Jessie & the Tornado

Again, I suggest reading the first two chapters before beginning this one. Also, I want to emphasize that if you are expecting a story with non-stop sex, then you will be disappointed.

Jessie & the Tornado, Ch. 3

In March, I began doing some work on the outside. There were three very large flower beds in the front yard that had become completely overgrown and filled with weeds, and one warm day in mid-March I put on a pair of gloves and started pulling all the weeds out.

I was wearing an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, along with an old pair of sneakers. I also had on my customary "USMC" cap I almost always wore if I wasn't working.

One of the things I was quickly learning in Georgia was that the weather was extremely changeable. On Mar. 5, it had been 64 degrees and people were wearing short sleeve shirts and shorts. Two days later, we had two inches of snow. Six days after that, it was 67. So you had to take advantage of the nice days.

I was learning the truthfulness of a statement I'd heard as soon as I moved to Georgia: "If you don't like the weather, just wait a little bit and it will change!"

I had nearly finished the second of three flower beds when I heard someone yell "Look Out!"

Instinctively, I jumped up and swung my head toward the voice.

Just in time for something to hit me right in my temple and send me crashing, face first, into the now de-weeded flower bed. I went in one direction and my cap went in another.

I wasn't actually knocked out, but I was definitely stunned. Whatever it was that had hit me, it had hit me HARD! I just lay there for a few seconds, until I felt someone grab my shoulder and heard a female voice say, "Are you alright? Are you alright?"

I pushed myself up some, spit out the mouthful of dirt I had, then rolled over, flat on my back.

Suddenly, I was just inches away from a pair of breasts.

Very nice, very full female breasts.

The female breasts were attached to a female, naturally, who was on her hands and knees, hovering over me. She was wearing a low cut t-shirt that was probably a couple of sizes too large for her.

From the position she was in, bent over, just in front of my face, I had an eyeful. An incredible eyeful.

"Are you alright?" I heard her again ask.

I couldn't stop staring.

"Well I can see your eyes are alright," she finally quipped, "how about the rest of you?"

I could feel my face turn red with embarrassment, but I finally managed to tear my eyes away from the delightful display.

"What . . . what happened? And who are you?" I finally asked.

A huge smile transformed her face. When she was asking if I was alright, she was very serious. My initial impression was tomboyish, cute in an athletic sort of way, and . . . well more attractive than outright pretty. Okay, that might be a little harsh. Sort of pretty, but not necessarily what you would call beautiful.

Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wasn't wearing any makeup.

Her smile changed all that. When she smiled, even her blue eyes smiled with her. When she smiled, she suddenly became very pretty. Again, not really beautiful, but very, very pretty.

This mystery woman had the most incredible, intense blue eyes I think I had ever seen. She also had a very faint white line along one eyebrow, and I could tell that at some point her nose had been broken since it was just a little crooked.

As I was to find out much, much later, both the faint white line on her eyebrow and the broken nose came from playing soccer. She had actually gotten four stiches in her eyebrow after taking a soccer ball directly in her face. Not only that, but she refused to come out of the game even though her nose was broken and blood was pouring from the split eyebrow and broken nose.

"Well, my name is Jessica," she said, "but my friends call me Jessie.

"We actually met – for about five minutes – the day you moved into this house."

I vaguely remembered, but to tell you the truth I was so busy that day I could have probably met the Queen of England and not remembered any details.

"My parents own the house next door, and I was just leaving to go back to the University of Georgia that day."

I remembered a little more. Winston and Gloria Johansson owned the two-story house next door to mine, and I did, sort of, remember meeting their daughter that day. To tell you the truth, though, I could not have told you her name, or even described her.

"Okay, Jessica

(I was deliberately using Jessica, since she said her friends called her Jessie),

what happened? All I remember is something hit me in the head."

Now it was her turn to flush.

"Well, that was my fault. I'm on the soccer team at the University of Georgia, and I was demonstrating some kicks to some of the younger kids in the neighborhood. I'm afraid I kicked one ball a lot harder than I meant to, and it hit you and knocked you out."

"It didn't knock me out . . ."

"Did too," she argued.

