Amy
by Simon (Simon@jazzandjava.com)
A lot of this story, you already know. It played out in
your head a million times, in the back corner of your
mind during math class, or behind squinched eyelids in
the middle of the night, maybe even right in the middle
of the act with a woman other than the one you were
thinking of. You know those you tell yourself,
your "what if this happened" stories, your "and then she
took off her blouse" stories, your personal Penthouse
Forum.
I've got em in my head too, have since before I really
knew why, so the thing is, if what I tell you comes off
a little "and then she took off her blouse," if some of
it doesn't quite ring true -- forgive me. Memory's a
funny thing, and it's easy to read it a little better
than we lived it.
I was 17. She was 36. Either you're nodding and going,
"OH yeah, I remember that one," or you're about to move
on.
She was the next-door neighbor, and had moved in with
her husband and two little kids a few years earlier, one
of the many families to move to the area when Digital
opened its new plant. I was definitely enough to
notice her, and started spending more time shooting
hoops in the driveway, where I had a perfect view of her
working in her garden, just across the cobblestone path
that separated the lots from back when the place was all
horse ranches.
I remember it startled me how cool she seemed for an
"adult." She brought a radio out to the garden with her
and listened to the adult contemporary station, a mix of
classic rock and the less-poppy mainstream stuff -- a
station I listened to, when there was too much Paula
Abdul or New Kids on the Block on the other stations.
My parents? They listened to Bing Crosby at Christmas,
and Sinatra the rest of the year. This was a woman who
knew who Aerosmith was.
Mrs. Cramer -- "just call me Amy" -- wasn't the kind of
woman I would call my "type" these days, but as a
teenager, let's face it, I didn't have a type. She was
petite, a good five or six inches shorter than me, with
short black hair, dark blue eyes, and a figure still
good enough for her to tie her up over her stomach
when it was hot out. I know she must have owned other
clothes, but I can only her in one outfit: a
pair of denim shorts, much shorter in memory than they
possibly could have been in real life, short enough to
show off those long, smooth, tanned legs; and a pink
rugby shirt, the shade of pink they only made in the
80s. You know the color I mean.
The Cramer kids got along great with my little brother,
who was a few years than them, so I never ended up
babysitting -- no tales here of going through her
dresser and stealing a pair of panties, or rummaging
through the collection hoping to find dirty home
movies. For three years, nothing but watching her in
the garden, and polite "how's school going?" small talk
when the gourmet club she and my were part of met
at our house.
Ahh, but then there was -- tell me you didn't see this
part coming -- "that summer." That summer my
spent at overnight camp because he'd suddenly become
interested in archery. The summer the Cramers rented a
timeshare at a lakehouse up north, for three weeks. The
summer they asked me to feed their two cats for them,
change the litter, water the plants -- for the princely
sum of twenty dollars a week. Not chump change.
The first day was exciting. I'd never been upstairs in
the Cramer house. I hadn't fully realized just how
attracted I was to this woman -- how much I liked, even
while I felt guilty about it, looking around the bedroom
(where there were plants needing to be watered, after
all), seeing where she slept, where she undressed, the
large bathroom where she showered. That pink rugby
shirt hanging in the closet.
But the novelty wore off quick. I didn't jerk off on
her pillows or anything like that. There was no
homemade porn in evidence. I just wandered around,
watered the plants, fed the cats, and realized that the
whole nature of taking care of her house while she was
gone pretty much meant I was just being deprived of
seeing her in the garden for those three weeks.
"Feel free to watch television if you want," Mr Cramer
had told me. The Cramers had cable -- my didn't
see the point of it. It was summer, so there was
nothing on MY television ... and I ended up hanging out
there a lot, playing with the cats, enjoying the air
conditioning (our house was built before central air
existed, so it's always been an almost fetishized luxury
for me), and bringing over six-packs of Cherry Coke my
health-fanatic would never let me drink at home.
Teenage decadence.
