Nympho Girl

Have you had the experience that many of the people you counted as friends in high school rapidly disappeared from your life, but then someone who hardly noticed turns out to be a much better friend later on? That’s the way it was with Adrienne.

Currently one of my best friends, I can remember seeing her in the halls or the library but I doubt if I ever said a word to her. Not that I was consciously giving her the cold shoulder, or her me. Our paths just never crossed, and you know when you’re a grade apart, it’s almost like being in different worlds.

I was reintroduced to her at a Christmas party last winter. The guys were off watching some kind of sport-oriented video (athletes running the wrong way or running into each other). I wandered into the kitchen to hang out with some of the other gals. The lady of the house had made some mead, which was both delicious and weird tasting. Kind of like wine but with no fruity taste.

We chatted about mundane things. I’m sure I could have made things interesting by going into some of my sexual exploits, but that was neither the time nor the place. Into the room walks this beautiful girl. The first thing I noticed was her wavy blond hair in a classic 1940’s-50’s wavy pinup girl hairdo that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Rita Hayworth or Marilyn Monroe.

She had the pinup girl build, too, with one minor exception. How shall I put this? She was “heavy with child,” to use the terminology of The Bible. And she was ready to pop. In fact, she looked like perhaps she should have popped two months ago. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a gal looking quite this pregnant. When she walked into the room, all conversation stopped and remarks were made about her size, when is it due? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?

She politely answered their questions. It was due last week. It’s a boy. We also found out that her husband who had been around all last week when the baby was due, had had to go to Texas to handle a business emergency. We found out that he traveled a lot on business doing computer installations and troubleshooting sites that were experiencing problems. To me, it sounded a lot like my relationship with my cohabitor, Erik, who was out of town half to two-thirds of the time. In fact, I had come to this party on my own because Erik was working on a deal in Singapore, though he promised he’d be back for Christmas, still nearly a week off, no matter what.

We broke off at one point, and that was when we discovered we had attended the same school on grade apart. Suddenly, her face, which had at first been vaguely familiar, became quite familiar.

We hit it off so well what with common interests in books and movies, that everyone else left and our hostess finally had to guide us to the door.

Just as we were saying our good-byes at the door, Adrienne’s water broke right there on the front stoop! The poor girl almost instantly went into hard contractions. Our hostess called her husband and between him and me we got her to my car sitting on a towel, and I headed off to the hospital with him behind us to make sure we go there safely.

We got her into the ER, and I thanked him for his help. I told Adrienne I’d stay with her. It was a Friday evening, Erik was away, and I didn’t want to leave this newfound friend to get through the birth on her own.

A nurse took her into an examination room and determined that she was so dilated that the birth would likely happen before the obstetrician could even get there, and in fact, the litle boy popped out before a nurse or orderly could even get her up to the delivery floor.

The baby boy was quite large. Nine pounds, five ounces. This explained her size.

After the birth, the baby left for a quick pediatric examination, and she was wheeled up to the delivery floor. I was allowed to tag along, which required waiving or winking at a few hospital rules and regulations, but the nurses were quite accommodating once they learned that the boy’s father was halfway around the world.

After about 15 minutes in her room, and just before I was afraid she would become hysterical, her baby was finally brought up to her. The nurses said that the little boy could hardly be more healthy.

He was blotchy pink with surprisingly profuse black hair. His tiny little hands had fingernails no bigger than dandruff flakes. Like most infants, he had a voice that was loud and piercing and sounded more like a little buzz saw than human. I watched her bond with her baby and knew that someday…I’d want to be doing the same thing.

Before the nurse left, she encouraged Adrienne to try to nurse him, and so Adrienne exposed her breast. It was large and distended with milk. Her nipple no longer the natural pink of the woman who isn’t feeding a baby. Rather, it was brown and surprisingly large. Quite a bit larger, in fact, than, say, a silver dollar. When Michael (as he was to be named) started sucking, I saw an expression cross her face that looked almost like an orgasm.

