Adult Image Library 2/Adult_Image_Library_Volume_2.iso/stories/neighbor.txt

Text File | 1996-08-27 | 61.1 KB | 996 lines

    I live in a suburban community adjacent to one of the nation's
largest western cities.  It's a compromise: I'd live farther out but
then I'd have to leave *really* early in the morning to get to work
downtown.  Even so, I might consider getting farther away from the urban
sprawl, but I'm divorced and I got the house; my ex moved back east and
took the savings account.  So I stay.
    More specifically, I live between two cops and across the street
from another, a fact which does *not* make me feel particularly secure.
On one side is a retired suburban cop.  He has serious problems with
both his back and his drinking and he doesn't get out much, though his
rather dumpy wife is out there fiddling with the soaker hoses in good
weather.
    Across the street is a retired German cop from Chicago who moved
here to be near his kids.  His house and yard are organized and tidy to
the point of cliche and he has a cyclone fence around his front yard as
well as the back.  He also keeps an eye on everyone on the block, as if
hoping to spot some activity he can report to the Gestapo.
    On the other side of my house, the kitchen side, is where the only
working cop around here lives -- or used to.  He's about my age,
mid-30s, and a SWAT-team member.  When my cat wandered into his open
garage a couple years ago, SWAT (which is what I called him behind his
back) caught the beast in a burlap sack, hung the sack on my
door-knocker, and attached a note to the effect that he'd shoot the damn
cat the next time he saw it.  No, people like this do not increase my
sense of safety and well-being.
    SWAT has (or had) a very attractive wife, though -- a tall,
slender, leggy blonde named Carol, with a twangy voice and come-along
eyes.  She's kind of a fitness freak, out jogging at 7 a.m. when I'm
climbing into my car, or pushing an old-fashioned mechanical lawn mower
at a fast walk.  But she knows what she's doing: There's no sag on her
anywhere and when she dresses up she can shave eight or ten years off
her age of 35.  We didn't often speak (you just have to assume a SWAT
cop will be the jealous type), but she always waved cheerfully whenever
she saw me.
    Carol was one of the captains of the High Hats, which is the local
high school's pep squad.  They wear cowboy hats and boots, and short
skirts with fringe, and they specialize in a chorus-line high-kick.
Carol certainly looks the part.  She had, I believe, one year of
business courses at the junior college and then married SWAT.  And they
had one kid, a daughter named Stephanie, now almost sixteen and a
sophomore at the same high school.  She looks very much like her mother
and, naturally, she's also a high-kicking High Hat.


    About ten months ago, it dawned on me that I hadn't seen SWAT's
pickup in the driveway lately.  The Old Kraut across the street told me
Carol had thrown him out of the house, cause unknown, a week or so
earlier.  I looked closely the next couple of times I saw Carol working
in her yard.  She didn't seem noticeably broken up about the break-up
and I got the usual smile and wave.  Interesting fantasy material.  My
job requires me to work a couple Saturdays a month, which means -- since
the firm is not about to shell out for overtime -- that I can take a
comp day during the week.  And, since I'm not a weekend sports nut and
I'm not dating with any enthusiasm, I look forward to those weekdays
off.  I can watch daytime television in my shorts, I can take in an
early matinee at the mall multiplex and have the theater almost
completely to myself, I can go shopping in the middle of the day and not
have to fight the crowds.  No skateboarding twelve-year-olds, no teenage
drivers playing Bumper Cars in the parking lots.
    Carol went back to work after ditching SWAT, partly because she
undoubtedly needed the money, and maybe just to get out of the house.  I
assumed SWAT was paying child support but that doesn't go very far.  I
knew she was working somewhere as a receptionist, which didn't surprise
me, given her lack of formal education and job experience.  But she sure
knew how to dress for the job and was no doubt both efficient and
ornamental in her office.
    I knew about her dress style because, on my first weekday off after
she joined the work force, I happened to be standing at my kitchen sink,
looking idly out the window.  It was about 8:30 and I would never have
seen her on an ordinary morning, leaving as early as I do.  But that
morning, as I rinsed out my coffee mug, she came marching out her front
door and down the driveway to her car, which she always backed into her
driveway as if prepared for a fast getaway.  Her hair was done up nicely
in a cloud of curls and she was wearing a very flattering business suit,
the jacket draped over her arm.  Tight blouse, rather thin.  Her tits
weren't very large but I've always preferred quality over quantity --
and her profile between neck and waist was definitely quality.  Her
skirt ended about halfway up her thigh.
    She had plenty of muscle -- I knew that from watching her snap off
tree limbs that I would have to use a saw on -- but they were long and
flat and feminine, not the bulgy type.  And her heels were much higher
than I had ever seen her wear before.  Those long, gorgeous legs, plus
the heels, plus the great physical condition she kept herself in, all
combined to give the impression of a coiled spring.  A mesmerizing
sight.
    She opened the passenger side of her Corolla and put her purse and
jacket on the seat.  Then she paused, shielded from the street by the
open car door ... but not shielded from me.  She bent her head back over
her shoulder, checking out the way her clothing hung, I guess.  The
movement tightened the seat of her skirt and put her small, tight ass
into profile.  I just stood there and stared as my cock stiffened --
which was just as well since she was only about fifty feet away and
probably would have noticed any movement at my kitchen window.
    She glanced up and down the block, saw no one, and hiked up her
tight skirt, smoothing and tugging her pantyhose up her legs.  I mean, I
had seen her mowing the lawn in running shorts plenty of times, but this
was different: I wasn't *meant* to see this.  When the skirt got up
around her hips, I broke into a sweat.  God, I thought, I'd love to put
my hands where hers were!
    She untangled her slip, or whatever she was adjusting, and
carefully pulled her skirt back down into place, turning it and tugging
it until it hung the way she wanted it to.  Then she closed the
passenger door, *click-clicked* around to the other side of the car,
hopped in, revved up, and left.  I was glued to the kitchen counter for
another ten minutes, thinking about what I had just seen.
    After that, whenever I was around the house in the morning, I tried
to station myself near the kitchen window about the time I estimated
Carol was due to leave.  Usually, my reward was just a thirty-second
parade down the driveway, but that was okay.  She was always tall and
straight and nice to look at.  (If nothing else, the High Hats had
taught her correct posture.)
    Sometimes she wore slacks (covering most of her high heels almost
to the ground, which I consider sexy), but she mostly preferred skirts.
And, every so often, she would pause to use her thumb as a shoehorn, or
to wiggle her slip into place, or to adjust a bra strap.  I considered
keeping my old camera handy but that seemed a little *too* lecherous --
and besides, she might hear the shutter click, or see a reflection from
the lens, or something.