"No, it did not . . ." I tried to say.

"Yes, it did! Or do you always fall face first into flower beds?"

"Look, Jessica . . ."

"My friends called me Jessie!"

"Look, Jessica . . ."

Her lips curled down, her eyes developed a helpless puppy dog look and her shoulders slumped.

"Jessie," I grudgingly said, and again her entire appearance transformed as a smile lit up her face, "it just stunned me for a few seconds. It didn't knock me out."

"If it didn't knock you out, then can you explain why you started saying, "Mommy, Mommy,' when you came to?"

I was too stunned to say anything in response to that!

"Got you!" she cried out, then started laughing.

Despite myself, I had to join her in laughing.

"Well, this has been an interesting break, but now I really need to get back to work," I said.

"Since I am responsible for delaying your work by knocking you out

(I rolled my eyes at her, she smirked),

I think it's only fair if I help," she said.

"Jessica

(helpless puppy dog look)

. . . Jessie

(big smile)

thanks, but that's really not necessary," I said.

"No, I insist," she declared, "I am not leaving until I have helped you with the other flower bed."

I just shook my head. Women!

I stood up, and she raised her hand with an inquiring look on her face.

I sighed . . . and stuck out my hand to assist her in getting up.

My God! She was almost as tall as I was!

As I have mentioned, I am just under six feet tall, and Jessica had to be at least 5 foot, ten, maybe eleven inches tall.

Jessica bent over in front of me to pick up my cap and . . . well I started staring again. She was wearing an extremely short pair of shorts that barely covered the upward curve where her butt and thighs converged. And that was while she was standing up!

With her now bent over, the shorts pulled up into her crotch and I could see more than a little of her obviously firm butt cheeks.

Before she straightened up to hand me my cap, Jessica looked back at me and caught me staring at her butt.

"Yeah, the eyes are definitely okay," she joked.

I blushed again.

She led the way to the third (and largest) flower bed and I couldn't help it. I continued to stare.

I think Jessica had just about the most muscular legs I had ever seen on a woman – topped by what looked like a beautiful, very firm butt. She walked with the most amazing hip action, and her legs rippled with muscles. She walked with an easy grace that was incredible.

Halfway to the flower bed Jessica glanced back, and again caught me looking at her legs and butt.

And again made a comment about my eyes.

I blushed for at least the third time in the last few minutes. This was anything but the shy, retiring type of women I seemed to usually encounter. And, even more disturbing to me, anything but the petite women I usually found myself attracted to . . . and I had to admit

(just to myself)

that I was finding myself being attracted to her.

Jessica

(okay, Jessie)

probably had to weigh at least 140 pounds, maybe more. And not an ounce of fat. Again, watching her walk was like watching a panther glide across the ground. You could sense the immense power in those legs.

Once we reached the flower bed we both dropped down and started pulling out weeds.

Jessie seemed to be constantly doing one of two things while talking non-stop. And I mean absolutely NON-STOP!

Either she was directly across from me, facing me on her hands and knees, or she would move to one side with her butt pointing more or less in my general direction.

When she was directly across from me, I had an incredible view down her loose t-shirt. I think I could probably have seen her belly button if her breasts weren't swaying back and forth.

When she was to the side, the shorts would pull up and I kept getting glimpses of her beautiful butt.

In either case, I could not stop staring. And she kept glancing at me and catching me staring. And kept making little comments about how my eyes seemed to be working perfectly.

"If you want to see more, just let me know," she quipped at one point.

I blushed, she laughed.

When we finally finished pulling the weeds, we both stood up.

"I know you are wondering, so it is 36-28-34 and I wear a "C" cup," she said.

I blushed again and she laughed.

I don't think I have ever met a more . . . exasperating woman in my life.

"By the way," she added, "I am 22." Then with a big grin, "You are what? 45? 50?"

I was 29, and would turn 30 in a few months. A fact I quickly informed her of, then threatened to turn her over my knee and give her a spanking for insulting her "elders AND betters!"

"Oh, spanking!" she purred, "I've never tried that but I read

50 Shades of Gray

."

I rolled my eyes at her again and she smirked.

