Sure, why not? Your town probably has an organization just like that, right? The names of these groups vary. The one in your town might be called the Jaycees or the Westport Marxist Study Group, Friends of the Library, Dads for Internet Safety, or something even less clear. The group outside Philadelphia calls itself, simply, the Mentors.

This is a story of how the Mentors changed the lives of two young adults, a man and a woman. Well, two women, if you count Véronique. Three if you count the pastor's wife.

Speaking of the characters.... I have tried to make them act

believably

--which is not the same as acting

admirably

. In particular, readers who want the "good" female characters to be models of purity and fidelity probably will not like this story and probably should stop reading it now.

But I think that headstrong women with imperfect virtue are more fun to read about than perfectly virtuous ones. If Madame Bovary, Lady Chatterley, and O had behaved themselves, who would want to read those books?

For their helpful comments and suggestions on this story, I thank my wife, Tennesseered, JBEdwards, and R.R. --

Peter

* * * * * 1

After six months, I still hadn't managed to make any real friends--let alone find a girlfriend. My new neighbors and colleagues at work weren't hostile--just preoccupied with their own lives, I guess. I began wondering whether accepting that promotion--and the transfer that came with it, to this odd town southwest of Philadelphia--had been that bright an idea.

Brittany Roussel was promoted and transferred here at the same time. We hadn't really known each other--the Home Office is a big place. We saw a little more of each other here in Glenolden--in the parking lot, the elevator--and we made small talk.

Unlike me, Brittany was vivacious, outgoing--not to mention very good-looking. Her short black hair and pretty face crowned a lovely body. I forced myself not to gawk, but--so far as I could tell--her breasts were perfect, to my tastes: medium-sized, long more than wide. Her bottom was round and slim: another plus, in my book. With her good looks and personality, she would stand out in any group. She seemed smart and capable, too. Brittany wasn't in town long before she developed, I gather, a good handful of friends and a boyfriend.

Sick of my isolation and lacking a better remedy, I started attending church. Yes, I was that desperate. But I figured that probably most of the other men in the congregation didn't believe all that doctrine much more than I did but were attending to placate their wives.

How much the women believed, I have no idea. But I knew from experience that unmarried churchgoing girls were every bit as likely to fornicate with you as anyone else was--God bless them. And Episcopalians are usually more relaxed about sex (and everything else) than, say, Baptists or Catholics are. On social issues they were fairly progressive, as I was. Plus their Sunday services maintained a certain dignity. So Sundays found me warming a pew at St. Luke's Episcopal then drinking coffee and chatting at social hour afterwards.

The strategy worked. Three or four months later I was at least casual friends with a half-dozen guys, a couple of the guys' wives, and two or three unattached young women, one of whom I went out on a date with. (Nothing interesting to report there, unfortunately.)

One warm Sunday in July, social hour was held outside on St. Luke's shady lawn. As I was munching on a granola cookie, Jerry Holmes, one of my new pals, drew me aside. After some chitchat he said, "Ben, we think you and the Mentors would be a good fit. Would you have any interest in joining the group?"

"What are the Mentors?" I replied. "Some sort of Christian men's group?"

Jerry smiled. "Hardly.... Originally, yes, that's what it was, back in the 1950s. Let's just say the organization has evolved. Eventually the bishop learned of it and, shall we say, the Mentors and the Episcopal Church parted ways. But the group has its roots here at St. Luke's, and a lot of its members are from the congregation. You got the gender right. It was originally all-male. Now that it's secular, it's still mostly men, but we do have some women members. Mostly lesbians or at least bi, of course, but that's no problem for anyone ... except possibly one or two of their husbands. And of course we interact with other women

very

closely. If you're looking to meet some new people, this is a good way to do it."

I studied Jerry's medium-priced haircut, his WASPy, boyish face, his clear blue eyes. He was giving me a sales pitch, of course, but he seemed pretty much on the level. The group might be worth looking into.

"What's it all about?" I asked. "What do they do?"

"Some of it is just social," Jerry replied. "We have some good times together. But there's a serious side too. You're acquainted with the original Mentor?"

"Yeah, I read the

Odyssey

in college," I said. "Telemachus's tutor. But the term is pretty common these days."

