YPA: Your Privacy Assured/YPA.ISO/text/1monica.txt

Text File | 1995-03-09 | 23.6 KB | 433 lines

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   Almost every college freshman I knew or heard of was cooler
than me -- not to mention that they all had lost their cherries.
Except me. Hell, I hadn't even gotten a good case of stink
finger, unless you can count scratching your own ass.
   Instead of spending that first year getting out there and
copping some actual pussy like the rest of the known world, I
continued doing what had occupied my last year and a half of high
school: shooting up at the dark ceiling at night, aiming between
the legs of the hovering mental image of a writhing, moaning,
very erotic Monica.
   My roommate Darrell never gave up. Every couple weeks he would
try to get me to go out with a friend of a friend. `Guaranteed
squat' or `Best head in Lambda Chi' he'd tout with enthusiasm.
But I always found a reason to go to the library or stay in the
dorm. Yeah, I know how crazy that sounds. Go figure. 'Course, I
didn't end my freshman year screaming and trying to tear the
urinal out of the wall when I took a piss like Darrell did. I
guess it's true that God takes care of angels and idiots, and I
know that I'm no angel.
   I had no idea what had happened at home since I had left for
school, but the atmosphere between Dad and Monica when I came
back for the summer was, for the first time in my awareness,
uncomfortable. After the first few days, Dad seemed to always
have to work late, and Monica and I just sort of had to look
after each other in his extended absences.
   I didn't mind. I continued to worship the heavenly body my
father had somehow hooked into marriage during my junior year in
high school.
   I remember the Tuesday with perfect clarity -- like it was this
morning. Monica lay on a deck lounger in my favorite peach
bikini, baking to a gorgeous bronze while hiding behind
sunglasses and a magazine. I spent an hour hiding my boner while
keeping my face turned toward her, staring from the tiny slits of
my squinting eyes. `God, you're wonderful,' I kept zapping her
with ESP. I couldn't see her eyes, but pretended that she was
watching me with a matching hunger. And receiving my messages.
   "Warren's going to Cleveland this afternoon," she said
suddenly, wetting a finger on her pink tongue to turn a page of
her mag. "For a two-day seminar. Did he tell you?"
   "Nah," I mumbled. I turned and sat up, then slid into the
chill water of the pool in a single motion. When I came
sputtering up near her chaise, I grinned at her. "Course, it
won't be like I'll miss him -- no more'n he's home these days,
anyway." It wasn't a kind thing to say, but Monica didn't
comment.
   I made a few laps and got fairly presentable before climbing
back up on the deck. Then I sat there beside Monica, kicking the
water with my feet.
   "You're going to burn, Danny," she said quietly.
   "Nah," I grinned over my shoulder. "I'll mend my ways before
it's too late."
   She smiled back, but I still couldn't see her eyes. "Silly!
Better let me put some sun block on your back," she offered,
holding up the brown bottle.
   "Thanks," I said, and moved closer. Monica sat up and made
good on her offer. I hunched over to hide my resurgent
embarrassment as the firm strokes of her hands mesmerized me.
   Now, of course, I know better; but at the time, just the
thought of having someone see me with an erection was enormously
humiliating. I guess my attitude had been built in the gym
showers after football practice in high school, when the guys all
made fun of me. Tall and terribly skinny, I would go to most any
lengths to hide myself from their taunts, but, let's face it,
when you actually step into the communal shower, there's really
no way to keep a towel wrapped around your waist, without
receiving even more scoffs and jeers. I was a pretty fair pass
receiver in those days, but even now, whenever I run into one of
the guys I played with, the main topic of conversation is the way
I looked in the shower, with my cock slapping my legs nearly down
to the knees.
   "There," she said with dreadful finality. She dropped the
bottle over my shoulder. "You better do the rest of you, too."
   I obeyed my stepmother, slathering lotion all over me. "What
about you?" I said. "You're getting to be a nice shade of red,
yourself."
   "Yeah," she agreed, looking herself over nearly as thoroughly
as I was doing at the same moment. "I think I'll go in, though.
How about something decadent for lunch? Like cheeseburgers ..."
   "Sure," I agreed. "Extra grease on mine and hold the veggies."
   She turned with a laugh, stood up and took my breath away as
she made her way slowly to the steps at the shallow end. I
watched her enter the water until it lapped at those marvelous,
skimpily covered globes, then stand there applying handfuls of
water to her shoulders and arms, and, God help me, her cleavage.