By then, it was very, very late in the morning. She needed rest and I needed rest, and so I went home and slept. But I returned the next day and the day after that, spending all of the visiting hours with her. As she bonded with Micheal, so we bonded with each other, and now she’s one of my best friends.

The day of her release, having been given the key to her house, I got her infant carrier and installed it in my car. I drove her back to her car and held Michael while she installed the carrier in her car. I told her I’d stay with her until her husband returned, and she gratefully accepted my offer.

For several days, I cooked and cleaned and ran to the grocery store so that she could recover her strength and spend every available moment with Michael.

At last her husband, Keith, returned. We were introduced, and I returned to my own life. Erik returned as promised, Christmas and New Years passed, and life returned to normal, except that I would visit my newfound friend about once a week.

In mid-March I got a phone message at work to call Adrienne. It turned out that Adrienne had taken a bad fall on some ice while carrying out the trash, and that while nothing was broken, she was quite sore and had a great deal of difficulty moving about. Keith was away on business and could not return for what essentially was not a life-threatening emergency. He would be gone for yet another week, at least.

I told Adrienne that, while I couldn’t take off work, I’d be happy to move in temporatily, cook and clean and run errands in my spare time as I had done three months before when Michael was born.

Adrienne had been working on herself and was pretty much back in shape again, which I noticed was a very nice shape indeed. Curvy and voluptuous like Marilyn Monroe or Betty Page, and yet with no hint of cellulite. Her breasts, since she was still breast feeding, were big. I won’t say “huge,” because they were not, but they were certainly ample.

Adrienne could only hobble about the house, and so I was playing “gofer” quite a bit, but I didn’t mind. We were friends and I knew that were the situation reversed, I could certainly count on her help.

I slept in their king-size bed with her for practical reasons. I would wake up when Michael cried and bring him to her. If she needed a diaper or a wipe, I would get it for her. And by sleeping there rather in the guest room, there was one less bed to make in the morning, which was a blessing for me.

She was exhausted it seemed, and I understood why. Dealing with an infant and living by the infant’s schedule, recovering from an injury that prevented her from standing for more than a few instant, she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. The house was warmer than normal for the benefit of the baby, about 75 degrees, so Adrienne and I slept without covers dressed only in our panties. If we got a bit chilly, only a sheet was needed to warm us.

That first night, I masturbated while gazing on her goddess-like body, marred only slightly by a belly (miraculously free of stretch marks) that was still just a tiny bit distended, but had been getting smaller day by day.

Her breasts, which I’m sure were always ample, were all the more so swollen with milk. That said, they were, if not perky, surprisingly firm, and as she lay on her back, her boobs didn’t retreat into her armpits the way so many big breasts do. She was and is also naturally pale, which I like. I don’t especially like the look of deeply tanned women, especially blondes.

I had a quiet orgasm and went back to sleep.

The second night, after we climbed into bed, she put her arm under my neck and pulled me close, telling me what a good friend I was.

She kissed me and looked into my eyes saying, “I know what you did last night.” I’m sure I must have blushed. She laughed a bit and kissed me on the forehead. “It’s okay,” she said.

Before I knew it we were giving each other open-mouthed kisses. I rolled on top of her to kiss her better and her finger found first my pussy and then my G-spot. I stopped kissing and just buried my head in the billows of her golden hair as she guided me to a very intense and wet orgasm.

I relaxed on top her her body as I recovered.

Then, I dropped off to the side and started to give her a vigorous hand job. She orgasmed hard and then she was the one who needed to recover. Off to sleep we went.

That done, we chatted a bit more…and fell asleep.

The next day, Adrienne was feeling much better and was able to hobble around the house without too much groaning. We even took a little trip to a Cleveland suburb and shopped for about two hours, which was about all the energy Adrienne had to give. We returned and I made a gourmet dinner of Gorton’s fish sticks, homemade home fries, and baby spinach salad with oil and garlic dressing.