"True. I guess in the 1950s it sounded more esoteric. Anyway, we're sort of involved with education too. Women's education, unlike the guy in Homer. Though I daresay some of the younger men in the group learn a few things as well."

We spied the pastor's wife heading our way. Jerry finished up quickly, pulling out a business card and writing on the back as he spoke. "There's a get-together next Saturday night. If you're interested, come by around eight." He handed me the card. "Dress nice. A bit casual is fine.... Evelyn, hi. You look lovely today. You know Ben Nolan, right?"

Evelyn Brinton clasped my hand and smiled. "Of course," she said, next giving Jerry a hug. I found her attractive: a pretty, outgoing woman with long, brown hair, in her late 30s.

"Good sermon today," Jerry offered. "Didn't you think, Ben? My compliments to Ralph, when you see him. I trust he wasn't referring to you when he was talking about people's 'warm' sins, sins of the flesh? The sins other people always focus on while ignoring all the 'cold' sins around us."

The pastor's wife didn't flinch at Jerry's rather personal jibe. In fact, she smiled. "We're all fallen, Jerry. All sinners. That's the human condition."

I expected her to follow that with, "That's why we need Jesus." Surprisingly, she didn't. With another smile and a few gracious words she took her leave.

"Evelyn and I go 'way back," Jerry explained. "Evelyn and the Mentors go 'way back. Farther than she and Ralph do.... See you Saturday?"

I glanced again at the address on the back of the card. "I'll be there," I said.

* * * * * 2

Driving down Chester Pike, you couldn't tell where one town ended and the next began: Folcroft, Glenolden, Norwood, Prospect Park, Ridley Park.... Once these had been spacious, affluent suburbs, connected to Philadelphia by a Pennsylvania Railroad commuter line. That was a century ago. Commuter trains still ran, but southeast Delaware County was now highly developed, densely populated, and more blue-collar than affluent.

Each town still had a neighborhood of big old houses, tall shade trees, and spacious lawns, though. The address Jerry had given me was for a place like that, on Harrison Avenue in Norwood, just west of Glenolden's border. I parked in the closest spot, a block away, and strolled back. A tall, well-trimmed hedge along the sidewalk blocked the view of the house's first two stories, but the third story and sloping roof had a stately elegance and a wealth of subtle detail you won't find in any new "McMansions."

Halfway across the property the hedge parted, and a flagstone path appeared, running from the sidewalk across a lush lawn to the front door. I could now see that the bottom two stories of the big house were as attractive as the third--all white siding, dark green shutters flanking the many windows, porches here and there.

I found the doorbell and was greeted by an attractive woman in her 30s, blonde, in a pretty dress of yellow silk. Sue, her name turned out to be. Above the bust she wore a small gold pin that featured the letter

M

in fancy script. I guessed--correctly, it turned out--that the initial stood for Mentor and my greeter was one of the organization's few female members. Jerry had told me that these women were mostly lesbians--but you'd never guess that from Sue's appearance or manner.

She asked my name, consulted her smartphone, and then treated me to a sweet smile. "Won't you come in, Ben?" She tapped the screen a few times, held the phone to her ear, and softly said, "Jerry, your guest has arrived." Thirty seconds later, my friend came to the foyer. He thanked Sue, took my elbow, and ushered me past the broad staircase, down a long, walnut-paneled hallway to the right of the stairs, and into a large room.

The room looked elegant but not stuffy. More walnut paneling, leaded glass windows, Persian carpets or good imitations on the floor. Three small chandeliers descended from the tall, coffered ceiling. Stuffed chairs and small sofas in a variety of colors were arranged about the room, with many open spaces in-between. At one end lay a small dance floor, now unused except for conversation.

A large cocktail party seemed to be underway. I'd guess 70 or 80 people were mingling, slightly more men than women. I was pleased to see that I had dressed properly. The younger men, like me, were mostly in decently tailored suits with a fitted dress shirt, no necktie. Many of the older men were in full Brooks Brothers mode--the old Brooks Brothers, back when the name stood for something--while a few wore tuxedos. Each man wore the gold

M

pin on his left lapel. The dozen or so women in their late 30s and above wore the pin on attractive dresses. I recognized four or five of the men in the room from St. Luke's. I would have recognized their wives, too, but I didn't see any.