    One Friday morning last spring, when I had the day off and had
taken up my usual post, she came out the front door and paused suddenly
with the door still ajar.  I thought I could just make out the ringing
of a phone.  In her hurry to answer it, she left her front door open and
I eased my window up an inch or two.  Her raised voice came through
pretty clearly though I couldn't make out the words.  Must be talking to
ol' SWAT, I thought, and smiled.  Threaten *my* cat, would he?
    A minute or so later she left again, slamming her front door and
stalking down the drive with a stormy look on her face.  Her skirts had
gradually been getting shorter and her heels a little higher.  This
skirt was about eight inches above the knee and her long, purposeful
strides really showed off her calves.  Her tires squealed as she
rocketed out of her driveway and I was glad she had no reason to be
angry at *me*.
    When the mailman wandered by that day, he managed to lose Carol's
VISA statement in among my stuff, so I was keeping an eye out for her
return late that afternoon.  I watched as she pulled in and climbed
wearily out of her car; she never walked as fast in the evening as she
did in the morning.  I had seen Stephanie hit the house about 4:00 and
immediately leave again with a gang of friends in a station wagon.
    I counted to fifty after Carol closed her door and sauntered over
in clean levis and a clean polo shirt -- practically dress-up for a comp
day.  She answered her doorbell and looked at me a bit blankly.  She
knew perfectly well who I was but I'd never had occasion to come to her
door before.  Then she remembered her manners, said "Hi," and gave me
her Professional Receptionist smile.
    "The postman mixed up our mail and I wouldn't want to deprive you
of this," I said with a smile and held up the VISA bill.  It was a thick
one, too.
    "Gee, thanks -- just what I needed."  She took the envelope and
weighed it in the palm of her hand with a wry grin.  She had let her
nails grow and they complemented her long, tapering fingers.  Okay, I
thought -- that's that.  I sort of nodded and turned to go but she
seemed to make a spur-of-the-moment decision and pulled her door all the
way open.
    "Mike -- um, are you in a hurry to get someplace?"
    "Noooo...."  There was almost a plea in her eyes.
    "Would you like a-- a beer?  Or something?"  I'll take "or
something," I thought and was careful not to look down at those legs.  I
shrugged and tried to put on a neutral but neighborly smile.
    "Yeah, sure.  I'd love a beer."
    I walked into Carol's neatly-kept living room and she shut the
door.  I stood there wondering if I should sit down while she went to
kitchen, but as she headed that way she gestured for me to follow.  She
was still wearing those super-heels and her bottom shifted nicely under
the short skirt.  Her blazer was already off and she looked very demure
in her sleeveless white blouse.  Her hair was brushed back in a tight
ponytail that wouldn't have looked out of place on her fifteen-year-old
daughter.  I was even attracted by the silky stray wisps of blonde on
the back of her neck.
    She handed me a Bud Draft from the refrigerator and took another
for herself (never trust anyone who drinks "lite" beer).  She raised an
eyebrow.
    "Need a glass?"
    "Not really, no."
    "Good."  She twisted the cap off her bottle with less effort than I
required and smiled again.  "I like it straight from the cold bottle,
myself."  She had smiled at me more in the past five minutes than she
had in the previous year.
    As I opened my own bottle and set the cap on the counter next to
hers, she took a long, ladylike swig and sighed.
    "I dunno, I seem to be buying more beer than I used to, even with
Jerry gone."
    Jerry?  Oh, yeah: SWAT.  Since she had apparently asked me in to
listen while she talked, I kept quiet.  Anyway, I was in no position to
give anyone advice about ex-spouses.
    Carol turned back to the living room and I followed.  Once there,
she sat in the middle of the sofa, which meant I would have to sit very
close to her if I joined her there; I took the overstuffed chair
instead, keeping my antennae out for any signal of why I was there.
    "Being a single parent is a bi--, it's no fun," she amended.  She
slipped off one shoe and massaged the sole of her foot.
    "I imagine so," I replied sympathetically.  Carol knew I had no
children -- I'd had a vasectomy when I was 25 -- but I gathered a reply
was expected.  All I knew about raising kids came from TV and from the
horror stories I heard parents tell at work.  I watched as she took off
her other shoe and sighed again.  Then she caught me watching and looked
a bit sheepish.
    "These heels really make my feet hurt, but receptionists are
supposed to 'dress to kill', so..."
    I gave her what I hoped was an understanding leer.  "Works for me,"
I said.  "You like very nice in them."
    Carol blushed slightly, which kind of surprised me.  She was very
much the independent, self-sufficient, blowout-changing, non-blushing
type.
    "I see you sometimes, watching me when I go to work in the
mornings."  She was carefully studying the instep she was rubbing.
    Oops.  Caught in the act, eh?  Better come clean, I thought.
"Well, the first time was just a coincidence, but I confess I watch when
I have the opportunity.  You're a very attractive waker-upper.  Seeing
you march down your driveway kind of jump-starts my respiration," I
added, placing a hand dramatically over my chest.
    She stared at me for just an instant and then laughed -- a
wonderfully musical laugh of genuine amusement that I had never heard
from her before.  I liked it.
    "Well, *you* don't have to wear the damn things," she said.  "What
women go through...."  Followed by a loud mock-sigh.  But she continued
to work on her instep.  I weighed the possibilities.  I was certainly
attracted to my neighbor, physically anyway, and I wouldn't turn down
the chance for a little horseplay should it come my way.  On the other
hand, she *was* my neighbor, and if I made too strong a move and she
became indignant,... well, it could make life on this end of the block
very uncomfortable and I had no plans to move anytime soon.  On the
*other* other hand....
    "Carol,... I hope this doesn't sound like a come-on, and you can
tell me to just take a hike, but I actually *have* had some training at
giving foot rubs and I'd be happy to do that for you...."
    I had, too.  My ex-wife had had weak ankles and her feet used to
kill her if she had to stand too long.  She had taught me the finer
points of foot and lower leg massage while we were dating and my reward
was usually worth the effort I put into it.
    Carol looked at me thoughtfully and evidently decided I was "safe."
She shouldn't have worried so much.  In those heels she was almost
exactly my height and I knew she was perfectly capable of decking me if
I made an unwanted move.  She licked her lips, set her empty beer bottle
on the side table, and stood up.
    "Deal," she said.  "Wait here just a minute, okay?"  And she picked
up her shoes and headed back toward her bedroom.  I thought about it
while I waited.  What I had offered was a "gift" (I thought).  "Deal"
implied something given for something received: a contract.  I'm a
cautious person by nature but sometimes I think about things too much,
and this was one of those times.
    I heard a toilet flush somewhere in the back of the house and
gulped the last of my beer.  Carol came back, still in her short skirt
but without her pantyhose.  She sat on the sofa again, at one end this
time, and patted the middle cushion.  I moved over from the armchair and
sat, and she turned and laid those slim, trim calves across my lap.  She
also watched me out of the corner of her eye.  Very nice indeed, but I
was supposed to massage her feet so I regretfully moved away to the far
cushion.
