Chapter 1



My first time was a mercy fuck. Well, sort of. Not only that, but what made it worse was that all I could think while it was happening was that this could very well be the greatest fuck of my life, possibly of all time. What would I possibly have to look forward to after this?

Then again, I was young and stupid at the time, too.

I had finished my first year of university at State and was spending the summer with my Dad. There was a University extension program located in the town in which he lived and I wanted to take a summer course or two. As I was a full-time student at State, it didn't cost any extra for the summer school, and as long as I could stay at his apartment for free, it would be a cheap way to get some of the required courses out of the way.

What I didn't realize was how boring it would be. I didn't know anyone in town and the other summer students were pretty much self-absorbed. Of course, I didn't try all that hard to get to know them, either, but still, they were the only human contact I had for the most part.

My Dad was working long hours that summer, so I never saw him much either. He had moved out of state to live here when I was beginning high school, about five years ago, I guess. It was hard on the whole family, being so far apart like that. We were just another family living the average American Nightmare. Dad was working really hard to support us. He was doing that because it was the right thing to do. It was voluntary on his part, not court-ordered, and it was especially a strain on him. But that's the kind of guy my Dad is. So if I could get some cheap courses and maybe finish college before my brother started, I figured a little boredom was a small price to pay.

You see, it was my fault Dad had left Mom and us kids in the first place. Yeah, I know all kids in divorced families feel that way sometimes, but I was pretty certain I was at fault here. Or, at least, my condition was. It was pretty clear to me from early on that Mom didn't deal with my condition very well. Deep down I think she thought I was a pervert or something. Dad, like most fathers, just tried to ignore my condition and treat me like a regular kid. During that time he was still living with us, he used to enroll me in sports programs and we worked on model cars and planes together. Stuff like that. Oh, and he introduced me to heavy-duty, reinforced jock straps probably before most boys get them. In a way, I wish Mom had just ignored it, too, but given her strict religious upbringing, I suppose it just wasn't possible for her to look the other way.

I had been a fairly normal kid until I hit puberty. Then, on the first day of sixth grade, the first day of Junior High Scholl, "IT" happened. I still remember that day as if it had happened yesterday...

Debbie Grogan, my girlfriend from the fifth grade, had sprouted a good-sized pair of tits over the summer. I guess she was pretty proud of them, because she was strutting around like a peacock, shoving them at everyone. Unfortunately, my hormones chose the very moment she was thrusting them at me to kick in and I got my first public woody. As it was the first week of September, it was hot and like most of the kids and teachers, I was wearing a pair of thin nylon shorts. On top of that, Mom had been expecting me to have a growth spurt that year and had purchased all my clothes a little large. OK, a lot large. My under shorts included. 'Baggy' is the term that comes to mind. As I hadn't started the anticipated growth spurt yet, I was, for all intents and purposes on that first day of school, hanging free. And of course, when I went stiff, I headed for the wide open spaces. The path of least resistance, so to speak.

When sweet innocent Debbie came over and rubbed her brand new boobs all over my arms and back, I was left standing there with what felt like a hardon to rival a great Sequoia. Debbie, my sweet little innocent Debbie, just happened to notice my dick sticking out the leg of my shorts and she started screaming. Like, what? She was the only one who had been able to grow something during the summer? I still think, as I look back on that life-altering moment and all that followed, that she was screaming in excitement, not fear.

The so-called education professional assigned to encumber our learning process that year, Miss Blechert, however, misinterpreted Debbie's reaction, or quite possibly substituted Debbie's reaction with her own, and immediately slapped me. In the nuts. Hard. Twice.

The only reason she couldn't knee me in the balls — believe me, she tried - was because I was by then rolling on the ground holding my hands over my crotch, screaming louder than the both of them. I was in serious pain, and that was before she had played handball with my family jewels. I had no idea a hardon could hurt this bad. All I could think as I rolled around on the floor was how tough my Dad must be to get it on with Mom three or four times a week and not let us hear him screaming in pain.

All together, it was a memorable first day of school.

But the worst was yet to be discovered. After everyone else had calmed down, I didn't. I couldn't. And it still hurt. I just barely managed to stand semi-upright and Miss Blechert was so incensed that I was still at full staff after all of her ministrations, she sent me to the Principal's Office. I tried to walk out of the room with that log sticking out of my groin, but it was painful and awkward. I obviously wasn't fast enough for her, so she aided my progress by lifting me by one ear (she had voted for LBJ), the one protrusion on my body furthest from my engorged prick.