   Never before or since have I seen another female body like
Monica's -- not in the flesh. From her dark blond head with its
steady blue eyes, pouting full lips and sensuous overbite, to her
pretty little feet, Monica was the well-stacked, curvaceous stuff
of little boys' fantasies. Hell, grown men's fantasies, too.
Five-nine and a hundred-forty pounds packed full, round and
tight, with a softness about her, like a layer of wondrous
padding, that I find impossible to describe.
   I could see Dad falling for her, I could see him throwing his
wealth and charm at her to win her and marry her... What I
couldn't see was anything that could possibly be important enough
at the office, or in Cleveland, for that matter, to keep him away
from her so much of the time.
   The only change in her attire for lunch was an unbuttoned
shirt over her damp suit. I had trouble keeping my eyes in
neutral as I wolfed down the first of two burgers while Monica
picked daintily at her patty and cottage cheese.
   She kept her eyes down most of the time, and there was a
deafening silence between us. I finally found the courage to say,
"Can I ask you something ... it's pretty personal, I guess."
   She smiled with her eyes, and I about choked. "Sure," she
murmured.
   "Are you and Dad... okay? I mean..."
   Monica sat with fork poised over her plate, and something like
pain clouded her doubtful, searching eyes. She sighed finally and
dropped her fork on her plate, then sat back in her chair with
her hands in her lap. She kept looking at my face, into my eyes.
   "I'm sorry," I mumbled, then hid behind a double mouthful of
cheeseburger.
   "No, don't be," Monica said quietly. "You have a right to
ask..." Clearly, talking was going to be a struggle for her. A
lone tear breached the levee and tracked her downy smooth cheek.
   "ID I really don't know what it is, Danny," she said at last,
and then her face lost the battle and went into the pinched, pre-
weeping mode. "But something's dreadfully wrong..." She snorted
and sobbed, then dropped her face into her hands. "... and I have
no idea what to do about it!"
   Oh, shit. I have consumed my share of foot in my time, but
that had to be the most uncomfortable I'd ever been, up to that
point.
   "God, Monica," I managed in a damnably trembling voice, "ID
I'm sorry. I mean..."
   She raised her face and smiled at me through the tears, then
shook her head. "It's okay, Danny," she said. "It's nice to be
able to talk to somebody about it, you know?" She snorted and
wiped at her cheeks. "I mean, I can't talk to just anybody about
stuff like that."
   I think I may have been trying to hide from her, but it took
the form of moving behind Monica's chair and massaging her
shoulders and neck, lightly and tentatively at first, then with
more strength as I became certain it was welcome. After a time of
grunts and whimpers, as I slowly loosened the taut cords of
muscle, her gorgeous head fell back against my convulsing belly.
"Oh, Danny," she sighed. "I'll give you 'til dark to stop that!"
   I laughed, and so did she. The stormy mood seemed to have fled
and she began to talk, softly and hesitantly at first, then
breathlessly and with obvious pain. And anger -- a hell of a lot of
anger. I couldn't believe my ears. My old man was a real shit.
Not only that, but he must have lost half his brain in the war. I
mean, we're not talking Kenl-Ration breath. The most gorgeous
thing in the world, languishing in his house, starved for
affection and he treated her like a trophy on the wall. And it
was clear that Monica had a right to her suspicions that he was
out looking to bag more trophies.
   I bent and kissed her scalp and Monica's hand reached back
automatically and caressed my neck. "You're sweet," she murmured.
"Letting me go on like this..."
   I shook my head and murmured, "No, Monica. I'm not sweet. It's
just that I -- I love you, you know?" I was struggling. "I mean,
you mean an awful lot to me and I hate to see you hurting so..."
   I was hard as a branding iron, and the gentle caress on my
neck did nothing to ease the situation. But I'd have remained
bent in half like that for days before I would have voluntarily
asked her to stop.
   But she did stop, and I straightened, hoping with flaming
cheeks that she wouldn't turn and see my embarrassing condition.
I mean, the sucker was sticking straight out over my left pelvic
bone... a wrap-around, so to speak.
   Oh, God! She did stand, with a small sigh, and she did turn.
While I slowly died, she moved to me and reached up to draw me
into a breathlessly tight hug.
   "Thanks, Danny," she murmured finally, her head against my
chest. "I guess I really needed to spout off." She tilted her
head back and peered up into my stupid grin. "You know, you're
even nicer than I always suspected." That got a laugh, and then a
moan when her arms squeezed around my middle, pressing against me
the softest mounds of actual flesh I had ever felt.