And then everything got kicked up a notch.
A week into the three, I unlocked the door, closed it
behind me, and went about the usual routine: emptied the
litter box into a trash bag, put it by the door, cleaned
out the water dish and refilled the food, and started
going around, watering each of the plants. The shower
must have turned off just before I went upstairs, or I
would have heard the water running -- and it must have
been on when I closed the door, or she would have heard
me.
For about five seconds that felt like forever, I was
standing in the doorway of the Cramers' bedroom, water
pitcher in hand, staring straight at a completely naked
Amy Cramer. Her were the size of peaches, small
enough that gravity and age had caused very little sag;
her nipples, the color of the darkest blush on
peachskin, stood up hard from the air conditioning; her
legs shone with shower-water, little beads clinging to
the smooth skin, and Christ, she was shaved. Freshly,
recently, smooth-as-you-can-imagine, every detail laid
out for me, shaved. It was the first time I'd seen a
woman's sex completely shorn like that.
Her towel was in her hand, like she'd been about to dry
her legs off. Neither of us said anything for a long
time -- I'm sure it could have been only an instant, but
I saw so much, and so clearly, that when it finally
occurred to me to open my mouth, it felt like hours had
gone by. So what did I say? How did I turn this
situation around and to my erotic advantage?
"Shit, sorry!"
And I backed right back out of the bedroom, standing in
the hallway because I couldn't bring myself to just
leave. What's the etiquette for walking in on your
next-door neighbor? Do you send a card?
I stood there for a long time, saying God knows what,
along the lines of "I didn't know you were here, I was
just watering the plants, sorry about that," at a mile a
minute, not once mentioning "Goddamn, you look hot" but
not thinking of anything except exactly that.
"You can come in," she called finally, cutting me off.
Back in the doorway, I realized I'd dropped the water
pitcher, and she was on her knees, blotting the carpet
with a towel. Fully dressed now, of course: blue jeans
and a white Digital T-shirt, the ones with the blue trim
on the collar and sleeves. And she didn't seem nearly
as embarrassed as I was -- but then, she was the
woman, I was the teenage boy.
"I should have left a message for you or something," she
said, while I tried not to look like I was staring at
her. "I didn't realize you came over so early!"
"Oh, you know," I said. "Yeah, sorry about the water --
I could have cleaned that up --"
And she smirked at me. "You were a bit distracted,
Simon." And her eyes wavered down, just briefly -- not
something I was meant to see.
I hadn't even stopped to think about the sweat shorts I
was wearing or the fact that I was as hard as granite.
"I didn't see your car in the driveway or anything, or,
you know, I would've rung the doorbell..."
"It's in the shop -- I took a cab. That's why I'm home,
it's still under warranty, but only if we bring it to
the dealership."
"Ahhh." I was profound back then. "That's a shame,
having to miss your vacation."
Amy shook her head. "It wasn't really my thing. A lot
of laying around in the sun, playing Othello, antiquing,
hanging around with Jim's ... I don't mind.
Besides, I missed working in the garden."
She was still sitting on the floor, eye-level with my
crotch, which wasn't getting any less visible. I bent
down to pick up the pitcher, wobbled a little, and did
my best to nonchalantly hold it in front of my shorts.
"Hey," she said, and she had that look like she was
trying not to smile. "It's okay. It happens. Nothing
you can do about it. No ... hard feelings."
"Yeah ... anyway, uh, I fed the cats and all. So, I'll
see you another --"
"No, it's all right." She stood up, finally, but I was
standing so close to her now she almost brushed against
me. Almost. Her hair was still wet from the shower,
and I could smell her shampoo. "You can watch some
if you want. And I'll pay you for the whole three
weeks, it's only fair. You want some lunch or
something?"
"You don't have to, it's okay."
And it went like that for awhile, until I grudgingly
agreed to stay for lunch and help myself to the cable
and the remote -- all the while just wanting to go home
and jerk off. The fact that she didn't seem offended by
my seeing her -- or my reaction -- just made me harder.