It was humiliating enough to be hauled down to the Principal's Office, much less literally dragged there by one ear. Miss Blechert made the trip even better by loudly castigating me and all filthy men everywhere for the entire length of the normally silent hallway. Several of the other teachers poked their heads out of their classroom doors to see which deserving child had managed to be sent to the gallows on the very first day of school. That was something that was almost unheard of, so they were wondering just what heinous crime was committed and by whom. Some of the curious onlookers seemed rather impressed I was able to occasionally touch the ground with a toe or two as I was escorted to my doom.

Principal Moffett yelled at me for a while, with no visible effect. I was still as outstanding a student as before he began. He was a giant of a man, still retaining some basic upper body musculature from his high school and college football hero days. He loomed over all of us kids, in a benevolent sort of way, usually. I think that it worried him, however, at my lack of a suitable reaction. He wondered that he might be losing his touch to make us all obey him instantly. Or it could have been that, being a guy, he could sympathize with me, though he probably had no idea about the pain I was in. Normally he could scare the shit out of any of us kids by simply glowering at us. That morning, however, I just stood there staring down at my throbbing woody, now decently covered and tenting out my thin shorts, with no apparent physical response to his presence but the tears streaming down my face. It eventually began to concern him.

After several minutes of manly silence, both of us standing in his stifling office waiting for a retraction that never came, he finally called in the school nurse. Already informed by Miss Blechert of my crime, Nurse Black came into the Principal's office and stood there with this horrified look, staring at my bulging crotch, a reaction with which I was to become extremely familiar.

Next came... 'the finger.' That long, bony digit that all mature women seem to develop, and Nurse Black's seemed very well developed to me that morning. The finger is used to express their extreme displeasure and disgust, especially of naughty little boys who can't control themselves, by shaking it in their faces, wagging it like a pendulum, coming as close to the eyes as possible. That tactic of intimidation didn't work either and she had to resort to other, more direct means to try to reduce the swelling.

First I was subjected to an extremely cold ice pack. She refused to touch me "down there," so she took an Ace bandage and wrapped one, then two chunks of dry ice tightly to my crotch. It looked like I was wearing a smoking diaper. The pain suddenly went away after about an hour, although I was as swollen as ever. I nearly got frostbite she kept the ice pack on there so long, but the swelling never went down. In fact, it was longer than before, if that was possible.

When that didn't work, she pulled out the big threat. If I couldn't control myself, she said, she was going to call my mother. Normally this is when most kids buckle, piss in their pants and confess to nailing Jesus to the cross, but I didn't. I did wet my pants, but that was only because they hadn't allowed me to go to the bathroom for almost 3 hours and it was after lunch. If she was flustered before, after I piddled she went ballistic.

I never learned exactly what she said on the phone, but both Mom and Dad showed up at the school at about the same time, tires screeching and smoking, nearly colliding with each other as they braked to a stop in the visitor's parking spaces in front of the school. I watched it all unfold from a damp plastic chair in the Nurse's office as Nurse Black met them outside, arms akimbo, gesticulating and animated.

However traumatic the events of that day were, what I remember most about that day, what I have carried with me since then, was the look of abject shame on my Mother's face when she first came into the room to see her defective son. She never lost that look whenever she looked at me from that time until this. Yeah, I was still her baby boy, but now I was broken.

I didn't understand it. It wasn't that big of a thing. Really! I was 12 years old and it was maybe 3 or 4 inches long when fully blown, which, incidentally, I wouldn't be until much, much later. I honestly couldn't see what the big fuss was all about.

After several weeks of hospitals, clinics, staying home from school, lectures from three clergy men about the evils of masturbation, an exorcism or two and constant tormenting and heckling from the other kids in the neighborhood, a bright young doctor finally diagnosed me with priapism. Erectus Permanentus. Named for the Roman God 'Priapus, ' a happy-go-lucky sort that fucked everything and anytime.

I can imagine a lot of you guys out there are whooping it up, wishing you could be so lucky. And after your usual once-a-week five minutes of fame, some of your girlfriends no doubt are wishing the same thing, but for different reasons. But believe me when I tell you, you don't want this.