    Carol had surprisingly small feet for such a tall, leggy woman.
I'm one of those men who catalogs details about a woman rather than
merely enjoying the big picture.  I'm not a fetishist by any means, but
I have certain ideas and ideals about a woman's hands, feet, eyes, ears,
whatever.  My "perfect woman" would probably be an impossible anatomical
jigsaw puzzle.  Carol's small feet, narrow toes, and slender, almost
delicate ankles got a very high score from me.
    I picked up each foot, laced my fingers through the toes, and
carefully popped the joints.  Then I set to work separating the tight
cords of muscle and running my thumbs firmly down the hamstrings.  From
the "oooh..." and "ahhh..." sounds Carol was making, I still had the
touch.
    With my hand flat on the bottom of one foot, I bent it slowly
forward, then back, then to each side, stretching the tendons.  Then the
other foot.  By the time I had finished kneading the balls of her feet
twenty minutes later, Carol was so relaxed I wondered if she was going
to fall right off the sofa.  Her eyes were half-closed.
    I gave her shin a little pat and let my hand rest there.  "How was
that?"
    "God, you're good," she replied with a warm, lazy smile.  "Can I
put you on retainer?"  She didn't seem inclined to remove her feet -- in
fact, she was slowly wiggling her toes -- so I stretched my arm along
the back of the sofa and gazed back at her.  I was a little afraid to
leave my hand on her shin; I wanted so badly to stroke her calf and
thigh.  Be a gentleman and maybe she'll invite you back.
    Perhaps Carol was tapped into my thoughts because she drew up her
knees a few inches so she could prop the soles of her feet against my
thigh.  The movement made her already dangerously short skirt ride up
even higher; another inch and I'd know what color panties she was
wearing.  I tried not to look at the curve of her smooth, tanned
legs,... or, at least, not to stare.
    She tucked one arm behind her head and I invested a few seconds in
studying her armpit, of all places.  She seemed smooth and sleek
everywhere.  And she was giving me another of those thoughtful,
measuring looks.
    "Mike,... why haven't you ever come over here before?  Like this, I
mean, just as a neighbor?  We've lived next door to each other for
years...."  I raised my eyebrows; she certainly knew the answer to that
one.  But she had a puzzled expression that seemed genuine, so maybe she
didn't.
    "Well, to be honest, I never had much use for SWA--, for Jerry.
And I got the impression that he would *not* have liked other men
visiting his wife when he wasn't around."  I tried to look apologetic.
"Sorry if that's blunt, but you asked.  I sure wasn't avoiding you,
though."
    "Really?  As bad as that?"  She looked annoyed.  "There was another
guy in the neighborhood, he looked so lonely when his wife went out of
town for a month.  I tried to invite him over for dinner with us, just
being friendly.  He got real nervous and turned me down, and it seemed
like he was avoiding me after that.  I never even thought about Jerry
making other men skittish.  Shit."  She gave my leg an emphatic little
push with her feet.  "Mike, I'm sorry.  I never thought about it like
that."
    "No problem," I said.  "I've always made it a policy to avoid guys
who routinely carry automatic weapons.  Besides, I'm here now."
    "Yeah," she agreed, as her toes curled against my thigh.  "You
are."  The smile was softer this time and freighted with possible
messages and meanings, if I only had a Secret Decoder Ring.  I was never
any good at flirting like this.  Maybe I should just be honest about it.
    "Carol, I'm afraid you're going to think I'm hopeless."  I took a
chance and stroked the top of one foot; she didn't draw it back.  "I
don't date very much -- never did, really -- and even then it's just
social.  Someone to go see a movie with -- you know."  She was watching
me sympathetically so I went on.
    "What I mean is, I'm completely out of practice at this kind of
thing.  I like you, I really do.  I guess I'm just not sure where the
boundaries are anymore.  You see my problem?"  My expression must been
something because she laughed a little and her eyes danced with tolerant
amusement.
    "You're very refreshing, you know that?  All I ever hear at work is
bragging and stupid pick-up lines, mostly from guys who are already
married anyway.  But I haven't heard anything like this since junior
high...."
    I felt my face heat up with embarrassment.  Sympathy, I could use
-- but not pity or insults.  I must have tensed up or something because
Carol immediately sat up and swung around to sit right next to me.  Her
hip pressed against mine and she held my hand in both of hers.
    "Hey, I'm sorry -- I wasn't making fun of you, Mike, honest."  She
squeezed my hand, which made me feel a lot better.  Then she pulled my
arm down from its perch along the back of the sofa and arranged it over
her shoulder.  "How's that?"
    "That" was terrific.  Then she leaned her head back against my
chest and looked at me expectantly.  I was out of practice but I wasn't
dead.  If I passed up her invitation she would never offer me another.
I reached over and brushed her cheek, so soft and smooth, with my
fingertips.  And, cupping her chin in my hand, I kissed her, gently and
thoroughly.
    It had been five years since I had kissed any woman like this --
fifteen years since any woman other than my ex-wife.  Carol moved into
it, pressing back with her lips, reaching up to touch my throat, sighing
into my open mouth.  It was a feeling I had almost completely forgotten
-- the pure pleasure of kissing a pretty girl who's enthusiastically
kissing you back.  My pulse rate rose about twenty notches and my toes
felt warm.
    It was a long kiss but it finally tapered off and ended.  I combed
my fingers through that long hair and stared at her face from two inches
away.  The only thing I could say was "Wow...."
    The corner of her mouth quirked.  "Thank you, Mike.  It's nice to
know I can still leave a man speechless."
    "You just burned a hole in my brain, lady.  I'm totally shorted out
... and I'd like to do it again, please."  I touched my nose to hers.
    She laughed and held me off with a symbolic hand placed lightly
against my chest.  "I like it, too.  It's been too long since a guy
kissed me like that.  And I'm beginning to think I want to do more than
just kiss you.  But we're grown-ups and we need to agree first on just
what's going to happen here.  I don't want misunderstandings or feelings
being hurt.  I could get that from Jerry...."  She stroked my cheek and
spoke softly, I suppose so it wouldn't sound so cold-blooded.
    I smiled.  "If we're going to negotiate terms of surrender, I think
I'm entitled to counsel."  She giggled this time and thumped me gently
with that strong little fist.  I'd never heard Carol giggle before,
either -- girlish and sophisticated, cute and sexy.  I liked it as much
as her laugh.
    "Dummy.  I just want to make sure we stay friends,... along with
anything else we may become.  I'm trying to play it safe for both of us,
Mike."