Stupid, but true.
She'd already eaten, so after fixing me a sandwich, went
about her business in the garden. I ate, watched
television, got comfortable on the couch I'd taken a
liking to, and was starting to think that maybe we'd be
able to put the whole thing behind us and it wouldn't be
awkward every time I saw her, when in she came: hot and
sweaty from working outdoors, her clinging to her
back and breasts. It was like one of those Diet Coke
commercials: she washed her hands, got a drink from the
fridge, and stood in the doorway, taking long sips until
she'd cooled off.
"Anything good on?"
I shrugged. I had it on MTV, which still played
at the time. "Videos. No big deal, though, I can head
home. Thanks for lunch."
She sat down on the arm of the couch and put her hands
on her shins, stretching her legs out. "Well, you don't
have to go. I thought I'd take a break from the garden,
watch some with you. You can tell me about these
bands I don't recognize. As long as you don't mind
hanging out with an fogey."
I grinned. Was I going to argue with this? "Geez. You
may be than me, but you're not -- and I've
heard your radio, you listen to good music."
She sighed a little as she nodded at the television. I
don't remember what was on, the B-52s or something.
"It's strange for me, that's all, not being up on
everything. I don't take the time to keep up with music
and movies, the way I did before the kids. Not that I
mind them, but it does make me feel my age."
"You certainly don't look it." I said it before
thinking of how it would sound, considering I'd just
seen her naked, but she just smiled at me.
I told her what I thought of the various bands for
awhile, and an Aerosmith she hadn't seen came on,
the one for "Angel." She got more comfortable after a
bit, sitting on the floor between my feet so I didn't
have to keep turning to my side to talk to her, just
pointed over her shoulder -- and that short black hair
would brush against my arm when I did, or her head would
come >thisclose< to leaning against my bare leg.
She started touching me, innocently. Putting a hand on
my foot or lower leg to get my attention or emphasize a
question. Shifting her position to accidentally press
the side of her head into my thigh. We kept talking
about music, and in a lull, out of nowhere she said,
"It's nice to know I'm still attractive to someone your
age."
If she only knew. I was hard again, from being so close
to her, still thinking about having seen her, wondering
why she was talking to me as though we were friends
instead of casual neighbors. The back of her head had
almost touched my erection, more than once. "You're
attractive to people of any age," I said. "I mean, come
on."
She shook her head. "You say it like it's obvious, but
-- maybe you're not enough to understand, no
offense. You start to realize are looking at you
the way they look at teachers, and doctors, and -- I
don't know, parents. You're not a woman anymore, not
the same way. Or you are, but you're not a girl."
I was leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, mostly
to put that distance between her head and my hard-on,
and she took my hand in hers, squeezing it, and looked
up -- nervously. "I like being married. I like having
kids. But I don't want to think about either right now.
I just want to feel young."
The next thing I knew, she had squeezed my hand against
her breast, her T-shirt still damp, no bra underneath.
I could feel the warmth of her skin, the bump of her
nipple, the beat of her heart in both her chest and her
grasp, and she groaned, watching me closely as if afraid
I'd pull away. I didn't. I turned her towards me, so
that she was kneeling in front of me, and kept stroking
that firm, soft through her as I guided her
hand to my cock, wrapping her fingers around the
outline.
Her eyes widened -- don't get me wrong, it's not that I
was huge or anything like that. I think she was
honestly surprised that I was hard already. It had
probably been awhile since she'd been with a 17 year
old. But she knew what to do with one. My shorts were
pulled down over my cock as fast as I'd ever pulled
them, and her hand slid into my boxers, her fingers
circling the base of my cock and rubbing it against the
tented fabric. Not stroking me yet, just feeling me.
