This was crazy shit. My wife’s best friend from way back when. Visiting. First time in ten years, maybe fifteen. Dork of a husband called Marvin, who earned more than me. Doll of a daughter — first year at college, just turned 18 — and I can’t keep my eyes off the girl. But I’m old enough to be the kid’s father.
Soon as they came in the door I shook the requisite hands, held onto hers a beat too long. Maybe two beats too long: frozen solid. Nobody noticed, but her. She noticed! Funny frown, nervous twirl of her long golden hair, cute little twist of absurdly plump kissable lips. Then (get this) I pat her on the butt, going past. Can you believe this shit? That I did that!
We’re all to go down to the pool. We have a pool for the apartments, twenty stories down, lots of palm trees, tables, chairs, places to loll. Claudia — Fay’s friend, my wife is Fay — lived up north, didn’t get a lot of sun.
“Let’s go to the pool,” she says.
My eyes are lost on cute little Cindy. Good enough to feast on. All the right shapes in all the right places. Playful as a kitten. But Whoa! — what a foxy, teach-me-to fuck sort of kitten she looked to be. These plump pouting lips. Those come-to-bed eyes! The way she stood with her pelvis angled upwards, pubis thrusting out. About turn, you reprobate.
So I’m rummaging about in the wardrobe looking for a costume for the guests. Nerdy Marvin: no problem, lots of costumes to fit. Claudia: ditto. But what about cute little Cindy? Our daughter, now off at college — learning to be a chemist or some damn thing — used to have this cute little yellow bikini; a bikini I forbade her to wear it was so damn brief. I wouldn’t let my own daughter wear it, (though I’m sure she did when my back was turned, or when she was off with her friends,) but I really wanted foxy little Cindy out of her jeans and floppy T, and into some form-hugging yellow!
“C’mon Dave,” — me, Dave — “Little Cindy hasn’t got all day!” yelled Fay, amid laughter from the next room. Chatter resumes, Claudia and Fay, two best friends who haven’t seen each other in aeons.
“Where did Benny put her cossies?” I call out from Benny’s room.
Benny’s our daughter, the chemist to be.
“Hey, Dave,” Fay has her head round the door, changed into bathers, towel draped around her neck. “Claudia and I have a lot of catching up to do. Why don’t we head down with Marvin. Once you’ve found a costume for Cindy, you two change then bring her down?”
Why, I wondered briefly, do I always end up getting ordered about?
Isn’t this my home too!
Am I not the ‘master of the house’ … sort-of-thing?
Lots of rumpus as the advance party gets the gear together, Scrabble, cards, sun block, tanning oil, towels, sun-glasses, and “Oh, that photo album, we’ve got to show you that!”
I keep looking.
… Doors close.
… Silence descends on the house.
I find a pair of brief panties, a skimpy bra, both pillar box red. ‘Are these Benny’s?’ I wonder, becoming slowly alarmed. They’re so skimpy, brief, and see-through. They are almost pornographic. I take out the bra, hold it up. It is pornographic! ‘When would she ever wear that?’ I ask myself, aghast! … Then I notice in the mirror that cute little Cindy’s standing in the door behind me, head to one side, looking at the bra in my hand. And before I know what I’m doing, I’m saying, “Would this fit?”
The soft-shaped angel steps into the room cautiously. We don’t know each other, but I’ve been introduced as Uncle Dave, so she figures I must be okay. Or that’s how I figure it anyhow.
“Isn’t that underwear?” she asks, eyes narrowed.
“Just to get your size,” I say, diving back into the drawers but thinking fast enough to pass her the bra. Then I toss her the matching thong.
“Aren’t they …” she stops, staring at the things I’ve just passed her, clearly not sure what to do.
“Try them on,” I say, as if I haven’t really got time for this, closing the drawer I was in, going to the next.
“Where …” she looks around her.
“Bathroom’s in there,” I point to the door of the little en-suite.
