A Summer in the Flesh

This is a fifteen chapter novella, and each chapter is dependent on the one that comes before it. It is best read in order.

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I had taking fewer hours during spring term of my senior year with the idea that I would finish up with two easy classes in the summer session. I was set to start school in California the first week of September, and summer classes were over the second week in July, so the timing worked out well for me. The house I was living in was going to be closed for the summer, and my housemates, Bridgett and Kathy, were going home. I needed a new place for the summer term, and I answered an ad for a room on the kiosk in front of the student union.

The two guys who showed me the house, Tom and Charlie, also lived there during the regular school year. It was another coed house with six private rooms on two stories. The house was wooden and painted white with deep blue shutters and trim. They referred to it as the Blues House (without any explanation other than the color of the trim work) and told me that during the fall and winter terms, there were twelve people in the house, two to a room, usually six men and six women. It had separate girls’ and boys’ bathrooms, but only one shower room with a reversible sign on the door – “Girls” on one side and “Boys” on the other. That was still better than the first house I lived in, where even the bathroom operated that way. I love men, but I can’t stand sharing a bathroom with them. The kitchen area was pretty nice, and the room was dirt-cheap. I liked it.

Most of all, though, I liked Tom and Charlie. They were about as amiable and funny as any guys I had met in college, and I knew that I liked them after spending only twenty minutes with them. Tom was the cute one. He had curly, musty blond hair and the most infectious smile I had ever come across. He was tall, and very healthy without being too muscular. Charlie, on the other hand, was kind of a nerd. He had tortoise shell glasses and straight brown hair that he obviously combed a lot. He was even taller than Tom, but lanky and angular. He was pleasant looking, however, with dark, mischievous eyes. Tom was confident and talkative. Charlie was quiet and reserved, but he was definitely not nervous or intimidated. He was the kind of person that could intimidate you by being quiet and playing it close to the vest, like he knew something about your situation that you didn’t. They made for an interesting pair.

They were excited about the opportunity to rent a room to me because they had a student named Amy who also wanted to rent a room there, but said she wouldn’t unless they found another woman for a housemate. I told them that if Amy would rent a room, so would I, and they called me that afternoon to say we had a deal.

Amy took the room at the other end of the hall from me on the second floor. Amy was a gregarious sort, full of energy and laughter. She was also very touchy-feely. She hugged me the first time we met, and I could tell she liked to keep the guys on their toes, always quick to pat a head or put a hand on a shoulder. She was short and slim, and had straight auburn hair that she curled in just above her shoulders. Her eyes were brown and always moist and clear. She liked to wear too-tight blue jeans that showed off her greatest asset, a perfectly shaped, tight little ass. Her boobs were serviceable, but not large, and she looked good in the tight knit halter-tops and clingy blouses she liked to wear. From the first time I met her, I could tell she was very confident in her sexuality, and I liked that about her.

The men lived on the first floor. In addition to Charlie and Tom, there was Mike. He was a graduate-engineering student. He was shorter than the Charlie or Tom, and shorter than me for that matter, but he had a thick chest and back, a firm, narrow waist, and muscular thighs that lent him a sense of sturdiness. From the faint freckles on his face, you could tell his hair had been red when he was a child, but it was brown now. He was very pleasant to talk to, but he seemed somewhat nervous around Amy and me.

The first few weeks of the summer were interesting. Amy latched on to Charlie as if that had been her plan from day one. Charlie seemed extremely flattered and grateful, and played along. Mike pretty much kept to himself. He was the only one in the house that didn’t get high, but it didn’t seem to bother him when we smoked. He never left the room if someone lit up, and his polite attitude never changed, he simply didn’t partake. He was probably just a shy type by nature. Then there was Tom and me.

I felt like Tom and I really hit it off, but we were both very slow to do anything more than chat and laugh at each other’s stories. I assumed he wasn’t presently dating anyone because I hadn’t yet seen another woman around, but I wasn’t certain. Tom was relaxed, and yet very straightforward and opinionated. He could make you feel at ease even as he was making fun of you, and I admired that about him. But I always felt a sexual tension around him that I didn’t feel with the others. I guess I felt left out and disappointed after I had been in the house for two weeks he still hadn’t flirted with me. He became a regular subject in my masturbatory fantasies, and as the tension built, I thought I was going to have to be the one to breakdown and make the first move. Of course, I like to think our first sexual encounter was mutually instigated. In any event, it was nothing like I expected, and certainly nothing like anything I had ever fantasized about.