I bunched her up over her breasts, feeling her
skin under my palms, the transition from smooth to
crinkled where my fingertips found her nipples waiting
for me, the shivery goosepebbling as the air
conditioning hit her. She rubbed her thighs together
and leaned forward, pressing her into my hands,
nuzzling my cock through my boxers. I could feel her
breath, warm and moist through the cotton, spread out
over my shaft as she rubbed her cheek against its
silhouette, pressed her lips against the base where her
fingers were clutching, and then she was tugging them
off, I was lifting my hips, and before I could sit back
down again her mouth was surrounding me, the slick
muscle of her tongue gliding over me as my cockhead
pushed against the inside of her cheek.
I'd never had a before. It was all I could do
to keep from coming in her mouth right then and there,
but I kept it under control, leaning back to make it
easier for her and get a better, fascinated look at what
she was doing -- the swift disappearance of my cock
between her lips, the way her tongue would flick out
against the underside, the movement of her fingers over
my balls -- while I squeezed her together,
spreading my fingers out to gather up as much of the
warm flesh as possible.
Amy started humming, or maybe it was more of a moan, and
she lifted herself up on her knees in order to bob her
head down, until her lips were pressed tight around my
base, her nose buried in my pubic hair, and I gasped --
by the time she was halfway up her withdrawal, those
delicious lips stroking along me, I couldn't take it,
and I came, the pent-up load taking her by surprise and
filling her mouth. She recovered quickly, swallowing
around my cockhead and unbearably hard to
squeeze out those last drops.
As blood began to seep back into my brain, I realized I
was sitting in Mrs Cramer's living room and had just
come in her mouth, that the I had fantasized about
were in my hands and she was lovingly lapping at my cock
to collect every bit of come she'd missed.
"Oh my God," I groaned.
She grinned at me, pulled back, and pulled her off
over her head. "Let's go upstairs, Simon. It's okay
... I think you'll be ready again soon enough." She led
me back to the bedroom, her bouncing subtly as
she walked up the stairs, and peeled off her jeans when
we reached the doorway, bending down to give me a close
view of her pert, heart-shaped ass. She wasn't wearing
any panties, and I found my hands on her hips, pulling
her backwards to caress my limp cock between those
smooth, biteable cheeks.
We'd both lost all our hesitations, and she stayed bent
over for a moment, as she stepped out of her jeans,
sliding her ass from left to right against my cock,
playfully stroking me with it before standing back up
and flopping onto the bed.
"Tell me what you like about me," she breathed, as I
finished taking my clothes off and crawled across the
bedcovers towards her. Her hands locked together around
the back of my neck, pulling me in for a hungry,
tonguey, messy kiss, and by the time she let go, by the
time I could gasp for a breath and wonder that it was
possible to be kissed so hard your lips and you
still liked it, I'd forgotten the question.
I started to kiss her neck, experimentally moving my
tongue and teeth across her skin to see what she liked,
when she tugged at my hair and asked again. "What do
you like about me? What makes you so hard for me? Do
you think about me when you jerk off?"
I nodded against her shoulder, scraping my teeth against
her collarbone in a way that made her shiver again and
clutch at my hair. "All the time. I'm always watching
you -- in that garden. Crouched over, so I have a
perfect view of your ass ..."
She took my hand and moved it around her, pushing her
ass back into it. "Mmm, so you like my ass? What
else?" She buried her face in the crook of my neck,
licking it wet before biting down hard enough that --
because I was 17 -- at first I thought she was fighting
with me.
"God," I half-whimpered, my hand exploring her ass,
tracing the curve, moving down between the cheeks.
"Your long legs. Your neck. Your tits. The way you
look in that pink shirt. And now that I've seen it,
your cu-- your pussy."
Amy pulled away from my neck and grinned at me
mischievously, wriggling against my cock as it started
to stiffen again. "Pussy isn't the word you were going
to use. You were going to say cunt." I just nodded,
apologetically, still playing with her ass, and she
nipped my lower lip. "You can say it. It's just a
word. You like that it's shaved?" She pushed against
me, her bare sex touching my balls.
