Steam

"Kak! Fucking Dutch weather." November in Rotterdam was cold and rainy as usual, and this night more miserable than most. He'd been a block from my apartment when the latest downpour hit. His trips to England and the States had given him a wide variety of obscenities from which to choose. Dripping and shivering in his drafty home, he went straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The room quickly filled with steam, and it all came rushing back. Five years, but had it been ten or fifty, the effect would have been the same. They're called memory triggers: almost anything can bring back something that happened years ago. A song, a smell... or in this case, just hot water on a cold night. It helps that this memory was never far from his mind in the first place. He switched the water from shower to bath and soon lay naked, stroking his cock the way she had that night, eyes closed, remembering.

He was eighteen when he spent a year in America as an exchange student. He found the place confusing: far beyond home in things like technology and conveniences, and it was strange to see everyone with so much room, unlike the always crowded state of things in Holland. In other ways, though, they were so far behind, so uptight about things like drugs and even drinking and sex. That gave him certain advantages, though. He was tall, with wavy brown hair and deep brown eyes, and the kind of body teenage girls first giggled over at slumber parties, then moaned over with their first vibrators, and finally yielded to. The combination of his looks and experience made life easy for him, but American girls never quite lived up to his fantasies: except for her.

Luck, karma, serendipity, destiny: whatever name you choose, it always has a part to play. In this case, it brought her family and his host family to the same bed and breakfast near the slopes for a ski trip. He first saw her there, and admired her instantly. "Cute", was his first thought. She was nearly a foot shorter than he. Her body was hidden by ski clothes, preventing him from seeing more, but her smile was dazzling, her face enchanting, and hair that he immediately pictured running his fingers through, as his cock began to swell. He watched her leave, with a lack of subtlety characteristic of high school boys, and was rewarded with a smile as she caught him looking. He was confident enough not to look away until she did, and then resumed breakfast.

His host family included Eric, who was his age, and the two of them spent the day skiing and ogling, and occasionally flirting. Several caught his eye, but none his attention, and then it happened again: kismet, providence, a lucky break, or just plain coincidence. Whatever the cause, she was there, in the lift line, and he struck up a conversation. The details of the dialogue were trivial, and tangential. The important things were the looks that passed between them. She was a magical creature: open, friendly, obviously intelligent, and the attraction was clear. Best of all, unlike most girls her age (also eighteen, he discovered), she recognized the attraction too. There was no clumsiness or uncertainty about her. She skied several times with him, several times with Eric, and with other people as well, but he could feel that her attention was often on him, and his was definitely focused on her. Five years later, in the tub, he still remembered the first time she laughed at something he said (what it was escaped him), and laid her gloved hand on his arm. Trivial, and not even skin to skin, but still, her touch, and it set off a fire inside him. He was a teenage boy, and certainly not unfamiliar with lust, and lust this certainly was: just a stronger craving than ever he had felt. The three of them shared hot chocolate in the lodge before leaving, and he left slopes for hotel hopeful, but not sure how to proceed. He needed an opening.

Fate, wyrd, doom, or mere fluke: the facts remain the same regardless of speculation as to cause. He and his host family went out to dinner, and upon returning he decided to take advantage of the bed and breakfast's hot tub, which was outdoors, in a gazebo at the end of a covered walkway. Eric declined his invitation, and he put on a sweatshirt, shorts, and flip flops (it was cold, but he knew he would be in the chilly air only briefly) and headed down to the lobby. They arrived at almost the same moment, and she smiled and laughed. She wore a robe and flip flops, and carried a towel. She had an athlete's legs, firm and toned, and he smiled approvingly. They walked together to the hot tub, and unplanned though the meeting was, both knew what would happen. Five years later, in the bathtub, he stroked faster, remembering.