We watched TV all evening, taking turns holding Michael when he wasn’t sleeping. By then, he was quite alert, cooed quite a bit, and occasionally even laughed.

Finally, she drifted off. I put Michael in his crib, returned to the couch, and drifted off myself.

We woke up for the 11 p.m. local news and at 11:30 headed off to bed. I wasn’t really planning on sex because she had seemed so bushed all evening after our outing to the mall.

We took separate showers, brushed our teeth, checked up on Michael, and headed off to bed.

After we settled in she said, “I think my tits are about to explode, and Michael should sleep for a few more hours.” This had typically been the sign for me to get the breast pump, and so I started to get up, but she grasped my shoulder saying, simply, “No…come here.”

She pulled me close, guided my head to one of her breasts, and I knew what to do. I took a nipple into my mouth and gently sucked. My mouth tasted the nectar known as Mother’s Milk, and the unfamiliar but delectable taste sent a shiver through me. At the same time, I could feel her fingers stroking my head, just as she stroked Michael’s when he nursed.

“Oh, come on,” she said, “Michael sucks much harder than that!” And so I sucked harder, and at last my mouth flooded with mother’s milk.

I could feel a rhythm which told me she was rubbing her pussy, and so I rubbed mine as well, and it was a good orgasm when finally it came.

Michael is now walking, and since we both have partners who travel a lot, it’s not uncommon for Adrienne and I to weekend together. We take Michael to the local park or to the mall. We rent movies, pop popcorn, and enjoy each other’s company.

Her tummy is now flat and she is 100% healthy, and when Michael goes to sleep, we watch movies and make love and, of course…

(A bit of explanation: This is a story I wrote one afternoon on a return trip to Portland, Oregon, which provides the basic setting, although you can imagine any city set against small mountains. Don’t worry: It’s sexy, only in this story the fictitious Helen Palmerston is the central character, not me. I hope you enjoy it!)

Almost everyone has been past our house. It’s up in the West Hills, a stone’s throw from the Japanese Gardens, on a street where the last time a property sold for less than two mil, hard rock was something you quarried.

At least fifty people have answered our word-of-mouth invitation and are now downstairs soaking up the live piano jazz and single-malt Scotch whisky. They’re probably oohing and ahing over our collection of oil paintings and the original art books, too.

I live here with Nadja, who’s calling up to me because I’m late, as usual. So, I put the finishing touches on my eyeliner and tone down the rouge just a bit. Next, I wet my lips and turn my head this way and that to get one last look at my blond hair. “Helen,” I tell myself, “you’re a knockout, as always.”

No point in denying the truth.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror and adjust the slit on the side of my short black evening dress, and then I go downstairs to find–or, more precisely, to select–a man. I’ve been looking for a good one for so long now.

An hour or two later, I’m almost ready to throw in the towel and drown myself in scotch, when I notice a tall, thin, strikingly handsome man standing off by himself. Obviously, a lone wolf. He has slicked-back black hair and a severe widow’s peak.

I work my way over to him and introduce myself.

“Hello, I’m Helen Palmerston.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says in a thick accent. “I am Anton (his last name is unpronounceable, but ends with a hard “u” sound).” He shakes my hand, adding, “You sound English.”

“I guess I’ll never lose the accent.” I love his eyes, their darkness, their almost lupine intensity. I don’t know about his suit, though. It’s a big-lapeled model of a kind that went out of style with Neville Chamberlain.

I ask, “What about your accent? You can’t tell me you’re American, either.”

“No, I’m from Transylvania…in Rumania.”

“Transylvania? Ha! Vampire country.”

“According to the legends. But no one believes anymore, except maybe for some of the more backward villagers in the high valleys. Perhaps the vampires have scattered all over the world now. There might even be one or two right here in Portland, eh?” His voice and manners are pleasant, and even though he’s pretty weird, I have to admit he’s fascinating, much like the men Nadja and I knew back in St. Petersburg.