On my second Saturday night in the house, everyone but Tom and me had gone home for the weekend. The campus was dead, so we were both at the Blues House that night with nothing to do and nowhere to go. We were listening to music in the living room. The room had a bay window with a seat that opened up onto a small backyard with a wooden fence and tall, crowded maple trees that made it very green and very secluded. (When the sun was high, I could lay out in my skimpiest bikini, something I wouldn’t have done without that privacy.) To the left of the window was a homemade, pine bar that sat in a small alcove. There was a small refrigerator behind the bar, and two wooden stools in front of it. Then there was a short hallway that led to the foyer. Against the wall opposite to the window was an oversized couch that had a denim fabric slip cover, and next to that was a reupholstered, old-fashioned wingback chair. Between the couch and the chair was an antique, full-length mirror that could swivel on its base and be tilted up and down from the sides. On the wall to the right of the window was a floor to ceiling bookshelf crammed with stereo equipment, records, and outdated textbooks. The room had a vague but remarkably not unpleasant odor of marijuana and stale beer. It was a comfortable room to be in despite its humble accoutrements. The side windows on the bay were open, and between songs I could hear a patter of light rain. The air was wet and very warm. We were drinking beer and talking. I was very relaxed. He did most the talking, but he was not talking about himself. We talked about music and families and careers and school. I liked listening to his voice. It was very calming.

He was barefoot in blue jeans and a khaki colored t-shirt. He liked to sit in the window seat with his back against a side beam, both legs out straight in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and that’s how I remember him that night. I was wearing my white bikini top under a sheer, white cotton blouse, which was tucked in to a pair of yellow denim short shorts. I wore those shorts precisely because they brought attention to my hips and fanny, something I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing only a few years earlier. I was sitting on a barstool when the topic of discussion turned to working out. I mentioned how diligently I was trying to maintain a regular workout schedule.

“Speaking of which, would you like another beer?” I asked. I stood up to get myself one.

“Please.”

“I really shouldn’t,” I said, feeling suddenly flirtatious. I turned my back to him and surprised myself as I grabbed the cheeks of my ass with both hands and squeezed. “I am not doing myself any favors by growing this thing any larger.” Where the hell did that come from, I thought. I felt like I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. I stepped behind the bar to fetch the beers.

“That’s why I am trying to stick to that schedule;” I continued, “ I need to trim down.”

As I walked over to the window to hand him a beer, he looked directly into my eyes and the smile on his face he broke into laughter.

“What?” I asked sincerely.

“I probably shouldn’t say this.” He looked down and shook his head.

“What?” I held out his beer, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he looked again into my eyes, still smiling.

“Well, if I was your boyfriend, or something…” he took the beer and looked away again. “Yeah.” I prodded him on.

“Well,” he looked back at me, “I would have to get down on my hands and knees right now and beg you, plead with you, not to do anything to a…” he took my beer out of my hand and opened it for me, “change yourself in that department.”

Bingo! That was it. I all but dragged it out of him, and yet I still fell skirt-over-my-head in love. I just stood there, staring at him, fumbling to retrieve my beer.

“I really mean that,” he said. Go on, go on, I thought. “There is nothing worse than a beautiful women with a skinny butt. You…You um… look perfect, Annie. Absolutely terrific.”

I was going to attack him, thrust his head into my bosom and suffocate him with gratitude. Instead I returned to my barstool, cognizant now that his eyes would be glued to my ass.

“You just being kind.” No you’re not, I thought.

The conversation drifted around for a while. He put on a Bob Marley album and asked me if I wanted a joint. I declined. I was feeling a little to good to risk it. He refrained, too. We had another beer, and talked some more, quietly, peacefully, and then he did the most wonderful thing.

“Man, this rain, it sure makes it humid.” He stood up in front of the window and took off his shirt. He was gorgeous. His muscles were lean and long, and his chest was wider and more muscular than I had imagined it.