First, it hurts like Hell, or was supposed to. From what the doctors told my Dad - Mom had run screaming from the room - I was lucky. Whether it was from the ice pack or just the way I was put together, he couldn't say, but normally this condition was extremely - EXTREMELY - painful. It was rare, unheard of, in fact, that mine wasn't painful. About the only treatment for priapism is surgery, which would have left me essentially with a limp hose, only good for pissing. No procreational activities at all without a penile implant later in life. But, as the pain wasn't bothering me, he didn't recommend it just for cosmetic purposes.

Second, from that moment on, I had no social life. What father would allow his daughter, his little girl, to go out with a guy with a permanent hardon, much less be seen with him? Forget about going to anyone's house after school or their parents letting them come to mine.

Third, I couldn't participate in sports, which I had been showing a real flare for up to that time. Running was too painful, swimming was too revealing, diving made an after-splash that took points off my score. Bowling? No. Golf? Come on, get real. I would have gotten a penalty for having too many clubs. No one would wrestle me in my weight class. No one, that is, except Justin, and I wasn't the only boy in Junior High School that wouldn't go into the shower room with him. There was no way I was going to let him get his hands on me in a wrestling match.

The end result of all this was that I was terminally shy, which was more the result of being terminally embarrassed. I was continually humiliated by people's reactions to me rather than a natural shyness. I eventually just found it easier if I didn't draw attention to myself.

Dad took a lot of crap from Mom in those next three or so years. She may have been ashamed of me, but in twisted feminine logic, she blamed him like it was somehow his fault. I found out later that she freaked out whenever he got an erection, afraid she would find him in the same situation as I was in. He held out as long as he could, then finally accepted a job transfer out of state. When he left, I could tell he felt like he was abandoning me. He tried to get her to let me live with him, but Mom wasn't thinking clearly. So he just left.

Masturbation, the traditional pastime of youth, was absolutely out of the question for me. It wasn't until I was a senior in High School that I learned, to my great relief, in more ways than one, that I could ejaculate with digital stimulation. I had had wet dreams, for sure. But until that day in the shower, the only place safe from Mom's sudden and frequent inspections for impropriety on my part, I wasn't really sure I could squirt my juice and not be permanently damaged. Well, more damaged than I was, anyway. Boy, was I relieved.

I did a lot of weight lifting in the garage and I studied hard in high school. They were about my only outlets, as I had no friends and wasn't allowed to masturbate. I was reasonably good-looking, not that it did me any good, but at least I wasn't carrying that burden around, too. I had inherited my Mom's dark Mediterranean coloring. She said her father's family was from somewhere in Italy, but her maiden name was O'Rourke. Oh, well. Fortunately I had inherited my Dad's brains, not that Mom was dumb, but, well... Dad always told me I was smarter than he was at my age and that made me feel pretty good. Unlike my two siblings, who seemed to have gotten the reverse combination. Not that my Dad was ugly either, but it just didn't work for my sister. Even I felt sorry for her. Occasionally.

With my looks every new girl in school would eventually hit on me, especially when they figured out I was unattached and available. The whole process got to be predictable. The new girl would indicate her interest, I would try to blend in with the wall paper and avoid her attentions, she would persist and, in her mind, blatantly throw herself at me. Then some well-meaning soul would take her aside, sometimes right in front of me like I was a door or something, whisper in her ear and point at me. A couple of shakes of her head 'no' in disbelief followed like clockwork. It got to the point that the informers would hold up their hands, like they were telling a fishing story or something. I only wish I was that long or thick.

The doomed relationships usually ended with a tearful "How could you do this to me?" scene at the earliest possible moment, often very public. Always traumatic. Deep down, I never did give up hope of just being a normal teenager and it always hurt me.

After a couple of those wonderful events, I simply wanted to be left alone more than ever. I was successful, for the most part. Maybe too successful. By the time I had graduated and left town for college. I had no friends but the guys in the chess club. Those geeks all went to MIT or Stanford, places like that, and when the time came at the end of the first year for me to go back home for the summer or to go stay with Dad, I took the opportunity to not be with Mom.

Everything was going pretty good that summer, too. I was ahead of schedule in my self-taught courses. Not having anything else to do with my time I studied a lot and the summer school academic standards were pretty lame, besides. By July Fourth, I had taken my finals and suddenly realized I had the whole rest of the summer stretching out in front of me.

Believe it or not, I think my Dad understood a little of what I was going through. Of course, deep inside, I still think he thought I was just a really horny little bastard and that one day I would outgrow it. Like bed-wetting or something. I think that's what everyone thought, even the doctor who diagnosed me. Especially since the excruciating pain had never come back. I don't think he really thought it was a true priapic condition, other than the fact I was stiff 24/7.