I watch out the corner of my eye as the cute little dreamboat goes to the door. I don’t hear the door click to … but I hear the snap of a fastener, then a zip, then the rustle of material. I dip my head to the mirror. The bathroom door is slightly ajar. I see an enticing slice of teenage thigh. Denim jeans descending, pale flesh taking its place. Tanned slender arms drawing floppy T over head. Lots of firm, smooth, girlish flesh. She comes out in the bra and the matching red thong and I swear, I almost ejaculated right there and then!
This little cutie, without the floppy gear, without the jeans and the oversized T, has the figure of an absolute vamp! And before I know what I’m doing, my hands are on her hips, feeling the firmness and smoothness of pale golden skin, and I’m turning her round. Then my open hands are wandering up the practically naked girl, up towards the bra overflowing with charm. She looks to be larger than Benny up there, and Benny’s no slouch in that department. And before I know what I’m doing I have my fingers running over the red lacy stuff of the bra, enclosed in which are surprisingly womanly breasts, nipples as clear as day, pointy and rounded, pinkishly neat. Little areolas each the size of a dollar, nipples quietly asleep.
Shit a brick!
“Seems to fit,” I say, little more than a whisper. “Turn round.” Though why I say that I don’t know, I’m twirling the girl as it is! She obediently turns around. I stop her there, to study her, mouth open. She has the loveliest tapering back and the most gorgeously pert little bottom, and the tiny strip of brick red thong has disappeared into the cleft which has formed between the smoothest and firmest looking buttocks I think I’ve ever seen. For reasons I don’t understand, I reach a hand forward and cup a smooth globe. My fingertips gingerly stroke the underside of globe. Reverently. It feels as smooth and as warm and as firm and as silk-like as it looks.
“See,” I say, as if stroking the skin of the kid’s bum, and blatantly cupping her buttock, is somehow relevant to how well or how badly the flimsy ensemble fits!
Her head is turned, her eyes look over her shoulder. “I think this is underwear,” she says, looking down at my hand on her naked buttocks and that pesky frown is back on her foxy little face.
“Seems to fit,” I say, eyes avoiding hers, unable to take my hand off her butt, unable to stop the gentle caress I am giving the one on the right. She says nothing. Nor does she move. I sense she’s still eyeing her buttock, the strange man’s hand that’s on it, and possibly frowning in that cute little way as she tries to figure it out. How long will it take her, I wonder, as I think about moving my hand from the right butt cheek to the left, which suddenly looks even more appetising than the one I’m stroking.
The phone rings.
I track the sound with my brain. The phone is on the bed. My hand is on her buttock. There is no way my hand can be in two places at once. Or even one on either. Distance is against me. The one is too distant from the other. Reluctantly, I release the gorgeous buttock, step up to the bed, pick up the phone.
“Yo!” I say brightly, turning and looking at my cute little model. Who precisely I imagine I am saying “yo!” to like this, I cannot think. I have the virtually naked sixteen or seventeen or eighteen year-old daughter of my wife’s oldest friend standing two paces away! (The person on the phone is my wife.) “I’m still looking,” I say, lost in the way the girl’s slender waist flairs to such luscious and smooth-looking hips and buttocks and … swelly bits round the front, (poorly contained in practically sheer red silk, the hint of wisp of hair within).
“Yes, I’ll keep looking,” I agree, having been told that my wife and the advanced party are now at the poolside, and have a nice table under the trees. Fine. My little angel is watching me. Face neutral. Body as appetising as only a body that age, and that shape, and that smooth, and that sweet-tasting-looking, can be. “Of course,” I say to the now dead phone, finding it easier to study the lovely kid when she thinks I’m on the phone to my wife, than I imagine it would be if I’d put the phone back on the bed and was just standing here, ogling her longingly, bollocks filled with lust.
“Seems to fit all right,” I say to the phone, becoming inventive, beckoning to the girl, urging her closer as if she is the subject of the call I am continuing to have with my wife. She comes closer. I change hands with the phone, leaving my right hand free. I reach to her bottom, cup a naked buttock, softly caress it. My thumb slips under the tiny lace-like waist band. “Not too tight?” I ask, my eyes on hers. She shakes her head. I take my thumb out of the waist-band, twirl my fingers indicating she should turn around. And bugger me, she does.