“Do you want another beer?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, clearing my throat.

He started to walk towards me, and for an instant I thought he was coming to kiss me, and I was scared. And then I realized he was coming for a beer, and I was disappointed. I had one second to think – one chance to make something happen, or let it go. I put my hand up to his chest as he walked by me. He stopped. I wasn’t certain what I was doing, or what I was going to do. My hand came to rest in the middle of his chest. I could feel the tiny curls of his chest hair against my palm. I wanted to feel his skin. I gently pushed my hand up his chest and stopped at the base of his collarbone. He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me up from my barstool. He pulled me against him, and with my other hand I stroked his back. I put my chin against his collarbone, next to my hand, and I could smell his smell. He smelled like fresh cut wood, a slight hint of leather. There was no cologne in it. He smelled like a man should smell. I breathed him in. He leaned his head back slightly, and I looked up at him. He kissed me on the cheek ever so delicately and then next to my mouth. My mouth parted, and he pressed his lips against mine, gently, wet and soft, and then drew away. My mouth followed his, and with that I am sure he knew I belonged to him.

His hands ran up and down my back, slowly, lingering at the small of my back. I kissed him now. I ran my tongue along his lips to let him know it was all right. He cupped my buns and squeezed firmly.

“That’s nice,” he whispered.

He ran his hands up my back, firmly this time, pulling my blouse out of my shorts. I was feeling bolder. I ran my hand down from his chest, over his firm stomach, and let my fingers brush gently and briefly below the waistline of his jeans. We kissed more firmly. His tongue danced with mine in my mouth. He tasted of warm beer and salt. The taste made me hunger for more. “Wait a second,” I said softly, and I gently pushed him a step away from me. I unbuttoned my blouse.

“It is getting hot in here.” I smiled.

I tried to be casual, slow and sexy as I undid those buttons, but my heart started to race. I let my blouse drop to the floor. I reached back, and untied the bow to my bikini top. He stepped forward and placed his hands on my stomach, and my flesh yielded. His hands ran up under my breasts. He cupped them, as if testing their buoyancy, and then he rubbed my nipples with the palms of his hands, expertly, smoothly, till my nipples hardened and I could feel the heat of blood rushing to my vagina. He lifted his hands up to the straps on my shoulders and pushed them out to the side. My top slipped off to the floor.

He pulled me against him, and my breasts pressed against his ribs. I could feel his erection through his jeans against my lower abdomen. He rubbed my back and kissed my forehead. The tips of his fingers slid into my shorts. He ran his fingers along the elastic waistband of my panties. I had the urge to unbutton his jeans, but I resisted, and then I thought why? Why should I resist? Because he would think I was a slut? Who cares what he thinks? I reached my hands into the front of his jeans and unbuttoned them. I took one hand away and ran it down over his bulge. I wanted to squeeze it. I did. I cupped my hand under where his testicles were taught against his jeans and pressed in. He reached for the button of my shorts and I pulled his hands away.

“Not yet,” I whispered. I had no idea what I had in mind when I said it.

I reached back for his fly, his bulge. I stroked it. I ran my fingers up his fly and slowly unzipped it. He cupped my breasts and kissed me. I slid my hands against his hips and pushed his pants and briefs down. They fell to the floor and he kicked them away. I took the slightest step back and reached for his erection with both hands. I ran one hand down his penis and cupped his testicles. The skin of his scrotum was loose and soft and warm and his balls swung freely. With my other hand I stoked his penis slowly, firmly, moving the skin up and down against the hard length of his shaft. He was not large. His penis fit comfortably in my hand with just the head exposed at the top. But I do have large hands, and his penis felt thick and powerful. It throbbed as I stroked it. He groaned. I knew what he wanted, even if he didn’t, and I wanted to give it to him. I gripped his erection firmly and pushed him back. He looked surprised. I steered him backwards, working his penis like a tiller. I laughed.