    It wasn't a bad idea, really, setting guidelines in advance; *I*
was the one who had told her I wasn't sure about the boundaries any
longer.  It still sounded a little strange, though.  But just having a
woman like Carol as a real friend, someone I could relax and watch TV
with, and gossip with over coffee, was more than I could have hoped for.
I guess I hadn't realized, until that moment, just how lonely I
sometimes got for the company of a woman.
    We leaned back against the sofa, still only a few inches apart, and
I took her hand and intertwined my fingers with hers.  "You make the
rules," I said, "and I'll go along with whatever you decide to do,... as
long as we can be friends."
    "Well,... we don't have to have *rules*," she replied as she traced
designs with one fingernail on the back of my hand.  It gave me
goosebumps all the way up to my shoulder.  "Just whatever we both feel
comfortable with.  I'm not in love with you and you're not in love with
me.  This is a physical relationship, for fun, right?  Like, I *really*
want to kiss you again, Mike.  I want to spend the evening necking and
making out, like a couple of teenagers.  But--" (she squeezed my hand
for emphasis) "--I'm not ready to go to bed with you.  Not yet.  Okay?"
    "Deal," I said.  This time it really *was* a contract, with
something to be gained on both sides.  And then I got a little silly and
leaned forward and licked the tip of her nose.  She giggled again and
ducked her head.  I kissed the part in her hair, inhaling the sweet
fragrance of her.  There was a song in my heart, oh yes, oh yes.
    When she lifted her face and held my head between her hands, I felt
like I was about to be devoured, and I was looking forward to it.  She
came in sneaky, nibbling my lower lip and moving her tongue across my
incisors.  I inhaled deeply and moved my hands up and down her sides,
enjoying the solid presence of her ribs.  Her tits needed to be explored
but there was no hurry; I wanted to torment both of us a little while
longer.  My mouth opened wide and she ran her tongue all around the
inside.  It *was* like a high school make-out session, but we weren't
overexcited and fumbling -- well, not fumbling, anyway.
    When she moved around to the side of my head and poked her tongue
in my ear, I took the opportunity to put my arms all the way around her
and zeroed in on her neck.  The slight tang of that morning's perfume
mixed with a little dried salt-sweat and flavored her skin perfectly.  I
licked and nibbled at the base of her throat and she groaned a little
and held me just as tightly.
    We went on like that for twenty or thirty minutes, ending up
sprawled against the sofa arm, Carol lying almost on top of me.  Her
lipstick and mascara were smeared passionately, some of it on me.  We
had stuck pretty close to her program, mostly avoiding erogenous zones
we couldn't back out of.
    It was funny, but I was enjoying this feverish mouth-play so much I
didn't even have much of an erection.  It was more subtle than that.
There were no emotional demands, no commitments.  I had nothing to prove
and she had nothing to protect.  Most of our arousal seemed to be in our
heads and I was content with that for this evening.  Carol in my arms, a
willing and adorable woman who demanded nothing from me beyond physical
enjoyment, was an absolute joy.  Even if we never progressed beyond
this, I was happier than I had been in a very long time.
    When we finally came up for air, both of us red in the face and
short of breath, Carol surprised me again.  She pushed herself upright
from where she had been draped across my body, pulled me to a sitting
position, and stood up just long enough to settle herself astride my
lap, facing me.  She hiked her rumpled skirt up about her hips in the
process.
    Since she had made no move to undo my slacks, I decided this must
be the at-home version of a table dance, so I sat back and waited,
running the palms of my hands up and down those marvelous bare legs.
Her calves were more prettily muscled than most athletic teenagers I've
seen, smooth and soft-looking on the surface but with shifting tensions
beneath.
    She gave me a don't-give-a-damn grin and quickly unbuttoned her
blouse.  My cock came out of hibernation and began to assert itself.
Then the blouse was flung on the armchair and she sat back on my knees
to await my reaction.  Her bra was new-looking and white and lacy.  Her
breasts were small but full and ripe and the push-up cups seemed ready
to overflow.  Her collarbone and her stomach were evenly tanned and
provided a striking backdrop for all that virginal lace.
    I sat up so I could put my arms around her waist and buried my nose
in her cleavage.  She ran her fingers through my hair and pulled my head
even closer.  I wanted badly to discover what she was hiding and I put a
fingertip on the front closure of her bra and glanced up.  She licked
her lips and nodded.  I unhooked the garment and drew it slowly back off
her shoulders, then tossed it on the chair with her blouse.
    Carol had beautiful tits -- and not just "for someone her age."
She'd had one child, after all.  But their modest size and her program
of regular exercise had kept them high and firm.  The didn't jiggle when
she changed position, they vibrated.  The flesh was only lightly tanned
and bathing suit marks were clearly visible.  I took in these peripheral
details slowly, savoring each one, before I allowed myself to focus on
the pink, protruding nipples that seemed to be staring at me.
    I cupped those luscious breasts in my hands and squeezed just a
little.  A tremor went through her body and she took a ragged breath.  I
smiled up at her and leaned forward to take one bright bud between my
lips.  When I moved my tongue across the tip, she sucked in between her
teeth and clutched at my head again.
    As my mouth explored her tits, my hands pushed her short skirt up
around her hips; I wanted to caress that bouncy little bottom, even
through her panties.  Third surprise: My fingers found only round,
smooth, slightly yielding Carol.  It took a bit more manual exploration
to discover that she was wearing a slender thong.  The picture that put
in my mind stiffened my cock even more.  I knew she could feel my penis
moving against the inside of her thigh, even through my slacks, because
she twitched a leg muscle in response, but she otherwise chose to ignore
it.
    I squeezed her solid little ass and sucked strongly on those
beautiful tits and Carol writhed and moaned.  And when I paused for
breath, she quickly hopped up again and shucked her skirt, posing for a
moment in the red satin thong that was her only remaining cover.  The
panties were also symbolic, I understood that; as long as she wasn't
quite naked, she had established her limits for this first encounter.
Then she was back on my lap, pushing me against the back of the sofa and
arching her spine so my face was buried in tits.  Her aggressive,
unabashed sexuality was as much a turn-on as her lovely body.
    My hands moved up and down her thighs and over her ass again,
massaging, stroking, squeezing -- soaking up the "aliveness" of her body
through my touch.  She felt wonderful.  Her humming moans were proof
that she was enjoying the experience as much as I.
    Just as she whispered "Suck it...," I caught a hint of movement
from the corner of my eye.  Her right nipple and half her breast were in
my mouth and I didn't release them as I turned my head slightly.


    Fifteen-year-old Stephanie stood in the kitchen doorway in cutoffs
and a tee-shirt, an empty plastic water glass in her hand.  Her eyes
were wide and startled and her mouth hung open.  I looked at her blankly
but continued to suck on her mother's tit.  My mind had simply quit
functioning.
    "Jeeze, Mom...!"  Carol's eyes snapped open and her head turned
just in time to see a whirl of blonde curls disappearing back into the
kitchen.