Quarter turn, side on, facing right.
“Where?” I ask the empty phone. “The bra?” I ask, and then, without the slightest hesitation I run my hand up the girl, over the flattest smoothest stomach I think I’ve ever felt, onto ribs that are identifiable merely as a firmer sharper shape to which one moves, then up and over a flimsy cup of bra. Her breast fills the cups. The cups are only partial. When my hand is over her breast it is nearly as much soft flesh that I hold as it is the lacy-film of bra. I hold it, none the less … a little tight … a little soft … a little hard again. “Seems fine,” I tell the phone, then to the girl, I ask, “Not too tight?”
She shakes her head, but looks confused. She is trying not to notice my hand, I think. The one cupped around the plumpness of breast. I hold it with a soft but firm grip. “Cindy says they’re not too tight,’ I tell the phone, as I give her breast a gentle squeeze as if to test its … texture? Weight? (Who the fuck knows!) If her butt was deliciously firm — and it was — believe me, it was! — then her boob is best described as succulently soft.
And then I do a stupid thing.
It shows I am not thinking.
I lean to her face and try to kiss her on the lips. She turns her head away. I kiss her cheek instead. Her cheek is silky smooth. I may have blushed.
I wonder … where to now, and mumble to the phone, “Yes, it may be.”
Whatever the heck that means!
“What?” she looks at me.
“It may be too brief,” I tell the phone.
She nods, acknowledging that she understands the comment was not for her but for the phone — my wife. Her eyes stay on mine. The little frown still rumples her brow. I make a show of switching off the phone. She is an inch from me. “Sorry about that,” I say.
“What?” she asks, looking at the phone, possibly wondering what I have to be sorry about with regards to the phone. It is my phone, after all. Wife too, come to that.
“The kiss,” I say, explaining. “It’s just …” I look for an excuse. “You remind me so much of my daughter. She likes to be kissed when she looks pretty.”
“Oh,” she says, looking none the wiser, but tentatively trying a tiny smile.
“Do you?” I ask.
And when she looks even more confused by this, I rabbit on,
“… like to be kissed when someone thinks you look pretty?”
All she does is shrug.
But my mind is wandering on, at a gallop. “I think it’s a form of respect, really,” I waffle. “For such attractiveness.”
The girl is nodding, politely. She has turned and is facing me again. Dangerously close. I’ve moved one hand back to her glorious buttock, am stroking her there, as my other is up at her throat, caressing her there, tracing the line of her jaw. “Respectful,” I burble on. “Know what I mean?” I could see she had not the faintest idea. So as much on auto-pilot as anything else, I am saying, lips moving closer to hers. “So to show my respect … do you mind?” and with that, my lips are this time touching hers. Very delicately. Lest hers wrench away. Or complain. Or slap my face.
But she doesn’t do any of these. She holds her lips still, pouting soft and plump, as mine close gently against them. I let my own lips spread, then press a little closer … and feel the pressure of hers, holding her position, letting me kiss her. It is not the world’s hottest kiss. Her lips do little but maintain their position in space. But if you have lips as full and fresh and warm and exciting as these then even simply being against them, as they hold their position in space, has got to be one of the world’s most seductive, and arousing, sensations for a man of my age.
I find it impossible to resist the temptation to reach my other hand around her, cupping her other naked butt cheek, and pulling her into my groin. I feel her at first, resist, but then she seems to soften, and then come against me. I feel the length of her, as if released on a short leash for a moment or two at most — because I’m Uncle Dave or some such thing — and then I feel her hand against my chest, easing me away, prising herself off of me.
Reluctantly, I let her go.
Reluctantly as hell.
We stand, our lips an inch apart, our eyes about the same, my hands still cupping her buttocks, pert and firm and cute as hell, her groin against mine. Her eyes dip down to where we touch, her slender tummy in against my more ample model. I step away from her. I do so because I figure if I don’t, then she will start pushing me away. Seriously pushing me away! Which would sort of break the spell between us. The spell of, we’re-trying-on-costumes-here … rather than this-old-pervert-is-groping-me-at-every-opportunity sort of disaster it would become.