I thought my idyllic summer had ended when Dad announced he was going to have to leave town for several months. He must have seen the look of panic on my face when I concluded he was not going to let me stay in his apartment alone for the rest of the summer and send me back home. The sudden prospect of going home was too onerous, especially after having lived with him the first part of the summer and without Mom's shame-filled eyes for even longer.

"I think we can work something out, get someone to look after you, John," he said.

"Dad, I don't need a babysitter! I'm almost 19! I lived all by myself at school for a whole year, almost."

"Yes, you did," he said. "And there was a cafeteria where you could eat, a janitor to fix the boiler when the heat went out, and a floor monitor to make sure nothing happened to you. You're in transition to be on your own, son. But not yet."

"But, Dad... ," I protested, not really being able to refute him.

He was right. Of the four guys in my suite at the dormitory, I was the most incompetent. I could burn the water making tea. Milk soured before I got it home. If I thought about making an omelet, the eggs would crack open in the carton rather than suffer the indignity of ending up in one of my creations. I won't even begin to mention the laundry.

"My secretary, Lisa, from work, has agreed to look in on you from time to time while I'm gone. With both me and my boss away from the office on this assignment, there won't be that much for her to do." He grinned sadly at the obvious look of relief on my face as it dawned on me that I didn't have to go to Mom's house. I wasn't even sorry I couldn't hide my feelings from him.

He continued. "She's interning with us this summer. If I'm not mistaken, I think she goes to State, too. You may even know her."

I for damn sure didn't know any girls at State, let alone someone named Lisa. "I don't think so, Dad. It's a big campus, and I don't get out much."

"Well, she just finished her Junior year, so she is a couple of years ahead of you. Maybe she can show you around town, introduce you to some kids your own age. She grew up around here."

"Oh. OK." I was already planning on how to ditch her, to keep our interactions to a minimum. Like most teenagers, I had learned early on that the less said to parents the better.

Dad finished packing, left me a wad of cash, and headed out the door. I watched from four stories up as his boss, Bill Nagi, pulled up to the front of our apartment building and picked him up in his brand new BMW 750i. Dad looked up at me just as he got in and waved. Then he was gone, headed for the airport.

I promptly forgot about Lisa.

The persistent buzzing of the doorbell gradually made its way into my consciousness. It was a long trip for that horrible sound to get there, too. Consuming four pepperoni and anchovy pizzas and two six packs of cheap beer - they don't check ID when you have the beer delivered! - the night before, plus watching a Star Trek marathon on TV until 4:30 in the morning had left my brain a bit fuzzy. My mouth, too. In fact, my whole body felt fuzzy. The buzzing of the doorbell sounded fuzzy.

Scraping my face up off the hardwood floor, I left the puddle of drool to dry as I stumbled to the door. Whoever it was that was creating that racket was going to get a piece of my mind if it was the last one I had. I was already forming the words in my mouth when I opened the door.

"..." I was suddenly speechless. Not a word would come out, could come out. Struck as dumb as Saul was blind on the road to Damascus.

"Hi!" she said way too loudly for 1:00 in the afternoon. "I'm Lisa!"

Even as she shouted at me, I could tell she had that kind of a voice that made you think of strawberries. Sweet, but with just a hint of early summer morning tartness, full of life and vibrant. Succulent and juicy. I had to clench my teeth to keep from throwing up the last six pieces of pizza. They weren't sitting well on my stomach.

Without asking, she walked past me into the apartment. She was tall, I noticed. Almost as tall as me because I could look her finely shaped eyebrows straight in the eye. If they hadn't been colored a darker shade, I have no doubt that they would have been nearly transparent as she had that shade of hair that seemed to shimmer, then disappear into a halo of light. Light that was blasting in through the windows now that she had opened the curtains.

I doubled over in sudden urgency and rushed to the bathroom where I deposited the meddlesome slices of pizza. When I finished puking, I flushed, washed the bile from my mouth, chipped off the worse of the fuzz from my teeth and face with toothbrush and razor, in the proper order, thank God, and went back out into the living room.

She was sitting amidst the detritus of last night's binge, her back to me. I couldn't believe it but she was cleaning up! She didn't look the domestic type. Trophy case, maybe, but she definitely did not have any resemblance to a dowdy housewife type. She was neatly stacking the pizza boxes and throwing the empty beer cans in a handy plastic bag she found on the floor.