I grabbed her hair and pulled her towards my face,
kissing her hotly, stroking the edges of her tongue with
my teeth when I heard her whimper, and it into my
mouth before releasing it with a wet slurp. "I love
your shaved cunt. You can feel how hard it makes me."
I pushed back against her, grinding into her.
She pushed me onto my back and straddled me, her legs
around my midsection, ass almost touching my cock.
"Tell me again. Tell me you want my cunt." It was
right in front of me, and she leaned back, arching her
back to show off her perfectly-shaped as she slid a
finger down into herself, bringing it back up wet and
rubbing her clit.
I gripped her hips and pushed her down along my body,
letting my cock slide over her ass and spring up in
front of that gorgeous sight. "I want your cunt, Amy.
Look at how hard you're making me. I want to be inside
you. Look at how much I want to fuck that beautiful
bare cunt."
And she did that thing, that thing women do so
gracefully when they know what they're doing, a lifting
roll of her hips that looked effortless but had been
subject to so much fumbling in my previous sexual
experiences, and brought her down over me, sliding
around my cock as though the fit were memorized by flesh
and muscle.
She groaned, lifted herself up, and slammed down again,
her thighs and jaw clenching as she rode me hard, the
sheets bunching up under me and the headboard bumping
against the wall. I held on tight to her hips until I
found the rhythm, and then changed it, pulling her into
my upward thrusts, making her hiss through her teeth as
she arched her back, displaying her proudly in
front of her. I pushed my heels against the mattress,
leaning up on the pillows and burying my face between
her breasts, kissing and biting the sides, coating her
nipples with my tongue and pulling at them with my lips,
sucking one deep into my mouth and pressing its hard
firmness against the roof.
She reached between us, her fingers slicking over her
clit, rubbing it with a practiced gesture, periodically
shifting down to stroke the sides of my sliding shaft
before it sank back into her. She leaned down, hair
against my face, sweat on my skin, and whispered in my
ear, "You wanted my ass, why don't you touch it? Spank
it. Smack it. Take me."
My hands left her hips, one of them pushing at the small
of her back and the other smacking down hard on her ass,
making her grunt and grind down over my thighs, bouncing
on her knees, her rubbing over my face as her
cunt began to slowly and enticingly bob up and down on
my cock. Amy wrapped her free arm around my neck,
stroking my hair and shoulders, holding me against her
as I slapped her ass again, feeling the whimper in her
throat temptingly close, and leaving her to scrape
my teeth against the lines of her neck, feeling the
shudder beneath the skin as I spanked her, harder and
faster.
Each spank sent her fingers working faster on her clit,
made the whimper rise up out of her throat and against
my lips and teeth, clenched her tight around my cock,
made her fingernails rake down the back of my neck, and
she started to groan against the side of my head, voice
thick and almost incoherent, "Come for me, come for me,
come inside me!"
My hand came down on the hot skin of her ass and gripped
her tight against me, pushing my hips into hers hard and
moaning as her voice in my ear, her nails on my back,
her in my face, made me come, not as strong as when
I'd come in her mouth but more prolonged, a drawn-out,
rolling release. I felt her contract around me as I
throbbed my last, and her wet fingers pulled away,
thrusting into my mouth so quickly and surprisingly that
her nail caught on my lip, cutting it. I the
taste and the salt from her fingertips as I fell back on
the pillows, and she collapsed against me, slick
against the sweat of my chest, her orgasm hitting in
purring spasms and shaky whimpers.
I'd tell you that it was only the start, that this was
the beginning of my summer of lust, that I had her every
way I ever dreamed of and some I didn't know were
possible, that she taught me everything I know, that we
reveled in the addiction to each other -- but that part
would be a lie. It was just the one afternoon, and if
we smiled a little differently when we saw each other,
if we were sometimes awkward at neighborhood gatherings
-- so it went, but the sexual tension remained simple
tension, unbroken.
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