    "Oh, shit -- she's back early.  Must have come in through the back
door."  Carol sat back on my lap, hands still resting on my shoulders,
and looked after her daughter uncertainly.  We heard a bedroom door
slam.
    As Carol climbed off my lap and picked up her blouse -- I noticed
she didn't bother with the bra -- I felt my cock rapidly going limp with
disappointment.  I sighed inwardly and said "I guess I'd better be
getting out of here...."
    As I clambered up from the sofa, Carol put out a hand.  "Mike,
please don't go -- please?  We have unfinished business, don't we?  I
just need to go have a talk with my daughter."  Then she hooked her arms
around my neck and kissed me again, softly this time.  "I really want
you to stay, okay?"
    How could I turn down a request like that?  I leaned against the
hall doorframe and watched Carol walk purposefully down the hall to her
daughter's room.  The blouse covered her bottom, though not by much, and
those long legs emerging from beneath her shirttail,... wow, indeed.
    I wondered whether I shouldn't just leave quietly anyway; it could
be very difficult to remain friends with Carol if her daughter hated me.
I didn't try to eavesdrop but Carol must have known I'd be concerned
about Stephanie because she left the bedroom door partly open; bits and
pieces of conversation drifted out.  The girl was upset and right on the
edge of tears while her mother tried to calm her down and explain the
situation reasonably.
    "... could you *do* something like that?!"
    "... think I'm too old for sex?"
    "... right in our own living room!"
    "How many times ... your boyfriends ... that same sofa?"
    "But I don't do *that*!  You ... no clothes!"
    "... lot more experienced than you, Steph.  You've seen me naked
before.  He's a nice guy ... makes me feel..."  I strained to hear that
last bit.  She made me feel, too.  The kid seemed to be winding down a
little.
    "... startled me, Mom...."
    "Sorry, baby ... timing ... back early."
    "... really enjoy that?"
    "... course, I enjoy it ... wonderful warm feeling ... too long,
Steph."
    "I guess.  Can I watch, then?"  The last in an impish tone.
    "If I can watch you and Whatsisname sometime, sure -- why not?"
Carol replied with an amused laugh.  She was opening the bedroom door
again.  "I want him to stay a while longer, Steph.  Please understand?
He's nice and he's gentle, not like... -- and it isn't like we were
humping on the floor, you know."  I watched her smile and heard
Stephanie's embarrassed giggle.  It sounded just like her mother's, half
an octave higher.
    Like most teenagers, I think, Stephanie seemed to assume that sex
and lust were invented only for the young.  The notion of her mother
being physically aroused to the point of inarticulate moaning probably
never occurred to her.  Well, she'd have to learn to think of the "old
lady" in different terms.
    Carol walked back up the hall with a broad smile, unbuttoning her
blouse on the way.  She shrugged it off and left it in a heap on the
floor as she reentered the living room and passed me.  And at the same
moment, I saw Stephanie's door open a crack and a bright blue eye
peering out.  Then I went back to my neighbor, who threw her arms around
my neck and kissed me hotly, perhaps by way of apology for the
interruption.
    We moved around in a tight little circle as I slid my hands down
her long, smooth back, to her slender waist, and down over that
beautiful ass.  Carol hung on even tighter, mashing her lips against
mine.  She had her back to the hall door now, and as I squeezed her ass
cheeks in both hands I saw the younger blonde peek quickly around the
doorway and duck back.  Carol ground her crotch against me and murmured
"Oh, God..." -- which I knew her daughter must have heard.
    As I bent to nibble at Carol's neck, I saw that Stephanie's face
had quietly reappeared.  She was staring at us as though in a trance.
Well, if she really wanted to watch -- which, I had to admit, was a
turn-on all by itself -- I'd try to give her something worth watching.
    "Carol," I whispered, "I know we're not actually going to *do* it,
but I'd really love it if you'd *ask* me to fuck you.  Since we're doing
this for the fun of it, you know ... why not let ourselves be
outrageous?  Say it out loud; it's so sexy when a woman talks like
that."  She laughed softly and whispered "Beast...."
    "Oh, Mike, you have to fuck me, I want you to fuck me!" she
demanded breathily.  She wiggled a little, enjoying saying the words as
much as I enjoyed hearing them.  Then she got into the swing of it.  "I
want to feel your cock moving in me!  I want you to come in me and make
me come!  Please, please -- fuck me!"
    "God, lady, you don't know what that does to me," I said in between
nibbles.
    "Yes, I think I do...."  She nudged my rigid cock with a hip bone
and blew into my mouth.  Stephanie was obviously fascinated by the whole
thing -- her face was bright red, but I didn't think it was all
embarrassment.  I tried to visualize us from the girl's perspective: Her
mother's tall, slender, smoothly sculpted body, naked except for the
thong circling her waist and disappearing down the center of her ass.
Slender arms wrapped possessively around the guy from next door.  A
throaty demand to be screwed.
    I didn't know what picture of her mother Stephanie might have had
before, but it wouldn't be the same after this.  Then she realized I had
seen her and she silently disappeared back down the hall to her room.
    I was having my own problems, though.  My cock was attempting to
tunnel out to freedom by main force.  It was beginning to be not enough,
just handling Carol's body and swapping spit -- as fantastic as those
activities were.
    My mind was functioning at a much more primitive level,...
preservation of the species and all that stuff.  I wanted to throw
myself into Carol's pussy, cock first, and I wanted it badly.  We would
have to advance to the next level of this new relationship -- which I
was pretty sure wasn't going to happen this evening -- or I would have
to stop before I injured myself.  (I mean, can blue balls cause a
hernia?)
    I slowly, carefully broke off our ten-minute kiss and backed away a
few inches, taking deep, steadying breaths as I did so.  From Carol's
expression, she had already guessed the reason.
    "I'm trying to stay inside the rules, sweetheart, but it's going to
be nearly impossible if we keep going down this track."  I tucked her
hair behind her ears and let my fingers glide across the tops of her
shoulders.  "I don't want to give you any reason not to trust me.
Besides, if I lost control, you'd stretch me out on the floor in two
seconds!"
    Carol laughed and gave me a sweet smile that I knew I'd be seeing
in my dreams for weeks.  "No, Mike, that's okay.  I understand.  Men
just don't have the self-control that women have, do they?"
    I raised both eyebrows and looked her slowly up and down.
"Self-control"?  We both grinned.
    "This evening has been unbelievable -- I mean literally and every
other way," I said.  "I feel better than I have in a long time -- about
myself, the world, everything.  That's your doing."
    Carol looked pleased and even blushed again, a little.  "I'm glad.
Because I feel good, too.  I guess I just needed to be held and loved,
with no strings attached or anything.  But I'm going to need regular
attention, you know,... like booster shots.  Think you can handle that,
neighbor?"