"I guess you just look older while lying face first in a flower bed . . . after being knocked unconscious!"

I rolled my eyes again and shook my head. This was absolutely the most exasperating woman I have ever met.

"So . . . do you have any plans for us for the rest of the day?" she asked with a big beautiful smile.

Jessie had the most beautiful lips and they looked so . . . soft . . . and . . . tender . . . and . . . kissable . . .

(stop it, stop it and don't even think about it!).

For some reason I had an almost irresistible urge to just softly rub my thumb along her eyebrow, to lightly touch that faint white line, then slowly move my hand down along the side of her face to her waiting lips. I could almost feel her lips against my fingers as I imagined caressing her upper lip with my thumb. In my imagination I saw her open her mouth, take my thumb inside and start gently sucking on my finger . . .

(STOP IT, STOP IT AND DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!)

I was sweating a lot more than the day actually called for, and for once I was very happy to have my weird fire department schedule!

It was now about 4:30 pm, and I would begin my 24-hour shift at 6 pm.

"Jessica

(puppy dog look)

. . . Jessie

(big smile),

I have to get ready to go to work."

Disappointment etched her face, "Oh, my parents told me . . . you work 24 hours, and then you are off for 48?"

I nodded, "Normally, but sometimes people will ask me to work for them, to cover their shift or part of their shift, so sometimes I might work for 36 hours, or 48 hours."

"Well, I am on spring break from UGA, so I'll be here for the rest of the week," she said.

"I am sure we'll be seeing MORE of each other," she smirked, emphasizing the word "more."

I blushed again and she laughed.

Then, totally unexpected, Jessie walked up to me and put her arms around me and gave me a very hard hug. I could feel her firm breasts pushing against my chest.

"It was very nice meeting you, I'm just sorry it started with my knocking you out," she said.

"You DIDN'T knock me out," I tried to say.

"Sure, you just keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better," she said.

I rolled my eyes!

Although my arms had been at my side the entire time, Jessie was still hugging me. I could really feel her breasts pressing up against me.

Hesitantly, shyly almost, Jessie brushed her lips against mine just for a fraction of a second and this time she was the one who blushed. Then she quickly turned away, but not before I saw some tears in her eyes, and Jessie started walking back to her house.

I knew I should have turned away also, but I stood rooted to the spot, watching the incredible sway of her hips as she walked back home.

Several times she would glance over her shoulder at me and smirk, so she knew I was watching her incredible legs and butt.

Even after she went inside her parent's house I stood rooted to my spot, staring at her front door.

And kept thinking about a pair of beautiful blue eyes, soft, soft, tender lips, a slightly crooked nose and that little white line in her eyebrow . . .

I'm not sure just how long I stood there before I literally shook myself almost like a dog shedding water. I slowly walked inside my house, but kept glancing back over to Jessie's, I mean her parent's house.

I don't really remember getting ready for work. I don't remember taking a shower, don't remember putting on my uniform, and don't remember driving to work. When I found myself in front of the fire station, I reached up and felt my chin and knew I had shaved, so I can only assume I must have showered as well.

All I can really remember was that incredible feeling for that tiny little split second when her lips met my mine, before she turned away and walked to her house. And the feel of her firm, full breasts against my chest.

After I arrived at the fire station for the beginning of my shift, I started calling the people scheduled to work the next day, volunteering to work their shift if they wanted off, and arranging for someone to cover my next scheduled shift.

I actually ended up working two consecutive 24-hour shifts.

At the end of that, I drove to Wal-Mart

(I was afraid to return home),

bought some clothes and drove to Savannah for three days where I stayed at a Bed and Breakfast.

And managed to convince myself that what I thought I had been feeling really wasn't anything . . . wasn't anything at all.

I mean, it couldn't have meant anything, could it?

I was still grieving for my beautiful Debs. Still missing her so much that some nights I cried myself to sleep, or some mornings I would get up and my pillow would be wet where I had been crying while sleeping.

At the end of the three days in Savannah

(I had now been gone for five days),

I finally returned home, very, very early on Monday morning.

There was a letter taped to my front door.

I was almost afraid to open it.

