I stopped the car in the driveway and turned to Tammy. I didn't want to turn off the car. That would mean the air-conditioning would stop, and that was having a wonderful effect on her pink, little nipples, the ones I'd been slobbering over earlier. She ignored as she looked at herself in the mirror, trying to straighten out her wispy blond hair. I smiled at the thin, cold figure in front of me. She finally returned my stare.
"Well?" she smirked.
"Lip-stick still a little smudged," I grinned, trying to be helpful.
She rolled her eyes and reached for her purse, opened it and took out some Kleenex and began wiping clean her thin, pale lips. I breathed in deeply, taking in her fresh, soapy smell, remembering how they'd gotten so smudged less than an hour ago, in her parents' bedroom. She'd been on her back, thighs open wide, writhing back and forth, side to side, a convulsing mass of eighteen year old flesh, as I pounded into her. She put the stained Kleenex away and turned to me, grinning. I smiled back. How different she'd looked when I'd quickly pulled out of her gripping little cunt and pressed myself into her mouth, releasing gush after gush of sticky goo into her surprised mouth. She pretended she hadn't liked it. Much of it spilled out and onto the pillow. "It's not your sperm" she'd said, afterwards, "it's, you know, that I could taste myself on you still." I shuddered, excited. Wonderful stuff.
"Well?" she asked, bringing me back to reality. She was waiting for me. "Are we going to stay in your drive-way all night or get to the party?"
I shook my head, stepped out of the cool car into the humid summer night and walked to her door, opening it for her and helped her out, always the gentleman.
"I hope my parents aren't mad we're late," she said, as we walked to the front door.
"They're probably soused like everyone else," I replied, smiling to myself. What could be more perfect? Her parents were over at my parents' house, while I'm at their house, fucking their little girl in the master bedroom. It hadn't been the first time either. Life shouldn't be so good.
I was home for the summer, my sophomore year done, and after a couple of weeks of boredom in the old town, I'd called Tammy, a good friend's younger sister, out of the blue for a movie. Tammy, I remembered, was one of the cuter younger classmen when I was in high school. It would be nice to hang out for a couple weeks. I had no illusions of fucking her that night or even, really, during the summer. Christ. Her mother and mine were good friends, although I hated her old man, a real big, mean- looking bastard and the last thing I wanted . . . In any event, Tammy'd agreed, somewhat surprised, but obviously delighted, I'd called.
The movie set the tone. "Eyes Wide Shut." She knew almost as little about Kubrick as I did, even though I pretended I knew a lot. Christ. What I really wanted was to see Kidman's tits. But that became irrelevant as the messed up movie went from one wacked out scene to another. We were both blown away, almost clinging to each other by the end. It was the perfect set-up for fucking. And, boy, did we fuck that night. And since then just about every day we'd go at it. Everywhere. In the car, my room, her house, her parents' bed. Anywhere I could get my hands on her. It blew my mind. The girl was insatiable. She'd lost her cherry at the senior prom or some such garbage and was out to prove something. Or maybe she was practicing for her professional debut in college. I didn't care. I was more than happy to be a notch on her bed-post.
Few people were in the house, most everyone out in the back yard drinking themselves blind, so Tammy and I hung out a bit alone in the living room. I mixed her the sweet muck she enjoyed, rum and coke, and she plopped herself on a couch, to watch a Ricky Martin video, blaring on the TV. I looked down at her and grinned. I loved eighteen year old's, so unselfconscious. Her light, summer dress was riding high up her smooth thighs and she made no move to fix herself. I loved it. I sat down next to her and put my hand on her thigh. She shooed it away with her free hand, ignored me, and continued watching Ricky do his grind. I waited. The loud nonsense ended and she turned to me.
"What?" she asked, a little annoyed.
"Let's go up to my room?" I smiled.
Her eyes narrowed. "Now?"
"Yeah now."
"My parents are here," she whispered.
I laughed. "They don't know we're here, so, you know, let's go upstairs, have a little nookie, nookie and then come back down like we just arrived."
"Nookie, nookie?" she giggled.
I nodded, thinking how great it would be to hang out with her old-man with his daughter nearby dripping with my fuck honey. That would teach him to be such a ball-buster. It was obvious he didn't approve of me even though he knew my folks, I'd been a friend of his son, etc. The problem, from his perspective, was I'd come home from college a little changed, my hair was long and I didn't stand at attention every time a grown up walked in the room. It would be wonderful to extract a little cheap thrill at his expense and his daughter's pleasure. I began tracing my fingers along her silky thigh, again.