"Here, take these to the trash," she said, pointing at the boxes and handing me the rattling bag of empties. "Quite a party last night, huh?"

I mumbled something in response as I took the garbage to the trash chute and dumped the whole armload down. The cacophony it made as it crashed the four stories made me grab my head. I managed not to throw up again, but just barely.

"You don't recycle in this building?" she asked me. She had followed me into the utility area. A smile that somehow avoided being smug played with the corners of her delicate mouth as she pointedly looked at the trash chute. The recycling schedule was plainly printed on the door of the trash chute. Monday for cans, Tuesday for plastics, Wednesday for paper and so on. Fuck it. Let the Spotted Owls and Snail Darters sort it out.

I stood there dumbly and looked at her with my blurry eyes. I shrugged. She giggled. It was a teasing little sound. It made me open my eyes a bit wider to see just what she was laughing at. Thank God, she was laughing at me and not my raging hardon. In fact, other than a brief glance downward as she passed me standing at the door of the apartment, I didn't think she had looked at my crotch twice. I had noticed a slight upward twitch of the corners of her lips as she had looked that once, but morning woodies were apparently something with which she was familiar.

"Come on, let's go," she announced suddenly. "Your dad wanted me to show you around." As abruptly as she had spoken, she turned and headed out the door. She didn't act like she was used to not being followed. It wasn't a matter of obedience or domination but I got the distinct impression she didn't hear the word "No" very often.

I followed her out, locking the apartment behind me. Had I been more awake, I probably would have inquired where we were headed. As it was, I was in my jeans, sandals and an aged T-shirt, the bottom edge of which had served as my napkin last night and was wafting pizza grease and spilled beer foam. At least it covered the BO reeking from my armpits. Kind of.

I followed her out the front door and watched as she got into a new BMW 750i. Oh, Shit, shit, shit! Lisa was Lisa Nagi, my Dad's boss's daughter. Could it get any more fucked up?

I don't remember much of the ride she took me on through town. I remembered she talked a lot, waved her arms, and that she smelled wonderful. Even with my head pounding, my heart sinking at her undeniable untouchability, my head still throbbing with every bump and turn in the road, I could tell she smelled great. Even over the pizza fumes.

I was sitting with my eyes closed, inhaling deep breaths of her, when I realized the car had stopped. It had been stopped for a while. I turned to look out the passenger side window when I heard a knock from that direction.

"You coming?" she asked. Again, she just turned and walked away, expecting me to follow.

I got out of the car and staggered at the bright light assaulting me. We were standing in front of this huge museum. I groaned at the thought of having to look at, much less appreciate anything other than the backside of my eyelids. I had seen her head off to a side entrance, through a wrought-iron gate, so I allowed my hopes to rise and permitted myself to believe there would be a magical pharmacy hidden back there.

Moving my feet was a chore, but eventually I got the hang of it. I stumbled as best I could after the fleeing figure of Lisa. There wasn't a magical pharmacy hidden behind the gate, but a beautiful lush green garden with birds shouting and screaming everywhere. I held my hands to my ears to block out the horrible singing. All I accomplished was to trip over one of the cracks in the stepping stones in the pathway and land face down in the frigid waters of the Koi pond. OK, tepid waters, but you land face down in water with the mother of all hangovers and then tell me the difference.

It did wake me up some and after that one searing pain that takes the top of your head off and makes all your hair stand on end, complete with a blood curdling scream, I was able to think more clearly. Trouble was, I now had no idea where I was or in which direction Lisa had gone. I was going to be lost in this jungle of howling songbirds the rest of my life.

"John? You OK?" came a sweet voice through the bushes.

Ah, yes, strawberries. Lisa, the goddess of the BMW. Now I remembered. "Umph," I grunted back, still as articulate as ever.

"Oh, silly! You fell in Daddy's fish pond!" she laughed as she came back along the path.

What? Her Dad lived in a museum?

"Here. Let me help you up."

I took the proffered hand and hauled myself out of the pool. It wasn't that deep but the sides were slippery. I followed her wonderful ass the rest of the way around the building.

The intensity of the laser-like light reflecting off the water in the immaculate pool in the rear of the house/museum nearly blinded me again. I got a hand up just in time to keep from permanently searing my retinas.