Dear Sam,

I owe you several apologies.

First, I want to apologize for the way I acted. Believe me, I am never that forward when meeting someone for the first time. In fact, most of my friends always complain that I am usually a wall-flower, and they have to force me to talk to guys.

Can I claim that I was a victim of heat-stroke? I know you are an EMT and have a lot of medical training, so is that a valid defense? That I had gotten too hot playing soccer with the neighborhood kids, and was not in full control of all my faculties?

Second, I want to apologize for knocking you out.

(Here, I rolled my eyes.)

And stop rolling your eyes at me.

(I laughed.)

There, I like your laugh much better.

At the end of the letter is my email address at UGA.

I sincerely hope that you will let me know that you accept my apology for the way I acted.

I understand if you can't accept my apology for knocking you out.

(I rolled my eyes again.)

And stop rolling your eyes at me.

If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can call me Jessica.

Your (I hope) new friend,

Jessie

P.S. I hope your eyes are still okay! And stop rolling your eyes at me!

I must have read the letter a dozen times.

Finally, I went inside my house, fired up my computer and tried to compose a response.

A friend was a concept I understood. A friend was something I could deal with. To tell you the truth, I had had very few female friends over the years. Really, just Debs, but I could handle being friends with this slightly, or maybe more than just slightly wacko woman.

I began the letter, "Jessica," backspaced over that, wrote "Jessie," backspaced over that, wrote "Jessica," backspaced and finally wrote, "Miss Johansson." I finally decided to hell with that, and wrote all three.

Dear Miss Johansson (Jessica) (Jessie)

First, I do accept your apology for the way you acted, although I am not sure if your actions can be fully blamed on something as simple as heat-stroke. It may have been a combination of several factors. Yes, you were hot. Yes, you were running a lot. But I couldn't help also noticing that you are a blonde, so that – in and of itself – may explain everything. (And stop rolling your eyes at ME.)

Add to that the fact that you are a student at the University of Georgia and I have no choice but to accept your apology for the way you acted, since everyone knows UGA students have trouble behaving themselves in normal situations.

Second, I CAN NOT and DO NOT accept your apology for knocking me out, since at no time did I lose consciousness. It would take a lot more than a weakly kicked soccer ball to knock me out.

In fact, last week I helped deliver a baby. After the baby was born, he kicked me as I was holding him. That kick had more impact than your feeble soccer kick. The parents actually named him Samuel, after me!

Your (very old) maybe new friend,

Sam

I read, re-read, re-re-read, re-re-re-read and re-re-re-re-read my letter before finally hitting send.

It couldn't have been more than 10 minutes before my e-mail program "pinged," indicating I had a new e-mail.

Dear Mr. Walker (not just very old, but ancient) (Sam),

"weakly kicked soccer ball"???????

"feeble soccer kick"???????

"blonde" REALLY????? "blonde" SERIOUSLY??????

But thank you for your kind words about how "hot" I looked. (Yes, I am smirking, but it is nice to know that your eyes are still working.)

The only thing that is saving you now is that, because of your insipid e-mail, if I don't leave now I will be late for a class, and I HATE being late for anything.

But after I get out of the class, and after soccer practice, I will respond to your highly insulting, juvenile response. Oh, I can't BELIEVE you are insulting the University of Georgia!!!! You are going to find out that Bulldogs BITE – hard!

Count on it, Oh Ancient One!

Your young and incredibly HOT friend,

Jessie

P.S. Oh, I almost forgot. After soccer practice I have promised I would help one of my teammates move to a new apartment so it will probably be very late before I get back to my dorm.

I hit respond, and wrote a few more words:

Dear Miss Johansson,

"if I don't leave now, I will be late for a class"????

Time management, Miss Johansson, separates kids from adults.

And how can I be both ancient and juvenile at the same time??

Your not ancient, but just "old" friend,

Sam

P.S. Hope your friend is not another blonde, because if she is then halfway through the move the two of you might forget which apartment she is moving into, and which one she is vacating.

Almost immediately, I received a response:

Dear Methuselah,

Up Yours!

Jessie

P.S. Jackass!