After fifteen or twenty minutes of conversation, Anton looks around conspiratorially and says, “I have been here for quite a while already without meeting anyone interesting–other than you, of course–so I am going home where it is quieter. May I have the pleasure of your company?”

He has been chosen. I accept without hesitation.

The next thing I know, we’re wedged into his low, red Ferrari, and we’re screaming up West Burnside at about 5000 RPM deep into the West Hills.

We take the Pittock turn-off and continue uphill. I lose count of the turns and switchbacks until, with a spray of gravel, we finally turn onto a winding unpaved road and from there into an even more tortuous driveway.

After thumping heavily across a rough-hewn wooden bridge, we park on a small plateau in front of a crenellated stone house. Anton presses a button on the dash and behind me I hear a creaking sound. When I turn, I vaguely see something moving. I also have the impression the ground is moving under my feet.

“My drawbridge,” he explains. “We have privacy now.”

Inside, I’m put off at first by the dank smell of the place, but Anton pours me a Sherry out of a cut crystal decanter and shows me around. Soon, I begin to feel comfortable.

Like the exterior, the interior walls are masonry. Faded tapestries hang everywhere, as do portraits of slender, dashing men with widow’s peaks posing in old-fashioned European officer’s uniforms. These portraits are interspersed with paintings of gaunt, drained-looking women in a variety of fabulous gowns.

“Anton, what do you do for a living?”

One side of Anton’s mouth curls slightly and he says, “I inherited more money than I could ever hope to spend. In fact, I devote much of my time to figuring out inventive ways of doing just that. And you, Helen, what do you do?”

“I’m a photographer’s model. Fashion spreads and ads mostly; some figure work.”

We retire to the drawing room, where I settle into a huge leather couch with Rumanian folk motifs tooled into it. Meanwhile, Anton starts a fire in a fireplace so huge that I could almost stand up in it. Before long, I feel its warmth on my shins and breasts, which is good, because the gloom and coldness of the stone walls is chilling.

Sitting down at the opposite end of the couch, his slender, spidery legs crossed tightly, like a woman, Anton is entirely at ease, exuding self-confidence. He is not the least bit nervous with women. “So,” he says, “you mentioned vampires. Do you believe in them?”

“Oh, yes.”

He looks at me with amusement and asks, “Could you ever believe that I am a vampire?”

“I think I would know if you were. You aren’t telling me you are, are you?”

“You obviously wouldn’t believe me anyway,” he says with a sly chuckle. Then he steers the conversation to literature, taking me over to his bookshelves, pulling down books as he talks, showing me pictures and translating passages for me from a variety of languages.

My interest in Anton has been growing steadily. I now realize just how much more complicated and interesting he is than almost any other man I’ve ever met. And when I take a Russian text out of his hand and give him what I feel is a better translation of a passage from Dostoevsky, he says, “You read Russian! Imagine, a scholarly photographer’s model. Where did you learn?”

“Nadja taught me. She’s a Russian, you know, and a Russian teacher. I’m quite familiar with Russian literature by now.”

“Ah, yes, Nadja. Your Russian roommate. You and she are such a beautiful pair.”

“Well, Anton, you’re not her type. I can tell you that right now.”

He raised his eyebrows, but otherwise let that remark pass without comment. I assume he took it as jealousy.

After an hour or so of increasingly more entertaining discussion, Anton asks if I’d like more Sherry. I accept, just so that I can watch him move some more. He’s become almost overwhelmingly attractive to me. Not only is he smarter and more complex than any man I’ve ever met, but he’s handsome in an offbeat way, too.

When he sits down and hands me my drink I say, “You know, Anton, I’m attracted to men who are intelligent and worldly.”

He’s not the least taken aback by my forwardness, saying, “And I have always been attracted to beautiful, smart women who know what they want, and go after it.”

“May I take off my clothes, Anton?”

With a casual wave of his hand that no American male could ever duplicate, he says, “It will whet my appetite.”