I try not to ogle too much at the girl’s luscious young body as the whole of her comes into view. I turn to the half-open drawers in Benny’s dresser. “She has a yellow cossie that’d fit you great,” I say, making a move to the drawers once more.
“I’ll help you look,” she offers. Sweetly. And before I know it, the two of us are side by side, she in nothing but a skimpy bra and thong, me with a rocketing heart rate and raging hard-on, hunting through Benny’s intimate apparel drawers. I find a weird-looking one piece, in finely knitted silver silk, with … Jesus H Christ, what is this? … two snap fasteners in the crotch piece! I find myself holding it up. The front is high … two more snap fasteners round the back of the collar of knitted fabric … and the back is bare all the way to the buttocks.
What the hell is this?
“Wow,” says the youngster beside me.
“Wow?” I turn to her, query in my tone.
Her face is back, an inch from mine. She puts a hand across her mouth and starts to grin.
“What is it?” I ask.
She shrugs, but her smile is still there as her eyes dip back to whatever the hell the thing is that I have in my hand — still held up like a shirt I’m examining for stains … or something. I look at it again. It is shiny silver, like very fine and slinky chain mail, but soft to the touch, and it looks… sexy as hell. I start to imagine a warm body inside it. In particular the warm body of this cute little teenage girl on my right, and before I know what I am doing I’m passing it to her with a snappy, “Try it on. I’ll keep looking for the yellow one.”
“But it isn’t …” she starts — but has taken the thingie from me.
Is it a leotard, I wonder, eyes still on it. For exercising in? But then I ask myself, If it is, why the snap fastening crotch-piece?
My junior partner in crime is running her fingers over the material.
“It’s …” she starts to say, “A leotard … I think.”
Then — bugger me — the little cutie’s heading for the bathroom again.
I make a point of not turning to watch her this time,
In case I am unable to resist the urge to drop on all fours, and pursue her!
What would I do when I caught her?
What would I not!
One drawer down, I find the yellow costume. I hold up each miniscule part. Naw, I could never make anyone wear something is brief as this. You might as well wear nothing.
From the open bathroom door — why is she leaving it open, is it a signal? — I hear the light snap of fasteners — one-two — then again — one, two — and as I do I recall where the fasteners snap. And in about as little time as it takes me to count one more snap, I am on my feet, heading quickly for the phone. I snap in the call-back code. Ten seconds later it will phone me back. I step away. Lean over drawers. Hear her return …
I hear her return. I pretend I don’t. She softly clears her throat — to announce, I imagine, to this clearly busy Man-of-the-house that although he is obviously preoccupied with his search through the drawers for something important, she is now here, back in the room, and perhaps he may wish to turn to inspect the result. I turn with studied indifference, as if it a tiresome chore, but then I find … I cannot breath. For ten seconds, I forget how. The knit silk is hugging the drop-dead gorgeous figure of this indescribably beautiful girl like a lovingly applied coat of warm silver paint. Rampant sexuality crackles from her like electricity from pylons in a thunderstorm. By some miracle I remember how to breath. But then I forget how not to gawp.
The phone rings.
“Yo!” I go again, like some sort of berk.
To the phone in my hand I say, “Yeh, Honey bunch. We’re doing it. Sure.”
I have swivelled my head to my wife’s friends’ daughter whose luscious ripe body is garnished in silver.
‘I bequeath to you Oh Lord and Master as a sign of my undying loyalty and respect all that I have, encased for the occasion in precious metal.’
Droite de Signeur!
I am changing the phone from the right hand to my left. “No, I think we have the size.” I beckon with my free right hand. “That’s what we’re doing now,” I say to the phone. “Finding her size.” Cindy sashies over to where I stand, just by the bed, obedient as a pussy cat. I put my hand behind her and find that the low cut back doesn’t even cover all of her buttocks. The back. It seems. I have motioned her to turn — obediently, she does … the back is scooped so low I have the upper slopes of two smooth tanned globes and an unbelievably firmly-sculpted cleft between the two, gazing boldly out from the unnervingly low scoop of the costume’s rear. I don’t even hesitate, I reach for that, and as my fingers play over the mound, and into the cleft, and down, I say to the phone, “She’s pretty well built for her age.” Cindy doesn’t move.