In the gazebo, he took off his shirt and sweatshirt, and his eyes went wide as the shirt came clear of his head, revealing a tan torso, powerful arms, and six-pack abdomen. She had doffed her robe and flip flops, and was easing into the water, clad only in a bikini that might have come straight from his fantasies. Her breasts were firm and filled her top perfectly, just the right size for her body. Her stomach was flat. Five years later, he recalled vaguely that she played some sport or other as he sank lower in the tub, his cock throbbing. That night, he kicked off his own flip flops and climbed in, sitting beside her, close but not touching. Obligatory small talk ensued, and as they spoke, snow began to fall. It came down hard on all sides, just outside the gazebo. Waves of steam drifted up from the hot tub, an island of warmth in the night, its lights showing the snowflakes. Teenage boys are not widely known for their appreciation of romance, but even he could see that this was a scene from a fairy tale. Both fell silent for a moment, watching, and then her brown eyes met his for just a moment before closing as he kissed her.

It happened fast from there. Her body flowed into his like the final piece inserted into a puzzle. His right hand landed on her left shoulder as their tongues danced, and his left stroked her hair. She touched first his chest, then his back as they clung to each other, alone in their idyllic spot, bare skin warm and wet. His powerful arms encircled her body; strong hands caressed her back. He could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. That first long kiss alone would have been memory enough to chase away the chill of many a lonely night, but they were young and seized by passion, and they had only begun.

They kissed for what in his memory seemed to have been hours, and at last his mouth left hers only to find her neck. A tiny sigh of pleasure escaped her lips, coming to his ears over the bubbling of the hot tub's jets, and her head tilted back, her eyes closed. He shifted to create just enough space between them for his right hand, and it slid around to massage her breast. There were no games to be played, no falsely coy resistance. She gripped the back of his head tightly, welcoming his touch. His left hand answered her unspoken plea with a simple tug, and her bikini top floated away, quickly forgotten as they kissed again, bare chests pressed together. She draped a leg across his lap, and his cock was hard against her thigh. He eased her back as they kissed so that her back leaned against the wall of the hot tub, and then he moved again. Her nipples were stiff, and his finger traced circles around one as his tongue did likewise with the other. His reward was a louder moan of pleasure from her, and the touch of her foot, running along the back of his leg under the water. Five years later, he groaned, remembering and longing. Past and present, it was time.

As he slid back up her body, his hand slid between her thighs, and her legs parted for him. As they kissed again, he pushed aside the flimsy barrier of her bikini bottom, and his fingers explored. She was shaved (as was he, never having joined in the European school of thought which said hair should run wild), and she was ready for him. His index finger slid inside her and was welcomed, her hips lifting to meet him, her kiss growing all the more intense, and her hand fumbling for the waistband of his silky soccer shorts. He withdrew his hand for just a moment and removed her bikini bottom, her beautiful legs lifting out of the water as he slid it down and tossed it aside. She leaned back and pushed down his shorts as he attacked her nipples again, and moments later both were naked and kissing passionately. His finger filled her again as he kissed her neck, and her hands, so small next to his, grasped his cock. He wanted to fuck her, to fill her kut with his lul; he knew she wanted it too, but both knew instinctively that it wasn't meant to be. Regrets would come later if at all, for now all that mattered was getting each other off. He slipped a second finger inside her, kissing her as she stroked him, knowing he could not last much longer.

Fortune (or one of its synonyms) stepped in a final time. She was also on the edge, and she clearly struggled to restrain herself from screaming as her kut clenched tightly around his fingers. She kept stroking through her climax, and he exploded. Four long jets streamed out, landing on his arm, on her chest, and on the water, forming milky white beads. Both laughed, breathing hard as he slowly withdrew his fingers and she released him. Naked, they lay back in the hot tub, laughing. Five years later, he groaned as he lay back in the bathtub, similar milky beads floating on the water. Relaxed at last, he remembered the way it ended.

With nearly every other girl he'd been with casually (and there had been a lot), there had been awkwardness after, but not with her. They both commented on the snow, he recalled, which was coming down harder still, piling up all around the gazebo. Then she stood, and his cock swelled again at the sight of her, and at her confidence, quite comfortable naked as she gathered her bikini and tossed his shorts to him with a smile. In the present, he washed himself and released the water from the tub, remembering the way she dressed, and then left him with a quick kiss on the lips. He never saw her again. If he had ever learned her name, he could not recall it. It was just a moment. Sometimes that's all it should be.