I get up and turn off the lights one by one, his dark, intense eyes following me all the while. Then I walk in front of the fireplace.

I’m an exhibitionist–and I mean that quite clinically: Showing my body and arousing men (or even susceptible women) is exciting for me. It helps when the way you earn your living is to show your body.

So, in the amber warmth of the fire I slowly disrobe until I’m wearing nothing but my black garter belt, dark stockings, and five-inch heels. I spend a few minutes slowly posing for Anton, just as I would for a top lingerie photographer. Then I lay down on the now-warm stone floor, posing for him as I would (and have) for a raunchy magazine shoot.

I can’t help it…I let my hand wander between my legs. I need to take advantage of the excitement I’m feeling transfixed in his gaze. Still, I like the fact that he is not watching my cunt. Instead he’s looking directly into my eyes. This is where most men judge me. They think I’m a whore for simply being what I am and for acting out my fantasies. But not Anton; he doesn’t judge.

When I sense we’re both ready, I get up, walk over to him, and drop to my knees between his spidery legs. His eyes give me tacit permission, so I unzip his trousers and reach in.

After two or three minutes of massaging, caressing, and kissing his cock, I can sense his almost overwhelming need for release. I like this part best: the part where I become the delivering angel.

The sounds he makes as I take him into my mouth are so eerie and feral that my skin goes goose-bumpy, and I tell myself that he might make a pretty good vampire after all.

* * *

It’s about 3:30 a.m. Anton is sleeping, so I dress silently. I look for his trousers, and on finding them I search his pockets for his car keys, discovering his passport in the process. I examine and return it.

I draw his drapes shut and, gathering up my coat, shoes, and purse, go down to the car.

Luckily, I have driven Ferraris before, and after a few seconds to familiarize myself with the controls, I start the car, lower the drawbridge, and drive home.

* * *

It’s almost 4 a.m. and the house is dark and quiet now and Nadja is sitting alone in the backyard next to a bottle of champagne, seemingly mesmerized by the lights of the city far below. She asks how things went; I tell her they went just fine. I ask her what I missed–not much as it turns out. Finally, we both grow pensive and silent, just absorbing the cool night air.

I say, “I saw his passport. He’s a real count, you know.”

She laughs nervously. “The Count from Transylvania. That’s really rich, Helen.” I knew she would make fun of him. I can’t hold it against her, really, since I’ve created a difficult situation.

At the crack of dawn, we gather up our things and stalk off to bed. There we embrace, kiss, and caress each other for a few moments, for Nadja and I are not roommates, as Anton thinks; we are lovers.

When I nip Nadja too sharply on the neck, she squeals and pushes herself away, saying, “Helen, you maniac. I’m too tired.”

“I’m just trying to show you that I still love you.”

She turns to me and says, “I know you do. I trust you. It still hurts, these episodes with men.”

Then, sitting up, I ask, “Did you unplug the phone? We don’t want poor Anton interrupting our beauty sleep, do we? He’s going to be sore when he wakes up, and when he finds out what I did, he’s going to call.”

Then she asks point blank, “Where did you do it?”

“I’ll give you a clue. I did it when I went down on him.”

After a few seconds of thought she yelps, “You what?!” Now she laughs hysterically. “Oh, he will be sore, then, won’t he? When he goes to pee.” When she regains control of herself she says, “Well, at least he’ll have an interesting story, won’t he? So few of us have really interesting stories anymore.”

A long silence follows. Just before it becomes uncomfortable, she says, “Since you’re already half-up, be a dear and shut the door, will you?…the light is hurting my eyes.” Closing the heavy door–which shuts out almost all remaining light–I return to her side, lay my head on that ample, soft breast of hers, saying, “Thank you for understanding, Nadja. I’ll always love you and be what you want, but…well, there are some things you can’t be for me, no matter how hard you try.”

She strokes my hair gently and says, “I know. You find men attractive; I don’t. As long as you still love me and treat me with respect, I don’t really mind.”