    "My pleasure -- and I mean that sincerely," I added in a Groucho-
voice and she laughed again and kissed the palm of my hand.
    "Mike,... you know, we won't have to stop like this every time.
Maybe not even the next time."  There were promises in her eyes I knew
she intended to keep.  "I just had to start slow."  She glanced down at
her nearly naked body.  "Well, *kinda* slow...."
    "I know; that's why I'm willing to pack it in for tonight.  I'm
willing to wait until you feel comfortable about us, uh,..."  I got shy,
suddenly.  Not wanting to press my fantastic luck.
    Carol moved in close again and kissed me very gently, almost a
thank-you kiss, and stroked my cheek.  "We're going to be great
friends," she said.


    Ten or fifteen minutes later, I was making my way slowly back to my
own door.  It was full dark -- I'd been in Carol's house at least two
hours -- and there was a cooling breeze.  I could feel the sweat drying
on my skin and I was sure I smelled like a locker room.  Next time, I
wouldn't wear shoes and socks, just the moccasins I use as house shoes.
And a shirt without a tail, too.  Maybe she'll come over to my place
next time, I thought as I strolled across the lawn and reached the live
oak that marked our common property line.
    Then I jumped about three inches as Stephanie silently stepped out
from behind the tree.  She was barefoot, still wearing the shorts and
tee-shirt, and her hands were behind her back.  Was she hiding a carving
knife, or what?  I just froze and looked at her, wondering what was
about to happen.
    She looked down at her feet and nudged a leaf with a dainty toe.  I
was a little relieved when she moved her hands around in front and
clasped them nervously.
    "I wanted to, uh..."  She cleared her throat and suddenly looked
half her age.  "To apologize."  She looked down again.  "Mom was right;
I didn't have any right to get upset.  She and my Dad didn't get along
too well for a couple of years.  I think she found out he was out
screwing around,... you know, with other women.  She won't tell me the
details.  Anyway, she's entitled to do whatever she wants.  I want her
to be happy again, and when you were with her,... well, she looked and
sounded happy."  She took a deep breath and looked into my face
resolutely.
    "Mr. Greer,... are you... are you in love with my mother?"
    Jesus, what a conversation to be having in the front yard, in the
dark, with a girl who wasn't quite sixteen.  I wanted to handle this
very carefully, but I was also getting chilly and my back was getting
stiff from the unaccustomed exercise.
    "Tell you what, Stephanie: Why don't you come in and sit down for a
minute and we can talk, okay?  And considering what we're talking about,
do you think you could call me 'Mike'?"
    She glanced at her house and then at mine -- I suppose
automatically working out the relative safety factor, as girls her age
learn to do -- and gave me a little smile.  Being tolerant of the Old
Guy's limitations.
    "Yeah, sure."
    When we entered my living room, she glanced around curiously.  We
had been neighbors since she was an infant but I couldn't recall that
she had ever been in this house.
    I indicated the sofa and she went and sat, tucking one foot under
her in an unconsciously fetching pose.  I sat in one of the chairs
across the coffee table from her -- a barrier between us that might help
her relax.  She was waiting patiently for an answer to her question and
I was trying to think of the right words, so we sat there in silence for
half a minute.  I sighed.
    "Stephanie, it depends on what you mean by 'love'.  If you mean,
are we going to get married and start making babies--" (she tried to
suppress a smile at that image) "--then, no, we're not in love.  I don't
imagine you're planning to elope next week with any of the guys you're
dating, are you?"  I raised an eyebrow, and she colored a little and
shook her head.
    "No, 'course not.  I probably won't get married until I finish
college.  Mom keeps telling me that was her big mistake -- dropping out
of college to get married.  But if you fall in love with someone..."
    "...then all bets are off.  I know," I finished.  "You might get
married in college, if you meet the right guy.  But if you aren't
husband-hunting right now, why do you even bother going on dates?"
    She gave me a blank look.
    "I don't mean going to the movies and social things like that; I
mean dates where you spend the whole evening in the back seat of the
car, or making out on your sofa?"  I kept my voice quiet and gentle, but
she really did pink up that time.
    "Because it's fun, right?  Sex is supposed to be fun, Stephanie.
At your age, you have to be careful about getting pregnant and messing
up all the plans you have for your life.  But even just kissing and
touching each other is a terrific feeling, isn't it?"
    "Yeah,...  But I just never thought of older people doing that.
I'm confused, I guess."  She met my eyes again.  "So you're not actually
in love or anything?"
    "Sweetheart, what we are, I think, is infatuated."  I had finally
found the word I wanted.  "We discovered, this evening, your mother and
I, that we each fill a need for the other.  A physical and emotional
need.  I suppose we *are* 'in love', a little -- in the sixteen-year-old
sense.  Does that sound reasonable?"
    She nodded and her curls shimmied.  She was definitely a cutie --
just like her mother.  "Yeah, I guess.  If I think of Mom as... as just
a 'girl', not as my mother,... then it's like watching a sex scene in a
movie or something."  That apparently made her think of something else
and she went red around the ears again.  God, she was even cuter when
she blushed.
    "Uh, Mike,... you aren't mad at me for peeking on you in the living
room, are you?  I mean, I couldn't believe it and I had to see for
myself, but I shouldn't have, I know...."  She was studying her
fingernails again.
    "No, it doesn't bother me, Stephanie.  What did you think of what
you saw?  What did you think of your mother, I mean?"
    "Well,... she's attractive...."
    "'Attractive'?"  I chuckled and shook my head.  "Sweetheart, your
mother is absolutely beautiful!  She's gorgeous, she's sexy, she's..."
I ran out of adjectives and grinned at the girl who was grinning at me.
"She's a whole lot more than 'attractive', Stephanie, believe me."
    "Well, I've never seen her naked like that -- you know, with a man.
And I've *never* heard her *talk* like that!  I guess it kinda got to
me, a little.  And watching you squeezing her butt, and she was making
those sounds...."  She tapered off and her ears got pinker as she shot
me that calculating look I had received earlier from Carol.
    "Watching you and her made me... hot."  Her voice was softer and
her eyes larger.  "I wanted to know what she was feeling -- you know,
what your hands felt like on her bottom, doing that.  *I've* never done
anything like that before.  I'm still... I mean, I've never, uh...."
    The sound of her voice was heating me up, as well.  I imagined, for
a moment, my hands moving over little Stephanie's slim young body as
they had Carol's.  Her voice urging me on, as Carol's had.  Mother and
daughter were very similar, physically....  And I was going to make
myself crazy.
    "Watch any time you like, Stephanie."  I tried to keep my smile
from becoming a leer.  "Of course, your mother and I may buy tickets for
*your* next heavy date...."
