Tuesday, 3 September 2013

MONICA

 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 dad had hooked a fantasy in the flesh when he'd made 
Monica his second Wife, and my step mom. The image of 
her stayed with me that first Year of college like a 
well visited old friend.

 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 that 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.

 "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, 
"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 groans 
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 massages -- 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 to 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 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 heavenly 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 
feel 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 searingly hot; 
the upward bounce of her hips against my hands 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, did 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.

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