"The changing rooms are over there. I think there should be something in there your size." I saw her pointing to a pool house bigger than my Mom's place. I wandered over in the general direction she was pointing, saw the 'Men' figure on one of the doors and pushed my way in.

I'll say one thing. I was wrong about money. If you spend enough of it, you <can> do something to make a locker room look good. It even smelled expensive. Paneled walls, oak lockers and benches, gleaming floor-to-ceiling mirrors all around, stacks of clean, thick towels - the big, fluffy kind. No dog-eared corners on the carpets, no graffiti. Hell, you couldn't even see the seams where the two carpet sections met, though I knew there must have been at least two pieces joined together. The room was that wide.

There was an assortment of swimming trunks, all new, hanging on a rack. I found one in my size, got out of my wet clothes and put the suit on. From my reflections in the full-length mirrors that surrounded me on all sides I could see I was in big trouble. I knew that immediately. I hadn't picked a Speedo style suit, but the trunks were a lot tighter than any I had ever worn before. But they were the loosest ones there that wouldn't literally fall off my hips.

I looked longingly at my mud-stained wet jeans. I don't know what made me wear the trunks anyway, despite my better judgment. Perhaps I still wasn't thinking clearly what with my hangover. Besides, my clothes were soaked and muddy from falling in the fish pond. I had to wear something, didn't I?

Or maybe it was Lisa. She was such a 'babe, ' though even I knew better than to use that term around girls. But she was. And she was being so friendly and all, too, though I knew it was only because our dads worked together. Fuck, let's be honest here, OK? She was fucking gorgeous and I wanted to nail her ass to the mosaic tiled deck around the pool. Subconsciously, of course. My experience told me I had a snowball's chance of actually doing anything with her. She was clearly out of my league.

I delayed my exit from the changing room as long as possible, but I didn't shower. I had no intention of going into the pool and getting the trunks wet that way, either. That was too dangerous. Wet cloth clings, outlines, enlarges. And if I do say so myself, I had been doing OK in that department during the last year or so. Enlargement, that is.

Since sixth grade, when I was a mere three to four inches, I had matured. I figured I was now about 7 inches long, maybe longer, depending on if you measure from the top of the base or the bottom of the base to the tip. Anyway, I guess I was slightly longer than average. Where I had excelled, though, was the circumference, especially around the base. I was bigger around than I could reach with one hand by just over an inch, about the size of a beer bottle, maybe a little bigger. I'm not sure if it was the constant pressure that my permanent erection put on the walls of my prick or what, but I was a lot thicker than any of the other guys I had caught a glimpse of. Not that I intentionally looked, but, you know, in the locker room. Like that.

I knew enough not to get the suit wet, anyway. Confronted with a monster of the proportions I hid in my pants, most of the girls I had met would flee screaming from my presence. I peeked out the door of the pool house to see if Lisa was out yet. She wasn't by the pool and I made a dash for it, taking advantage of her absence to get to a deck chair and re-arrange my shorts to camouflage the throbbing shaft hidden beneath. I also planned on using at least one towel, if not several.

I jumped too soon. I had just cleared the covered entryway when a huge cart came trundling around the corner of the building. Lisa squealed when she saw me, but it was too late. The stainless steel cart clipped my hip and I was thrown off balance and went backward into the pool. Slow motion, arms flapping futilely. Just like in the movies. Big splash.

Gasping for air I clawed my way to the side of the pool. Lisa was laughing so hard it wasn't difficult to yank her in with me when she gave me her hand. She thought this was also terribly funny and proceeded to have a water fight. Which was pretty one sided, as any splashing I may have done was a direct result of trying not to drown. I wasn't a real good swimmer.

Lisa finally pulled away from the fight after an appropriate amount of time playing and climbed up out of the pool.

It was a sight I don't think I will ever forget. I hope I don't.

Lisa wasn't beautiful like you see in magazines. If you looked you could see a flaw or two. Nothing earth shattering, mind you. There were no ugly blemishes or warts on her nose. A cute little freckle or two, maybe. What made Lisa so striking is that Lisa acted like she was beautiful. Like she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted.

The other thing that struck me as I watched her climb out of the pool was that she was sleek. In a good way. There were no outrageous bumps or curves to distract from the overall perfection of her figure. Everything fit together. Just right. Perfectly. Of course. Her breasts were adequate sized, big enough to jiggle, small enough not to flop or sag and they were high on her chest without being tucked in clear up under her chin. They filled the two tiny swatches of her bikini top very nicely, thank you.