   She peered up at me again, this time for several counts and
without a trace of a smile. "You know what would be nice?" she
murmured finally. There was something new and unfamiliar in her
wide blue eyes, something I was certain I was reading wrong.
   I didn't trust my voice, so just shook my head. But believe
me, I truly did know what would be nice.
   "A wine cooler on ice, I think," she mused, still resting her
breasts heavily against willing old me. "And some more of your
excellent massage -- you have remarkable hands, Danny. Big and
strong, but nice and gentle. I like that. Do you mind?"
   Somehow the gagging fear inside me permitted me to answer,
"Oh, no. I don't mind at all. I got no plans this afternoon..."
What a dweeb!
   She smiled up at me, and I couldn't catch my breath. She
released her arms from the hug, and I took a welcome breath, but
couldn't catch her hands before they slid down my ribs to my
hips. It was an eminently innocent move, preparatory to parting,
but her right hand came to rest briefly on the embarrassingly
large and very painful bulge across my pelvis. Her eyes widened
momentarily, then Monica smiled again, a sweet friendly smile, in
no apparent hurry to remove her hand. She pressed against me
again, reaching up for a quick, friendly kiss, and I nearly fell
down when she retreated.
   "You want one?" she called from the open fridge.
   I hesitated only a moment before nodding, and Monica hummed
quietly as she fixed our tall icy glasses. There was something in
her eyes, in her smile -- her very being -- that I had never seen
before, and I liked the hell out of it.
   She led the way through the den, down the narrow corridor to
the spa. "This okay?" she asked, dimming the overhead light.
   "Yeah. Fine," I stuttered.
   "You want to find us some music? I'll start the heater in case
we feel like a dip later, okay?"
   "Sure." I retreated to the den and found an oldies station,
then switched the output to the jacuzzi speakers. When I returned
Monica was stretched out on the padded rubdown table, face down,
sans shirt. The jacuzzi jets were roaring, and slivers of steam
rose from the roiling water.
   I took a deep slug before setting the glass down and standing
over Monica. I was in a panic over where to start and how to
proceed without getting into really deep shit.
   Since she said nothing, I started on her arms and shoulders,
and let her grunts and groans of pleasure lead the way down her
back. The string of her bikini top was in the way, but I
maneuvered around it. Through no stretch of imagination could I
have pulled the bow and moved it out of the way. Occasionally,
Monica rose to her elbows to drink from her glass, then dropped
back down with a sighing sound that I interpreted as "more".
   At length, she turned to look over her marvelous shoulder.
"You getting tired?" she whimpered, the glazed look in her eyes
giving me the answer of choice.
   "No, Monica, not at all," I replied, and was rewarded by an
enormous languid smile. She turned and drained her glass and
dropped again.
   I wanted to do those fabulous legs -- God, how I wanted to. "You
wanna do my legs?" she asked without looking.
   "Er, sure," I said, wondering briefly and uncomfortably if she
could read my mind.
   "There's a bottle of oil in that second drawer over there,"
she said in a voice muffled in the crook of her arm. "You could
oil my skin while you work, if you don't mind."
   "No-of-course-not."
   Monica laughed prettily. "You know, I could get used to having
a geisha boy as nice as you."
   I laughed, too. I could get used to being one, I thought but
did not say.
   Funny how the subject of my dad hadn't come up since we'd left
the kitchen. Funny how it didn't come up while I worked the slick
scented oil into those extraordinary gams.
   In the midst of a series of moans and whimpers, Monica turned
on the table and lay looking up at me for a very long count.
"What?!" I finally muttered, wondering if I had gone too far.
   She didn't smile, didn't blink for several moments. I stared
at the strawberry blond hair fanned on the table beneath her
head, at the breasts bulging in overmatched bikini cups, at the
narrow waist moving as she breathed heavily. Heavily, I said.
   "I was just wondering..." she whispered at last.
   Whatever it was, the answer was not going to be maybe! "What?"
I asked again, as quietly as she had spoken. I guess my red face
and staring eyes had already given her the answer.
   "Whether you're a confidential kind of guy," she mused, a lazy
hand now stroking my arm, mussing its hair. "You know," she
continued, "the kind of friend a girl could let her hair down
with, and not have to worry whether anyone would find out."
   "Monica!" I moaned. It was a harsh sound, from a pained
breast. "Don't wonder! God, I-" I couldn't express what I was
feeling.