My hand in the low-scooped back of her leotard. My forefinger into the cleft. I am delving deep. The tip of finger gently probes a little puckering of girlish anus. She doesn’t move. But I have gone too far. Far too far. Much, much, far too far! So why can I not resist a tiny pressure against the tiny sphincter. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t move at all. As I lift my eyes I see that her head is turned, her back is arched, and her eyes, over her shoulder and down her back, are on my hand, and what it’s doing. “Not sore, is it?” I ask, as if that was the object of the small, exploratory, exercise. She shakes her head but the pesky little frown she has, remains. I take my hand away. I slip it round her side. My fingertips move against the rising backline of the hem of knitted silk.
“Too tight?” I ask, and no sooner do — and get a shake of head — than I say to the phone, “She’s tall for her age, as well as prettily built. We don’t want something that may chaff.” She seems to approve of the way I describe her — the bit about tall, and prettily built, at any rate — but the half frown stays where it is on her pretty face. My fingertips dip under the hem that climbs from low on buttocks up and round her side to halter neck.
“I’m not sure,” I say to the phone, as in my mind I say, ‘I’m not sure what the fuck I think I’m doing,’ and my hand carelessly — nay recklessly! — continues its indefensible ascent up her soft and shapely side. As it climbs I ease my fingers ever further into the side-hem of whatever-it-is-she-is-wearing. I reach beneath her arm. My fingers in her costume round the front have come to start of bulge of breast. I pause — to think, I think — and as I do I realise, she’s lifted her arm away from her side. Her elbow is raised. Granting me access? Can I believe such a thing? At finding the traffic lights seemingly green at this junction my hand, a tad emboldened, continues round the silky warmth of her. Have I read her right? When half way around I start to doubt. Expect at any moment to be halted. Called to task. But I am not …
Not yet at least.
My hand continues round the lovely girl. Around the skin of girl inside the silk. And as it does my fingers, ever bolder, slip further into her costume. And as they rise they ease the silk of costume from the skin, of breast of girl. The feel of costume over breast replaced by the feel of my hand. And as my fingers curl past girlish nipple, stopping to circle and briefly tweak, I expect an objection to be raised. But none is …
My arm is right around the girl. My hand inside her costume. Her naked breast within my hand. A nipple, hardening, in my palm. I stare from fluffy hair of head of girl to mirror beyond and observe, to my unspoken astonishment, the view of her upper body, enmeshed in glowing silver, with the moving contour of a hand within where girlish mound of breast should be. What am I doing? I cannot stand to look. But nor can I bear to relinquish my prize. I gently handle what is inside the bodice of silver, like a precious orb, or a fledgling bird … or the softest, warmest, most sensuous part of any other human being, I have ever handled. Ever! It is in a word, Divine.
“Sorry?” I say to the phone, suddenly remembering it there, against my ear, pressed so hard the whorls have gone to sleep.
“No, it was me,” says Cindy.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I see,” I say, though don’t, unable to stop myself fondling the girl’s warmly accessible breast.
“It was a reaction,” she whispered.
“To what?” I ask, as my other hand, unbidden, slithers round her youthful form — smooth stretch of tummy — the flat of pelvic plain — then over pubic mound — which when it reaches, jumps and thrusts. A ‘snip’ as fastener opens. A second ‘snip’. I pull her close against me as I squeeze a luscious breasts with nipple hard, assertive, thrusting into palm. The fingers of my other hand find heat, and running honey. Her shoulders climb around her ears. Her hands are over mine and press them close as if to encourage their grossly improper endeavours. She lets out a groan.
“Are you a virgin?” I ask. I whisper the question in her ear. Her head is back, laid on my shoulder. Mouth open. Eyes closed. Back arched. Her bright young breast thrust hard into a hand. Her pelvis flares and jumps, like an excited puppy, into the other. I fondle and roll and pinch and start to squeeze.
“Are you? ” I repeat. For I have to know.
“Do you want me to be?” she groans.