I kiss Nadja goodnight one last time. Not a lusty lover’s kiss as before, but an old friend’s kiss. And as I lay down to sleep, my thoughts turn to my father’s residence in St. Petersburg–the Crown’s embassy to the Russian Czar. It was just a few minutes by horse carriage from the Czar’s Palace, where I met my Russian tutor, Nadja Anna Borsakova.

Even back in 1771 I thought Nadja was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

It was Nadja who stole into my room one night and tasted the dampness of my incipient lust. While my fingers alternately stroked and clutched her black hair, she not only gave me more pleasure than I had ever imagined possible, but she left in the tender skin of my outer lips the two tiny puncture marks that made me what I am…And what Count Anton with the unpronounceable last name has become.

Anton shall sleep all day tomorrow. At nightfall, Nadja and I shall pick him up, and together the three of us shall go cruising for burghers.

Her name is Gwen, and she’s a new intern at work. She has straight reddish-brown hair and a slender gazelle-like figure. She resembles Claire Danes quite a bit and like Claire has that ability to appear both plain and gorgeous. Also like Claire, she has that look of subsurface sadness that made Claire so appealing in My So-Called Life, a show whose own so-called life ran roughly in parallel with my own high school years. Claire was my alter ego without even knowing it.

There’s a German restaurant in town and since my trip last year to Bremen, I’ve enjoyed going there for lunch from time to time. After a week or so of cordial contacts with Gwen, I invited her to lunch. She offered to drive, which gave me the special treat of watching her shapely legs work the pedals with her skirt gradually hiking up almost to her crotch. I’m sure if I’d been a guy, she’d have pulled her skirt down from time to time, but ain’t I lucky? I’m a goil!!!

The restaurant has cheesy decor (and in fact, few restaurants in Northen Germany have paintings of men in Lederhosen and maidens in Dirndls). However, the food is pretty good and would probably pass muster in mid-range restaurants in Germany. She ordered a brace of sausages with fried potatoes and I ordered Sauerbraten with potato dumplings. We both had a glass of Beck’s and after we left, I let out an ear-ringing burp, which made her laugh and somewhere in the gale of laughter she burped involuntarily, which started me laughing furiously and got her laughing even harder.

We got into the car and I commented that it was nice to see her laugh, because normally she seemed fairly somber. No longer laughing, she forced a smile and simply said that she had been through a series of losses in recent years. She didn’t go into detail at that time.

I invited her on a weekend fall colors trip out into the farm land around the area, a trip which would included several parks. She had grown up in Arizona and was new to autumn in the Midwest. Maple leaves mottled red, orange, yellow, green, and brown were something which, previously, she had only seen in photographs. She accepted my invitation.

I drove that Sunday, and after picking her up at 10 a.m., we wandered the backroads, stopping frequently for her to jump out and photograph a lovely tree, a homely old barn, or a cow or horse in a field. She was like a child seeing things for the first time that I had grown up with in Northern Ohio.

Along the way we lunched in a small-town restaurant that served Amish fare “family style,” which is really basic, rib-sticking food like chicken or roast beef with very fresh vegetables and certainly no alcohol.

We spent the afternoon driving around more. I showed her a couple of the local fishing lakes and we spent about two hours round-tip hiking a trail to a waterfall. It was one of those sublimely beautiful fall days which give you your last glimpses of rich color before the world turns into the gray and white of winter.

It had become too dark to take photos, so I invited Gwen back to our apartment for ham and waffles. She accepted and we chatted, mostly about guys at work, while I worked on dinner. She had never had real maple syrup before! Just that artificially maple-flavored stuff you can buy under various brand names. My syrup came out of a tin, not a plastic bottle, and had been purchased at a sugarbush out near Burton, Ohio. (A “sugarbush” is a grove of sugar maples.)