   "I know," she soothed, without needing further assurance. "Do
you like me, Danny?" It was a whisper of sound barely audible
over the roaring jets behind me.
   "God, yes, Monica!" I moaned, unable to hold her intense gaze.
"You're wonderful! You're beautiful! I- I'm afraid I'll make a
fool out of myself, I like you so much!" I was nearly crying now.
   "Yes. I like you, too, Danny," she murmured, letting her hand
move up my arm, making me bend a bit as she caressed my shoulder.
"Do you think I'm pretty?"
   "Didn't you hear me?!" I bawled with a harsh grunt of
laughter. "You're beautiful!"
   She savored that with a small smile before saying, "You are,
too, Danny. Did you know that?"
   I shook my bowed head, aching to touch her but afraid. "No, I
didn't think so," she added. "You never act like guys who know
they're beautiful. I find that awfully attractive in a man."
   I lifted my eyes in hope, in anticipation. Her eyes joined her
lips in a smile and she nodded reassuringly. "Wouldn't it be
wonderful if we could be the kind of friends who can trust each
other with anything? I mean, anything?"
   I nodded eagerly. "We can be, Monica," I said fervently.
   After a pause, during which her eyes moved all about my face,
she said, "So, do you think you'd like to be my geisha boy for a
little while?" She wet the tip of her tapered finger between her
lips, then pressed it to my erect nipple.
   I nodded emotionally. "Oh, yes -- a long while!" I whined, then
cleared my throat. It wasn't manly to whine. Monica laughed.
   "I warn you, though," she said, "I can be pretty demanding."
   I shook my head. "I don't care!"
   "Then," she said with a steady gaze into my enraptured eyes,
"the first thing I want is for you finish oiling my skin -- okay?
And no more being bashful, Danny. Your hands are driving me
crazy, and I want to feel them all over my body. Do you
understand? My whole body!" She laughed at her own words, turning
them into a pun, and I laughed, too, although, my laugh trembled
a lot more than hers.
   She reached for me with open hand and I bent to her kiss,
surprised at first by its intensity, then responding openly. Our
moans co-mingled, and my heart raced until I feared it would
pound its way free. When we broke, with small parting smacks of
our wet lips, Monica murmured, "Nice... very nice, Danny."
   I smiled down at her lighted eyes. Then she pouted prettily.
"You know, I'm afraid the oil will ruin my suit. Can you think
how we might prevent that?"
   "Only one way I can think of," I managed to quip back. Monica
laughed at the answer in my saucer-wide eyes.
   "Goody!" she giggled, and turned back over on the pad to wait
impatiently. With trembling fingers I untied the bow at her back,
then let her lift from the tabletop before I tried to pull it
free. Next came the bottoms, with equal success.
   Monica stretched like a cat, then lay limp with her feet
dangling over the sides of the table as I resumed oiling her
skin. I was no longer felt bashful, just ready to burst with need and
desire. I stroked and probed gleefully and with abandon,
relishing the squeals and harsh moans of my beloved Monica.
   "Oh, Danny!" she whimpered at last, and turned toward me. I
stared unabashedly at her heavy naked breasts. "You've got me
turned just about all the way on!"
   "Yeah," I agreed with no small degree of passion. "I know how
that feels!"
   "I said just about, Danny," she said. "Taste my breasts before
you oil them," she simpered in a little girl voice. Her hand slid
between my trembling legs as I bent eagerly to obey.
   She held my head and neck with her free hand and let me feed
for a long time, as she continued to stoke the fire in my loins.
"God, you're so big and strong!" she gasped into my ear, then bit
the lobe hard, bringing a hard squeal from my busy mouth. "I'm
afraid you'll get oil on your nice suit, too," she whispered with
a throaty chuckle.
   I conveyed an eagerly affirmative answer without lifting my
mouth from its work at her enormous nipple, and Monica began a
tedious process of pushing the trunks over my hips. "Oh, my," she
whimpered when she grasped my naked hardness. "I believe I'm
really in love!"
   I couldn't help laughing, and the embarrassed laugh wouldn't
stop, no matter how hard I tried. Monica laughed, too, but had
presence of mind enough to say, "Now you can oil my breasts,
Danny."
   I bent to the task with eagerness, even as tears streaked down
my cheeks from the continued laughing. Monica found a simple way
to stop the giggles, measuring my eagerly bouncing cock, hand
over hand. "He's a beauty, Danny," she said softly, "a prize. Do
you know how to use him?"