Most of the women present--a couple dozen--were young. Most were in their 20s; a few, like me, early 30s. All the young women wore dark skirts. Half of them wore white blouses, the top two buttons unfastened, plus a "choker" necklace with a maroon silk band and an ivory-like cameo in front.

The other dozen or so young women in dark skirts were naked above the waist save for chokers with cameo and black band.

I was struck by the wonderful variety of the women's exposed breasts, all of them beautiful. Two pairs were dark brown, the rest various shades of beige. Some of the breasts were a bit sausage-shaped, my personal favorite, others more hemispherical. Some jutted forwards assertively; others offered a surprisingly sexy touch of sag. Each was topped by that bullseye of dark brown or pink or any shade in-between, with an outer circle of any size from a dime to a silver dollar. And not a single breast was the exact mirror-image of its mate. Who could possibly decide which pair was loveliest? They were all wonderful--even the smallest, which graced a petite girl from east Asia, I'd guess Vietnam. I began to reconsider my previous opinion that my colleague Brittany Roussel had cornered the market on tit perfection.

Jerry affixed a pin to my lapel: a gold

M

in a plainer style than the others. "The ladies in the black chokers--if your gaze were to wander up that high--are our latest pride and joy ... our graduating class of mentees. The ladies in the maroon chokers with their blouses still on are our entering class, officially beginning the program tonight. It's a happy occasion for all of us. Of course many of the new girls are feeling nervous and hesitant, probably having second thoughts about what they're getting themselves into. The graduating class understands that--they felt the same way nine months ago--and they give the new class lots of support and encouragement. Lots of private testimonials about how the program has empowered them and how grateful they are. Of course our graduates become our best recruiters, too. Your pin, by the way, indicates you have most of the rights of a full member, for tonight at least. Here, I'll show you."

A pretty redhead--topless, black choker--was passing nearby, a mixed drink in each hand. "Margaret, do you have a minute?" he called to her.

"Of course," she replied, setting the drinks on a small table nearby and joining us.

"This is Ben. He's new. Would you give him a nice welcome?"

Margaret looked into my eyes and gave me a smile, which I returned. Then, putting one hand behind my head, her opposite arm around my back, she brought her lips to mine and gave me a long and lovely kiss. After several seconds, I tried putting my tongue into her mouth. She accepted it, caressed it with her own tongue, then gave hers to me. My cock continued stiffening. Before that could become a social problem, though, Margaret brought the kiss to a graceful end.

"Welcome, Ben," she said, with another warm smile. "I'm glad you could join us."

"Margaret, I'm sure Ben would enjoy fondling your breasts. Would you mind?"

"Of course not." With another smile, she straightened her back, raised her chin an inch or two, and brought her arms to her sides. I brought a hand to each breast, looked into her pretty green eyes, and fondled her tits lovingly. They were medium-sized at most, perhaps a little smaller than average, but with a lovely shape and texture including a delightful bit of sag. Her pink nipples stiffened along with my cock.

"Thank you, Margaret," I said, ending the caress after a minute.

"My pleasure, Ben. I hope we'll meet again.... Jerry, I had better deliver those drinks. I'm already risking another spanking." At that point she and Jerry gave each other a little look and a little smile.

"You won't be a stranger after graduation?"

"No. I promise." With another smile for me, she picked up the two drinks and departed.

Jerry steered me over to the buffet table, talking as we chose our canapés and pieces of fresh fruit. "There'll be less intimate contact tonight than at a normal meeting, unfortunately. We start the new girls off gradually, give them time to adjust to a new and healthier lifestyle and perspective. And the graduating class doesn't need any more training: they've all passed their exams with flying colors. Though probably you'll see a number of couplings with the new graduates 'for old times' sake.' I hope to get a crack at Margaret myself tonight, but we'll have to see. She's pretty well liked by the members."

"That flaming-orange hair is stunning," I offered. "With those natural looking eyebrows and eyelashes to match."