She was thinking it over and just as I was about to get underneath the hem of her light little sun dress, just as I was about to cup that soft, almost bald, puffy cunt mound of her's, which I was certain would bring a quick resolution to the question, she pre- empted me, and jumped up. I looked up in surprise and saw her sticking her tongue out. "Nope," she laughed, crossing her arms over her ripe little tits. "You've had enough for one day, mister. I don't want to spoil you," she giggled.
I was upset, about to say something stupid, but stopped myself. Idiot. Why ruin an entire summer of easy--really effortless--quality fucking for one silly night of adolescent bullshit? Who gave a shit about her old man? Besides, I'd already stained the old man's bed for the night. What more could I hope for?
I got up, smiling, and took her hand. "No problem, love," I said. "Let's go see what the old folk are doing."
The old folk, and there were a lot of them, were drunk, most of them in a middle-aged stupor of bad jokes and tasteless, ill-fitting outfits. Not a few of the balding, round men, I noticed, however, were taking a moment out of there dumb laughter and leered at frolicking Tammy as she skipped lightly across the lawn to her parents somewhere near the pool. Dirty fucks, I grinned to myself. I didn't blame them. Tammy was nice to look at. Very. And most of the old bags they'd have to face later that night in the darkness of their bedrooms . . . I didn't want to think about it.
"Tammy, honey," I heard gruff voice calling to us. "You're late."
"Sorry, daddy," Tammy chirped and bounced to her old man to hug him. As she did, I noticed the creep eyeing my mug with not a little malice. Fuck you, I wanted to tell him. That's right. Your worst nightmare is true, asshole. I just got done reaming your little baby. And, pops--and
here I imagined myself sticking my index finger in his face--your little baby loved it. Tammy let go of her father and turned to smile at me.
"Jonathan," the hulking man said and reached out with his ham of a hand.
"Mr. Blakewood," I grinned, taking his hand and he shook mine, wrapping it around and around, snuggle, tightly. It felt like he wanted to tear if off my arm.
I pulled my hand away and smiled at the creep. He didn't smile back. He looked at his little angel next to him and then turned to me again.
"Jonathan," he said, after a moment of studying me in my long, unruly hair and cut-off jeans. "Jonathan," he repeated, a little more disgusted than before, and then stepping forward, putting his huge, sweaty arm around me. I could smell him. "We need to talk."
And I was about to say something as we walked away from Tammy and towards the house, but he stopped me. "Not here," he said. I wasn't afraid. What was he going to do? Kill me in my own house, dozens of witnesses around? This would be hilarious. A little fatherly talk about being good to his baby or some such crap. I would have a hard time not laughing in his face.
"Alan," a woman's voice stopped us. "Where are you going?"
I smiled at the blond woman in the conservative Stuart skirt and cotton blouse.
"Hi, Mrs. Blakewood," I smiled. I liked Tammy's mom. A good egg. How she could deal with the creep next to me I'd never been able to understand.
"Hi, Jonathon," she replied and then looked at her husband, questioningly.
"I'm going to have a little talk with Jonathan," the lard said and I was about to laugh at the deep blush coming across Mrs. B's cheeks.
She nodded, nervously, and walked away without saying "bye".
I watched her walk away and for the first time felt a little nervous, myself. What the hell was that all about? I wanted to be alone to think a little, but the gorilla would have none of that and he dragged me away. We walked into the cool house and stopped in the kitchen.
He looked around to make sure no one was around. No one was.
"Jonathan," he said, after a deep breath. "I'm not an idiot."
I didn't agree, but said nothing. Let him have his little self-delusions.
"Two nights ago, guess what happened?"
I thought for a moment. It rained? Someone won the state lottery? Your hemorrhoids were giving you trouble? I gave up. "Don't know," I said.
"I came home, after a hard day working, had dinner, and got ready for bed and as I did my wife walked up to me with a long hair, quite similar, nay, strike that--Identical to your own, and she told me she'd found it in our bed."
Shit. Shit. Shit. Everything was clear. Shit. The problem with dating young chicks is that they're not careful. Christ. She should've changed the sheets, something. I tried not to take a deep breath and remained unresponsive, attentive, staring straight ahead and he continued.