Real maple syrup, to the sugar lover, induces a gastronomic ecstasy approaching that of sex, and I could see she was savoring each bite, and she had not one but two additional helpings of waffles just so she could have more syrup! I made a joke about injecting it directly into her veins which doubled her up in laughter.

It was so nice to see her happy.

I could see she wasn’t even thinking about leaving, which was fine with me, since Erik was up in New Brunswick on business and I certainly would enjoy having the company.

I showed her our video collection and she asked me to pick something good. I pulled out House of Games, one of my favorite movies, written and directed by David Mamet. It was also one of Joe Mantegna’s first major roles and it introduced me to Lindsay Crouse, then Mamet’s wife, who, with her uniquely resonant voice and short blond hair still makes my panties damp.

As the movie started, I fired up the fireplace and the room got warmer and warmer.

When that movie was over, I let her pick one while I went back into the kitchen to clean up a bit. She soon joined me, asking me about The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I told her it’s a wonderful movie, which it is. It was my first exposure to Daniel Day-Lewis, Juliette Binoche, and Lena Olin. That’s a trio I’d hop into bed with anytime. I told her that it was a very sexy film, which didn’t turn her off. She helped me do the dishes and tidy up the kitchen (a trait I always appreciate in guests).

I popped up a big batch of popcorn and made my special butter and spices drizzle (butter, brewer’s yeast, powdered garlic, cayenne, and Kraft Romano Cheese). We returned to the living room, which had become quite warm, so I stepped out of my jeans and took off my top. She was taken aback at first, but followed suit. So there we were, eating popcorn in our bras and panties.

Did I mention we were drinking Hearty Burgundy, too? Oh, yeah!

As we sat there picking up popped kernels one or two at a time, we watched this movie. I had forgotten (or neglected) to tell her how sexy the movie is…and how sad. I’ve seen it five or six times and it always has me bawling at the end.

As the final credits rolled, I looked over at Gwen, and she was staring at the ceiling, tears running down her cheeks along with some of her makeup. I ran off to the kitchen and grabbed the box of tissues I keep there. I wiped the tears and makeup off her cheeks and took her in my arms. When I did this, she cried even harder and clutched me as if I was her mother.

“What is your story?” I asked. And here is what she told me.

Her father had come back from Vietnam a changed person, according to her mother. Before leaving for duty, he had been a happy-go-lucky guy, always ready with a joke or quip. A bit of a prankster, but nothing ever vicious. After returning, he had no sense of humor and while he was never abusive, he was also never fun again. He had frequent nightmares and never enjoyed life. In fact, she said, she’s lucky to even exist because shortly after she was born, according to her mother, he had lost first his interest in sex and then his ability to perform.

Her home was a sad and quiet place, devoid of joy. Her one joy in life was her brother, who somehow managed to take it all in stride, and frequently included his younger sister in the things he did.

On the way home from his senior prom—one occasion when she could not be with him—he and his girlfriend were killed when a truck driver dozed at the wheel of his semi. It wasn’t a head-on collision, but the glancing blow at their combined speed knocked her brother’s car out of control. This happened near the middle of a bridge over a canyon, and his car hit the curb, flew into the air, and went right over the side falling several hundred feet and landing on a pile of rocks killing both him and his date, who happened to be one of her best high school buddies. She and her brother had even met on a sleepover she had had for her school friends, and their romance had been a source of happiness for her.

This sent her father over the edge. He descencded into a deep depression which cost him his job as a mechanic at the local Ford agency. The night he got fired, he never came home from work. His car was found out in the desert. He drove on a seldom-used side road till his pickup ran out of gas, where he took the shotgun which hung in the back of the cab, stuck it into his mouth, and I don’t need to tell you the rest.

Her mother hasn’t talked since then and now resides in a state hospital.

I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who had endured so much loss. I had to admire her for persisting in her studies and keeping it all together as well as she had.

At the same time, it hit me how beautiful she was and how happy I wanted to make her.

“Take me,” I said. She said, “What?” Slowly, I settled first onto my elbows, and then onto my back, with one leg on the floor, effectively inviting her to lay on top of me. “Take me,” I repeated.