Her ass was trim, even lean, though there was enough flesh on it to swallow the string of her thong bottoms and make it disappear from sight. Her legs, well, I decided then and there that I was a leg man for life. Long. Just long. Long, long, long, long, long, legs. From here to there and back again on the other side. I mean, they were long.

She was climbing out of the pool and paused, one foot on the top rung, the other leg cocked, toes pointed straight, her knee slightly in front of her. It was a picture seared into my mental scrapbook forever.

She giggled that giggle again and I saw she was looking back at me, back under her arms. She had seen me staring at her legs and just stood there, posing for me. It seemed like forever before she moved, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. Definitely nothing inappropriate. Lisa would never do anything to make things awkward. She knew just the right thing to do and the right thing to say to put you at your ease. She was always appropriate.

Lisa arranged two deck chairs, one by the other and stood there holding out a towel for me. I really didn't have a choice but to get out of the pool.

This time she did look me over, up and down, then up again, stopping at my crotch, much the same as I had looked at her when she exited the pool. OK. Turnabout was fair play. I posed for her at the top of the stairs. I held my breath.

Having experienced this before, I watched her eyes. There. There it was. That slight dilation of the pupils, the squinting disbelief at what she had seen but couldn't have seen. The puckering of her nipples behind the thin fabric of her nearly transparent top as her female mating instincts reacted to the stimulus of an erect male organ on an acceptable mate. But what would be her conscious reaction to it?

Not hearing any screaming, I moved to the deck chair as quickly as I could and lay down on my stomach. I usually had a very tanned back by the end of every summer as opposed to a virgin white chest and stomach. I didn't usually get to spend much time on my back as I tended to attract monkeys looking for coconuts, washer women looking for a convenient place to tie off their clotheslines or flag makers looking for an available location to display their wares. I had heard all the jokes people made about me and they were all bad.

Lisa pulled the rolling cart over behind our chairs, within easy reach of both of us. Looking up I saw it was laden with iced cold drinks, sushi, some cold cuts and sliced vegetables. She reached in and pulled out a tube of cream.

"OK, I'll do you, then you can do me," she said, squirting a gallon of the tanning lotion on my back. It had been buried in the ice along with the drinks and I jumped several inches off the chair as the frigid cream hit my back. Then she started rubbing it in and I nearly cried for joy. Oh God, think of all the wonderful sensations, oily, slippery, touching, sliding, back and forth, over and over. It was like sex in a bottle and Lisa was touching me. I couldn't help but groan in pleasure.

"Feeling better now? You looked like shit when I picked you up. Didn't your Dad tell you I was coming at 1:00?"

For the life of me, I couldn't remember. Right then, I didn't care. I just groaned again.

"OK. My turn." With that she flipped the tube of tanning lotion next to my face and lay down on her chair. Reaching with one hand behind her, she deftly untied the fragile bow of those two miniscule strings that held her top together behind her back. A second yank undid the knot behind her neck.

I groaned again watching her, but covered it by sitting upright, facing away from her. Grabbing my towel and holding it in front of me I turned to face the most perfect back I could ever imagine stretched out naked before me. And I was going to touch it, going to slide my hands over that slippery, silky skin, kneading those strong, sensuous muscles. Press my hungry fingers firmly down along her spine, working the lotion into every square inch of her supple softness. Moving slowly down along her curvaceous sides, feeling the teasingly soft beginning swells of her breasts as they lay pressed against the deck chair, almost tasting them, imagining the whole of them with the lightest touch of my fingertips drawn over their surfaces. Then down, slowly, slowly down to those firm round cheeks where the string was buried, so mysterious, so tight. Firm and spongy, resilient to the arousing pressure of my fingers, sliding deeper into the crease between, deeper, slippery, deeper, hot, moist, just a little deeper, my questing digits burrowing...

"John?"

"Huh? What?"

"Uh, I think my ass is done. Thanks."

As if burned, I yanked my hands away from her perfect ass. She giggled that tinkling little laugh again as she look back over her shoulder, watching me with her twinkling blue eyes over the top of her sun glasses. Panicked that I had committed a terrible faux pas, I scanned her face. I could see she wasn't mad. But she was laughing at me, all the same. I lay back down on my chair and tried to relax. But I couldn't. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Night Shade

Chapter 2