"Someone, someone who did not belong in my bed, had been in my bed."
I was going to ask him if his marriage was a little shaky, but decided I wanted my teeth during the remaining years of my life, which seemed to be getting fewer and fewer as I watched the big goon in front of me driving himself more and more into a quiet furor.
"Do you know who that person would be, Jonathan?"
Well, fuck it. Clean cop. What are you going to do? Fuck it.
"That was my hair, sir," I answered.
He nodded, gritting his teeth. "Yes, I know it was," he breathed in and seemed to hold his breath. His face was getting redder and redder. He let out the deep breath he'd been holding and that seemed to calm him a bit.
"I don't want to know the gruesome details, son. It makes me sick to think about it."
I was going to tell him I had no intention of offering any gruesome detail, that I was a gentleman who did not make it a habit of fucking
and telling, that I wasn't into the kind of kinky shit he was leading to, but, once more, my more rational angels prevailed and I kept quiet.
"My daughter is eighteen and if you're the boy she wants to . . . You're a good, smart kid, I know. You're at Williams, good school and all. You're parents are good people."
I wanted to laugh. God, he was trying to make himself feel better that I was boning his daughter. What a joke.
"I'm sure the two of you are, you know, being careful and all that," he continued and then leaned forward, looking straight into my eye, "but, son, if I ever get whiff of something like that going on in my house, in my fucking bed again, I'll break your little skinny neck."
I said nothing. What are you going to say when someone threatens to break your neck?
"Do you understand?" he asked.
I nodded, and mumbled, "yeah."
"What was that boy?"
I straightened up and wanted to shout at him, but kept silent as someone walked by and then out of the room.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"Good," he said. He started walking out and then stopped and turned to me once more. "And, son," he swallowed. "You be good to my little girl."
He walked out. I scratched my head. "Be good to his little girl." What did that mean? Make sure she has at least two orgasms every time you lay the pipe into her? Don't fuck her up the ass until after the fourth date? What was that supposed to mean? What an idiot. Oh yeah, sure, buddy. Your daughter gives head better than a Bangkok whore and you're . . . . And then I froze. Fuck. I'd just blown my wad all over his bed a little less than two hours ago. Jesus. I could imagine the gorilla, later that night, getting into bed and then placing his fat head on the pillow and then he would realize it was as stiff as some Victorian starched shirt and then. . . . I wrapped by hand around my quickly tightening neck. What a nightmare.
My first instinct was to run out to tell Tammy to hurry with me to clean
things up before her parents got back home. But that would mean I'd have to tell her the old man knew she was fully experienced in the dueling dance of the double-backed monster. It'd been my experience, as limited as it was, that most girls aren't comfortable having their fathers know they fuck. It simply isn't something girls like. I don't blame them. I didn't like my parents, and especially my mother, thinking I was some pervert either. Hence, telling little Tammy. . . Shit. My easy fucking days would be over for the summer. And what would I do then? It's not easy finding a chick like Tammy just getting into her groove with fucking. It was a rare treat, something to spread out over several weeks. And now . . .
I made up my mind. I ran out the house, into my old beat-up Buick and drove away. In retrospect, I cannot offer anyone a good reason how I thought I'd be able to take care of things by myself. My course of action would require that I break into another person's house, go up to the big bedroom and probably change the sheets. Would I vacuum the hallways or dust the curtains, too? The sheer stupidity of what I was about to do never entered my mind. I was pure adrenaline. At the time, in the moment, as I was driving to the Blakewood house, I thought I was brilliant. Everything would be taken care of and no one would be the worse. Tammy wouldn't know. Storm trooper daddy wouldn't. No one would know anything. I'd be back home, a cold martini in hand, relaxing by my parents' pool, feeling Tammy up, in less than an hour. And after everyone had gone, stumbling home, I'd fuck little Tammy in the pool. That would be a good one.
I parked the car a few blocks away and walked through a couple of backyards, avoiding the more vicious dogs I remembered from when I was kid playing with Stacey's older brother, David, and in a matter of minutes I found myself in the back of the Blakewood house. I had an ace up my sleeve. David, who was away studying (right!!) In Europe that summer and I, as I've mentioned, used to hang out. Like most kids do, we'd perfected the art of breaking out of our houses after bed-time to go to a party our parents didn't know about or otherwise didn't approve. We'd lay out the pillows under our blankets and then break back in at the first hint of dawn, drunk as skunks or smelling of cheap, stripper perfume.