   I probably gave myself away with my eyes, but if not,
certainly with the shake of my head. Monica smiled -- actually a
lecherous grin.
   "I could teach you," she whispered. "Wouldn't that be fun?"
   "Oh, Monica," I moaned. "Please!" I buried my feverish face in
her neck, glorying in the way her arms responded by wrapping
around my torso, her hands by stroking my back and buttocks. I
felt her face nudging, pressing, and I turned and lifted my mouth
into the moving, moaning grasp of hers. She writhed slowly
beneath me like nothing I had ever dreamed of.
   "Touch me," she gasped against my ardent mouth, and I obeyed
instantly, to find her legs drawn up and widely open, the soles
of her feet pressed together. The flesh of her inner thighs was
creamy smooth and searing hot; the upward bounce of her hips
against my hand were my marching orders and I slid my fingertips
into the gushing well of her torment.
   "Oh, God, Danny!" she whispered, "I need it so bad! Stick
something in and make it go away -- fuck me with your fingers!"
   I had seen movies and all, but never had an actual female
person said anything remotely like that to me. It's safe to
speculate that Monica didn't pick it up on her Sundays at church,
either. My ardor shrieked off the scale and I began sawing one,
then a pair of soaked fingers in her pussy. She tugged at my hair
and drew me to her heaving breast. "Suck!" she hissed, and fed me
a gorgeous tit. "Oh, Danny, you're doing me so good, baby! It's
going to be so good. You won't believe!"
   I could believe, honest. She had hold of my pecker by now,
and, frankly, was hurting the hell out of it. But no way was I
going to release that yummy tit and say anything. "Now, Danny!"
she nearly shouted, "it's time, Baby! Stay with me now!" I felt
her pulling with a frenzy, and went with the flow, ending up
kneeling between her outstretched legs on top of the table,
staring in disbelief at her writhing, apparently tortured torso.
Thank God she remained in the leading mode, 'cause I was damned
if I knew how to get from here to there. I just knew there had to
be a way.
   Monica arched her back fetchingly, extended her arms to me and
poked me in the ass with a pair of very talented feet. "Now,
Danny!" she bawled, and drew me upon her.
   She held me fiercely to her and reached between us for my
cock. She arched once more and I suddenly felt the most glorious
scalding wetness envelop me. I might have screamed, but her
breast jabbed me in the mouth as my hips began pumping at the
well. I guess some things are just instinctive.
   "Yes!" she bawled in my ear at 100 decibels, meeting my
unskilled thrusts with a vengeance. "Oh, God! It's so deep!" She
bellowed, but didn't seem like she wanted me to back off, if the
harshly grunted "Fuck me deeper, Danny!" were any indication.
   The trouble with the best part was that it lasted only a
minute before I exploded, squalling like an enraged infant. I
collapsed on her gyrating body, thrilling at the fireworks that
made pale my most lurid dreams, but anguished that it had come to
such a quick, abrupt end.
   When I could make intelligible sounds, I moaned in her neck,
"Oh, God, I'm sorry!"
   "Jesus!" Monica said with an explosive laugh, still clasping
me tightly and scrubbing her need against me. "What on earth are
you sorry about?"
   "That I couldn't keep going..."
   Monica's marvelous hands stroked the perspiration on my
trembling back and ass, her feet slid up and down the outsides of
my legs, rocking me in her cradle. "Baby!" she said finally. "It
was a wonderful first time! You're wonderful! There's nothing to
be sorry about."
   I didn't say anything, but felt a lot better. "And, besides,"
she added with a laugh, "you don't really think you'll get the
rest of the day off, do you?"
   I groaned and laughed delightedly. Monica whispered
seductively, "You know what I love?" I shook my head eagerly. "I
love the way you're going to taste with your come and my cunt
juice all over you. Come around here and let me show you."
   I wasn't nearly finished for that day, or the next two. Monica
and I were at the point of physical collapse by that Thursday
evening. There was so much to learn. And practice! My God, Monica
was a stickler for practice! Talk about an education! She taught
me a new set of motor skills, then spent the summer working with
enormous dedication to help me refine them.
   Before she packed up and moved out that fall, she had me
really proficient in a whole new vocabulary, too. After all these
years, I can still hear her hissing passionately in my ear. "I
love it when you talk dirty to me, Danny." It still has the power
to make me rigid with lust. With no trace of embarrassment.