She drifted onto me so slowly I almost didn’t feel her body touch mine.

At first, she just looked into my eyes. Here eyes teared up a little bit more, but when she started kissing me, I closed my own eyes.

At first, she just pecked at my lips and cheeks and nose, nibbled on my ears, and licked my neck. She was good, I’ll tell you that. She got me pretty worked up. I had decided to be totally passive, and so it took quite a bit longer than I had wanted for her tongue to start probing my mouth.

Wow, what a kisser she was! I was enjoying it in one part of my mind but the other part was screaming “Get me off! Get me off!”

Reaching behind her as we kissed, I unhooked her bra and she helped take it off. Then I rolled to one side, she unhooked mine, and soon we were breast-to-breast. After kissing a while longer, she slid down and took one of my nipples into her mouth, teasing it with her teeth by moving her jaw from side to side. Chills were going up and down my back and legs. When she lifted her head slowly, stretching the nipple until it snapped out of her teeth…fuck!…I almost had an orgasm right there!

Now she was licking her way down to my navel and further on down to my pelvic area where she rubbed her cheeks in the roughness of my pelvic “five o’clock shadow,” groaning with pleasure as she did so. Oh, man, was I lubricating. Soon she was rubbing her face in my pussy juice, as I ran my fingers through her silken hair.

Her cheek had found a sweet spot, and so I started groaning encouragement. She pretty nearly got me off with her cheek before I suggested we throw down some pillows in front of the fireplace and continue. I didn’t want it to end there.

“Lay on your tummy,” she ordered, and I obeyed. She sat on the small of my back to start with and massaged my shoulders. Then she slowly moved back and sat on my lower legs as she massaged my lower back and butt.

I don’t know if she can read minds or was just as horny as I was, but I was really happy when her fingers wandered into my butt crack and started teasing my asshole. For a while, it was tease, tease, tease and so at last I said, “Go on…I want you to do it.”

Chills again as I heard her suck an a finger. The next thing I knew, s finger was going in nice…and…slow…and…nice…and…deeeep. And then she was finger-fucking my ass, which I raised in the air, stuffing some pillows under my hips to keep it up and make the finger action easier for her.

Well, if you’ve been reading my stories, you know how much I like ass play! I was in heaven. Then, the finger came out, more sucking sounds, and soon two fingers were in, then three.

I told her where there was some Astroglide in a little end table drawer she could reach, and soon it was four fingers. Oh, man, I was hot.

Curling up into a fetal position, I said, “I want more. Grease me up good.” So, she slopped Astroglide onto her hand and into my ass and ever so slowly I accommodated her fingers and then her cupped hand, until I could feel the bulge of her hand slide in.

“Roll onto your back,” she whispered and her whisper was my command. As she fucked my ass with her forearm, she licked and sucked on my pussy lips and clit. This was one of those orgasms that sneaks up and surprises you. I came explosively, squirting onto Gwen’s chin, and her hand popped out of my butt when she felt my sphincter contracting in the throes of orgasm.

This time she held me as I recovered from this powerful orgasm.

When I was ready, I reached into the drawer and found my little Pocket Rocket vibrator, about the size of a lipstick.

I held it in my hand and rubbed her pussy with it as I kissed her. But there isn’t really much to tell. She locked her legs around my hand and said “Just hold me…kiss me.” After about maybe 10 minutes of hoding and kissing her, she stiffened, whimpered, and relaxed.

She agreed that it was too far, too late, and too much trouble for me to drive her home, so she shared my bed with me, and I held her in my arms all night long.

I think Kelsey, my boss, recognized that the new intern had shown up at work wearing clothes from my wardrobe and gave me knowing looks the rest of the day.

As for Gwen, we’ve become real buddies and she often comes over to keep me company while Erik is out of town. I’ll miss her a lot when she retutns to Arizona.

But I must say, she seems much happier lately.