It would be easy. The best way to break into your typical box-style suburban house is to look for an open basement window. From there, everything is simple. All of the Blakewood basement windows would be closed, of course, because the air- conditioning was on, but if I remembered, one of them didn't close completely, the latch couldn't get hooked in or something. I remembered Mrs. B yelling at Mr. B to fix it
up a few days ago while I waited for Tammy to get ready to go out, but I would bet my left arm (or, in this case, my long skinny neck) that the lazy fuck had never done so. I found it and knelt down and pushed. For a second nothing happened, and I started to panic, but then I remembered David saying you had to really give it a shove and it would open. David and I, like most teenagers, lived off telling our friends, how we'd gotten one over on our parents. I really gave it a shove and . . . . POP!! It opened. I held my breath, praying the Blakewoods were good, honest folk, that there would be no nasty and mile loud alarm triggered (people are becoming so much more distrustful these days), but all was silence and I heaved a sigh of relief. God did exist.
From there it was easy, although I did scratch my knee a little and twisted my shoulder a lot getting through the small window, but before I knew it I was standing in the darkness of Blakewood recreation area of their basement, trying to remember the best way to the stairs. I bumped into a couple of things, and nearly killed myself, twisting my ankle almost beyond recognition, on a stupid baseball, but managed, sort of limping, to get myself to the stairs, to the first floor and then up to my destination.
All was going well, too well, in retrospect. I got to the master bedroom, turned on the lights, looked around calmly for any hair or stains or . . . . when the phone rang. Survival instincts, pure reflex, kicked in. I dove for the lights and turned them off, my heart pounding. The phone kept ringing. And then I composed myself, getting my senses in order. So the phone's ringing, asshole. That doesn't mean shit. Jesus. I peeled myself off the wall and was about to turn on the lights, once more, when I heard a car driving into someone's driveway, close by. I froze again, my hand on the light switch, twitching, and listened. Long moments passed. I heard the car door slam shut and then another and then nothing. Just as I'd convinced myself, everything was okay, that it was a neighbor's car and not the Blakewood's, I heard the unmistakable sound of the front door to the house open.
I was dead.
Dead, like no one would believe. If the sonofabitch didn't kill me on the spot, I'd find myself gang-banged by all the state-wide toughs in prison in a few months, after a pathetic trial and a stern lecture from some senile judge. I debated what would be the better way out: gang-banged in prison or strangled to death. It was a tough call, but, coward that I am, I was imagining how I would look with a shaved chest, armpits and crotch and ruby-red lipstick and matching pumps and nothing else on. Some lucky bastard (hopefully not well-endowed) would really
enjoy me. And If I was good, and I'd had enough women suck me off to know what a good blow-job was, maybe he wouldn't share me with his buddies, but I knew that was wishful . . . .
And then, just as I was about to surrender myself to the authorities, like clockwork, my survival instincts made their move, again. Get into the closet, my mind commanded. Hide, you stupid dumbass. I heard the TV being turned on downstairs, directly underneath me. I held my breath and tip-toed as quietly as I could into the walk-in closet and hid beyond a winter overcoat. It was a nice coat, some expensive fur of some sort, probably an anniversary . . . . I stopped myself. Get it together man. Jesus. An alternative plan of attack came to my mind. I would wait. All night if I had to. Once the Blakewoods were asleep, I would crawl out of their room on my stomach, like they do in the army, you know, and somehow get the hell out of there. I didn't dare leave the room until they did, however. That would leave too much to chance. And my luck was not looking good that night.
After ten minutes or so in the closet, the awful smell of moth-balls everywhere, I started to mull about prison dating etiquette again, but stopped, holding my breath, when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. This would be it. I felt myself trembling, and it became more difficult to breath. The footsteps became louder and I was certain I could feel the whole house shaking with each one when I heard the door open and brilliant streams of light suddenly flashed before me. I shut my eyes tightly, in reflex, the beams almost painful and waited. I heard someone walking about, something being tossed onto a chair and then a stereo turned on to some gawd-awful Kenny G. I felt like crying. I would have to endure that dribble and in my severely excited state it was almost too much.
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