    I expected that to break the spell: Stephanie would be embarrassed
again and the conversation would change course.  Instead, maintaining
that same almost solemn expression, she stood up and said "I might
surprise you, Mike.  It might be fun to know you were watching me make
out with somebody."  And then: "Well, I have to get back, now; I'm
supposed to be in bed."
    I stood as she came around the coffee table, my mind suddenly
filled with more images of this girl in the throes of passion with
someone who looked a lot like me.  She paused before me.
    "Would you mind if I kissed you?  For making my Mom so happy?"
    I bent forward and offered my cheek.  Stephanie's cool, smooth
little hands turned my face back and then her lips were on mine.  Not a
little peck and not a passionate teenage kiss, either, but a serious
effort I wouldn't have expected from a girl her age.  The slight
pressure of her mouth sent reverberations bouncing all through my skull.
Then she stepped away toward the door and gave me a knowing little grin.
    "Guess I'll be seeing you around, then, won't I?"
    It was my turn to clear my throat before I could speak, and by then
she had slipped out the door.


    As I was climbing into bed an hour later, it dawned on me that
tomorrow was Saturday: I might have asked Carol for a proper date.  And
I was immediately glad I hadn't.  A formal date seemed to have overtones
of courtship and we both wanted to avoid that.  We wanted to keep this
blossoming relationship spontaneous -- and that required careful
planning.  Then my bedside phone rang and I found telepathy at work
again: It was Carol.
    "Mike, I was wondering if you'd like to get together this weekend
-- I mean, not to... um... well, to go someplace together.  Just for
company.  If you're not already busy, I mean.  God, I'm not doing this
very well, am I?"
    "You're doing just fine; I was trying to think of a way to ask you
out without making too much of a *serious* thing of it.  How did we ever
forget how to do all this stuff?"
    Carol laughed.  "Well, the High Hats are in the District Pep Squad
Finals tomorrow afternoon and Stephanie is in it.  I'm going, of course,
and she insisted I call and see if you'd like to go.  But I don't know
if you want to sit through a high school thing like that--"
    Stephanie's voice abruptly came on from her extension.  "Mike, I
wish you'd come; it'd be a lot of fun, really.  Mom's not impressed by
our routine because she did all this stuff herself -- but I bet *you'd*
be impressed!"
    There it was -- another request I couldn't refuse.  "Well, I've
never been to one of these so maybe it's about time.  Anyway, I'd like
to go if you're sure you want me along."
    "I'm sure!" Stephanie said immediately.  I could hear Carol through
the fingers she was holding over her mouthpiece, telling Stephanie to
please get off the phone now and go to bed.  Then she was back.
    "Well, it's at the University Stadium and we have to leave about
noon; is that okay?"
    "Perfect.  Just toss some gravel at my window when you're ready."


    Frankly, I was prepared to be bored out of my mind in a good cause,
which was to cement friendly relations with Carol and Stephanie.  I
surprised myself by having a good time.  I had occasionally watched the
cheerleaders practice when I was in high school, but this was entirely
different.  These kids did close-order drill better than the Marine
Corps and the gymnastic stunts they put into their routines were
astonishing.
    Carol had some pull, apparently, because we had seats right down
near the front and just one section from the center.  Great view,
especially when some sweet young thing with more energy than was good
for her was being tossed through the air.  I began to wonder if I was
becoming fixated on young girls.  Then I noticed that all the dads who
had come to watch their kids compete were also watching the girls very
closely.  They were cute, no denying it.
    The High Hats were third on the program and went through their
trademark chorus line routine.  As one of the taller girls, Stephanie
worked near the center of the line -- and she was right: I was
impressed.  The kid could kick at least two feet higher than her head,
almost without bending her other knee.
    Carol saw me shake my head in admiration and looked very pleased.
"Did you look like that at her age?" I asked.
    "Oh, Steph can kick higher than I ever could," she said proudly.
"She started younger, though.  She used to look at the pictures of me
and then fall on her ass trying to high-kick."  She took my hand
unexpectedly and winked.  "I can still do that, though; I'll have to
demonstrate one of these days."
    When their performance was completed, the High Hats dispersed into
the stands to sit with friends and family.  We had saved a seat for
Stephanie and she showed up a few minutes later, hat in hand, still out
of breath.  She was excited and flushed and adorable.
    The short skirt of her costume had a stiff petticoat and stuck up
no matter how she sat, so she ignored it.  It also meant that when she
leaned back on her elbows with her knees apart, her crotch was on
display.  I glanced in that direction once or twice and she noticed --
and grinned at me.
    Then, while her mother was talking to a friend a couple rows up,
Stephanie said, "What do you think of my legs, Mike?"  She looked at me
innocently but I had a feeling her question was deliberately phrased.
    "Very nice," I said cautiously.  "You take after your mother."
    "She said you were really good at massaging her feet last night.
Could you work on this muscle right here?"  And she took my hand in hers
and placed it carefully on her upper thigh.  Then she made the muscle
twitch and I took my hand away like I had been burned -- and glanced
around to make sure no one was watching this bit of byplay.
    "Maybe later, Stephanie."  I had to clear my throat to say that
much.
    "If I'm supposed to call you 'Mike', why don't you call me
'Steph'?" she suggested, swinging her knee lightly against mine.
    When Carol came back, Stephanie was explaining the intricacies of
the routines to me, while managing to keep her thigh snuggled up close
to mine.  Carol either didn't notice or thought nothing of it.  I won't
deny I enjoyed the attention this little heartbreaker was paying me, but
I was still sweating a lot.


    By unspoken agreement, I went back to my own house when we
returned.  Carol and her daughter were frazzled from the day's
competition, and besides, we didn't want to push things.  I changed into
some old "house shorts" and had a bite in front of the TV.  The local
news featured a clip from the District Pep Squad Finals and, as the
Third Place finishers out of twenty competitors, the High Hats had
fifteen seconds all to themselves.  I was delighted when the minicam,
panning down the chorus line, closed on Stephanie and the girl next to
her, and she turned a dazzling smile on the camera.
    Five minutes later, there was a rapid series of knocks on my door,
like a large woodpecker.  When I opened up, Stephanie bounced through
the door on springs.
    "Did you see the news?!  I was on the news!  I'm famous!"  I didn't
remember having had that kind of remorseless energy when *I* was
sixteen.  I congratulated her on her TV debut, acutely aware that she
was barefoot and wearing shorts so brief they didn't show under her long
tee-shirt.  She flopped, beaming, onto the sofa and put one foot up on
the coffee table.
    Then her smile shifted gears and she said, "You were going to
massage my leg, remember?  It gets awful stiff after that much work."
She didn't look at all stiff to me, but I sat down next to her.
    "Did you tell your mother you were coming over here?"