"Yes," Jerry agreed. "You should see her curly red bush. Well, the program does that for a woman. Makes her feel much better about, much happier with, her wonderful body. Much less inclined to pluck things out or shave things off, punch holes in things ... enlarge things, reshape things... dye things different colors. Let alone ink childish cartoons all over everything. Leg hair still has to go, of course. Western civilization is nowhere near ready to accept natural legs on a woman, certainly not on a brunette. But pubic hair is still allowed, thank God. Margaret even started feeling good enough about her body to let her underarm hair grow back. You have to look closely to see it, though. It's thin and sparse and of course light-colored. Did you notice? Most people don't. During the program, both of our Black graduates stopped straightening their hair. Now they're even more beautiful--not to mention better adjusted. Nobody objects to

a little

artifice, of course. Nail polish and a little eye shadow are fine, and

everybody

likes lipstick."

Jerry made his leave, promising he'd get back to me later and delivering me into the hands of two members of the Brooks Brothers contingent. They were also members of the Membership Committee--as was Jerry, too, I discovered later. The two gents--Walt Boswick and Martin somebody--conducted me to a smaller, comfortably furnished room that looked like a man's home office or study. A woman, about 40, rose to greet me. I recognized her from St. Luke's. At the very last useful instant, I recalled her name.

"Hello Glenda," I said. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise, Ben. Why don't we all sit and relax?" We filled the four armchairs surrounding a small glass table and chatted for 20 or 30 minutes.

Early on, I got the feeling that membership in the Mentors was mine if I wanted it. The purpose of our chat seemed mainly to give me a sales pitch for the organization and to demonstrate to some important members that I would fit in well. I put on my best job-interview manners and personality.

Membership would not be cheap. They had a $2,000 initiation fee, annual dues of twice that, and occasional special-purpose assessments. I figured I could afford it if I kept my small apartment for another year or two, put off buying a new car, and cooked more of my own meals. In return, the gain for my private life would be incalculable.

"Normally, we'd give a new member at least a year to acclimatize, learn the ropes, get his feet wet... choose your metaphor," Glenda was saying. "In your case--should you decide to join us--there's some pressure to make you a case manager right away."

"Case manager?" I asked.

"It's all explained in the handbook Martin gave you, Ben. In a nutshell: each girl in training is assigned one member who watches out for her individual best interests. For example, from time to time you may have to tell other members that the mentee isn't yet ready to have such-and-such experience that would normally be on the calendar at that point. Then your task is to get her up to speed as quickly as possible. The job requires good skills in "reading" people, good teaching skills, and diplomacy as well. That's why case managers are usually experienced members.... Of course all of us will be glad to give you all the help and guidance in this that we can." The two men looked at me and nodded their heads in agreement.

"May I ask where the pressure to appoint me a case manager comes from?"

"That's a reasonable question," said Walt Boswick. "On the surface, from a Mentor named William Irwin. In fact, I surmise, from the new mentee herself, Brittany..." He paused.

"Roussel," said Glenda. "Yes, your colleague, Ben... and Bill Irwin's lover. That intimate relationship disqualifies him from being case manager for anyone in this new class. Apparently Bill told Brittany that you were being considered for membership. Brittany said she feels comfortable around you and wanted you for her case manager. What Brittany wants, Bill wants, and Bill carries some weight in this organization. Please don't indicate to Brittany that you know any of this.... You didn't see her tonight at the reception?"

"No," I replied. "I think I may have been distracted by the graduating class."

Glenda smiled. "Soon the graduates will dress, and the new class will undress, and then perhaps you'll notice Brittany. Her breasts are especially lovely... as I'm sure you've come to suspect."

"Yes, I have."

"Well, you'll get to see them at last," Glenda said. "And here's even better news for you. As you have probably discovered, when a woman says she feels comfortable around you, that usually means your chance of having sex with her is about zero. But a mentee always has sex with her case manager, multiple times. He needs very intimate communion with her to quickly understand the nuances of her feelings, her areas of comfort and discomfort, her general mental tone and styles. Also, she needs to feel close enough to him that she'll trust his judgment. In bed with Brittany, you're just doing your job ... but you're allowed to enjoy it, too. Brittany understands this, and of course Bill understands it well. But try not to overstep. You don't want to make an enemy of Bill."