“What the…”

“Shhh.…” I pushed him back up against the center of the window seat. I pushed down on his penis and he sat down. I let go of him and stepped back. A reggae album thumped away in the background, not Marley any longer, but still slow and languorous, and I could feel the dull thunder of bass move up from the floor through me. I lifted up my hair with my hands and pinned it against the back of my head. I could see my reflection in the glass, a faint flesh-toned glow against the rain-streaked window. My breasts stood out, untanned, full and soft, my nipples pointed upwards. Damn, I am sexy, I thought.

I closed my eyes and began to sway with the bass. I knew what he wanted to see, but I was going to make him wait, make him ache. I undulated sinuously, my breasts rolled slowly from side to side. For one second I was concerned – is this silly? But then I didn’t care. I felt too good. I closed my eyes tighter and ran my hands down over my breasts, my belly. Side to side, I rocked my hips to the beat. I opened my eyes. Tom was sitting dutifully, slightly leaned back, hands pressed flat against the window seat at his sides, his penis pointing straight up. I unbuttoned the top button of my shorts.

“Oh, now this is getting interesting,” he groaned.

I took one step towards him and he reached out to me with a hand, just as I had wanted. I took his hand and carefully placed it on his penis.

“Go ahead, watch me,” I whispered in a hushed, scratchy voice I hardly recognized.

I stepped back again. I felt awkward for a moment. What was I doing? What was I going to do next? I caught myself looking at him, wondering when he would begin to stroke himself, and felt myself loosing momentum. I desperately didn’t want that to happen. I closed my eyes again. Again my hips rocked with the music, with no effort on my part this time. I wanted to show him my ass, my big, smooth, creamy-white, glorious ass. I wanted him to see the thing he had so politely admired before. I wanted him to want me. I pulled on the placket of my shorts and the buttons unhooked and gave way, revealing my white cotton panties. I could feel the moistness between my legs, and I hoped my panties were visibly wet. I pushed down at the hips of my shorts and they fell to the floor. I stepped out of them, in front of them, and slid them away with my foot. I allowed the lids on my eyes the smallest slit, and I could see he was gripping himself firmly now, staring at my panties. I swayed. I ran my hand over my panties, over my pubic mound and down between my legs. I was moist. Again the warm blood swelled into my vagina. I pulled down on the lacy waistband until my velvety pubic hair was freed for his eyes. He began to lean forward and I stepped back.

Now slowly I turned my back to him. My hips went from rocking to gyrating. I arched my back so that my soft, fleshy ass protruded outward and upward.

“What do you think now?” I heard myself say.

“Oh, you hurt me, baby. You’re a goddess.”

Yes. That was what I wanted to hear. That was what I wanted to feel like – a goddess – a naked goddess in a warm, wet forest. The sound of the rain seemed to fill my head. With my hands on my hips, I arched and unarched my back, and slowly I pushed my hands down, rolling my panties down until the slit of my buns began to show.

Rhythmically I rocked. I let my weight go from one foot to another, pushing my hip out to the side as I did, and slowly my panties descended. Half way and I stopped. I looked over my shoulder. My ass looked round and bright in the glass, peeking out as it was, full and beautiful. I backed closer to him. He leaned forward. I could feel his breath on the small of my back, then lower. His lips caressed first one cheek, then the other. I arched my back, pressing my flesh against his face. He moaned, and the hum vibrated within me. His tongue traced my crease, lower, coming to rest against my panties. He reached for my panties with his hands.

“Uh uh,” I mumbled, “hands to yourself.”

I rolled down my panties another inch. His tongue followed, flicking the flesh that closed over my anus. I bent forward and as I did, I revealed all of myself to him. I pulled my panties to my ankles, stepped out with one foot and spread my legs two feet apart. I backed into him, bent at the waist, my damp, aching pinkness exposed to him. His tongue went down one side of my swollen labia and up the other. I reached between my legs and stroked my clitoris. He grabbed me by the hips with his hands, and before I could protest, he planted his mouth firmly on the center of my left buttocks and suckled it, drawing it into his mouth as if it was a breast. Then the same on the other side. Then his mouth cupped over the area around my anus and he sucked in. I pinched my butt cheeks together and pushed against his lips. Though I had never experienced the feeling before, I wanted so badly to spread my cheeks and feel the flit of his tongue against my anus. His tongue pressed against the crease of my cheeks and I yielded.