    "Nope -- she's over visiting Grandma for a couple hours.  I'm
alllll alone,..." she sing-songed.  Oh, great, I thought.  I'm alone
with an underage seductress.  She put my hand firmly on her thigh again,
just below the hem of her tee-shirt.
    "I thought it was the other leg."
    "They both get stiff."  She leaned back and put her hands behind
her head.  That made her shirt ride up.  No shorts.  An inch above the
spot where my hand was draped over her slender thigh was a narrow band
of white lace, edging a pair of sky-blue cotton panties.
    I sat there and stupidly studied the little mound at the fork of
her legs.  It drew me like a magnet and my throat went even drier than
before.  I glanced at her face.  Stephanie was holding her breath, lips
parted, eyes half-shut, waiting for me to do something, anything.
    "Stephanie,... Steph,... I don't think you know what you're doing,
sweetheart."
    "Yes, I do," she said very softly.  "Mom said you were so nice to
her, so gentle and everything, and it made her feel so good....  I want
to know what it's like.  I'm old enough; I know lots of girls who have
already ... fucked boys.  I don't want to do *that* yet -- but I've
never felt like Mom felt, either.  Please, Mike?  Show me what it's
like?"  Her mouth was right up next to my ear now, whispering, the Devil
herself.  She was so sweet, so helpless,... so terrifyingly available.
    I coughed and sat back, absently rubbing my hands together.  That
was a mistake.  Stephanie was immediately on my lap, her small, tight
butt pressing down against my groin.  She flung her arms around my neck
and nailed me square on the mouth.  Her little tits drilled into me
through her shirt and she made a whimpering sound as she tried to push
her tongue between my lips.
    My caution and better judgment exploded under the assault and I
pushed her tongue back with mine.  I slipped one arm around her and
moved up under her tee-shirt, marveling at the smoothness of her young
body.  My other hand stroked her thigh, which trembled at the touch like
a violin string.
    Then she squirmed around and got one leg on each side of my lap
(I've been here before, I thought) and I found my hands moving up and
down the backs of her slim, muscular thighs.  She was frantically
planting kisses on my neck and ear, her youthful passion setting off
detonations everywhere she touched.  I was beyond help.
    She let go just long enough to yank her shirt over her head and
then she was plastered against me again, her torso scorching my chest.
I clutched at her little ass, squeezing her buttocks and separating them
with my hands.  Maybe it says something about my deeper nature that I
didn't tear her panties off, and I didn't rip off my shorts.
    But I pried her loose and fastened my mouth on her blazing nipple,
and she had a fit of trembling that made her teeth chatter.  When I
sucked on it, drawing the hard little cone between my teeth, her entire
body shook.  She clutched wildly at my hair and pushed herself against
me.  I cupped her other small, pointed breast in my hand and stroked the
nipple with my thumb.  The gasping sounds she made climbed the scale,
and when I pinched and tugged a bit, she went beyond the range of human
hearing.
    It was very easy to tell when little Stephanie had her climax
because she vibrated and jittered all over me.  I was astonished at her
sexual intensity: It was like striking a kitchen match and finding
you've lit a stick of dynamite.  She gradually calmed down, face buried
in my neck, making great racking sobbing-gasping noises.  I held her and
stroked her head and her back, and gently kissed her neck.
    I stayed away from her tits and her quivering ass.  I knew most
women were very sensitive to touch immediately after an orgasm and I
didn't even want to think what this sweet young thing's reaction might
be if I pushed the wrong button.
    Then she raised her head and gave me a melting look.  "Oh, Mike,...
Oh, God,..." she panted and hugged me tightly.  Her face was bright red
and tears were flowing down her cheeks and onto her small breasts.
"That was a real orgasm?"  She sniffled.  "I've, you know, done it to
myself sometimes, and I'm sure I came a couple times -- but it was
nothing like that!"  She gave me a strange look, almost a little
frightened.  "Is it going to be like that every time I do it with a
guy?"
    "If you're lucky."  I had to laugh at her expression.  "Steph, if
you could harness the electricity in an orgasm like that one, you could
probably power a city on it for a year.  No, it isn't like that every
time.  You were fortunate ... and you're still a virgin, too."
    "Yeah."  She curled up on my lap as I leaned back, drawing up her
knees and laying her cheek against my chest.  She was a little girl
again, not the nymphet tigress of a few minutes before.  "Mike, why
didn't you, uh..." she began.  "You know.  You could have..."  She
couldn't finish.
    "Why didn't I fuck you, Steph?"  She flinched.  "*That's* why,
sweetheart.  You aren't ready for that.  I shouldn't even have done what
I did, we both know that.  Temporary insanity, I guess.  When you get
wound up, you're a tidal wave of sexual energy; I drowned in it."  I
hugged her and stroked her shimmering curls.
    "You're going to have to be very careful who you unleash that power
on, Steph.  You were lucky with me; I like you a lot and I like your
mother, and I wouldn't do anything to hurt either of you.  If I had
gotten my cock into you -- and part of me really wanted to do it,
believe me! -- it would have spoiled everything."  I began nudging her
off my lap while I could still make myself do it.
    "Now, it's time for you to be getting back, sweetheart, before you
mother comes home and gets worried."  She stood, still a bit shaky, and
picked up her tee-shirt.  When she bent from the waist, her suspended
breasts looked like inverted volcanoes -- an apt description.  Then she
was pulling the shirt over her head and I loved watching her cute little
tits jiggle and dance.  I felt I should look away, but I couldn't.
    Stephanie glanced up and I saw her expression change as she
realized the effect she was still having on me.  A small, sexy,
mischievous smile appeared.  Without taking her eyes from mine, she
lifted her shirt and slid her right hand down the front of her panties.
From the way her hand moved beneath the cotton, it seemed her middle
finger had disappeared far up into her steaming little cunt.  She bent
her knees slightly and sucked at her lower lip as she pushed her finger
farther in.
    When her finger reappeared, I could smell the aroma immediately.
Stephanie moved up close to me again and cupped one small hand around
the back of my neck.  I blindly put my hands on her hips.  Her head bent
to touch mine, very close and warm.  She held out her glistening,
dripping middle finger and touched it to my lips.
    "I moved my finger all around in there, to get it real wet; I went
all the way to the end.  This is a taste of me, if you want it, because
you're so nice to me and my mom."
    I opened my mouth and gently sucked in the offering.  She was
right: It was a lovely taste of her, sweet and succulent, like a flower.
As I ran my tongue all around her finger, gathering every atom of
moisture, she stroked my cheek and sighed.
    When I had it all, I stood and hugged her and she put her arms
around me and hugged back.  It was strange that such a consciously
erotic gesture as she had made should make me feel more affectionate
than horny.  Maybe I was just temporarily burned out by the women next
door.  But I kissed little Stephanie one last time before she left, to
give her back a small taste of herself.


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Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted
elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
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