Angela stretched on a chaise lounge on the deck of the pool, basking in the touch of warm sunlight on her skin. Sometimes, fleetingly, she wished this place were hers. Well, it was hers, at least for the four months her friends and their two kids would be out of the country. When they had asked her to housesit, she had leaped at the chance.
She had found herself in a position of limbo. The bitter divorce, the desertion by her best girl friend, the empty disregard shown by her employer, all had brought her to a crossroad where she needed to re-evaluate her life. By some stroke of luck she had been offered four months in comfortable surroundings in which to do so. A ranch-style house in a well-off neighborhood. A private swimming pool for her own use. No job, but enough in the bank to cover necessities. Almost as good as a vacation. Better in some ways.
She turned over onto her stomach. Let the sun work its magic on the backs of her legs. She reached back and pulled the bottom of her pale yellow tank top up to the middle of her back and seriously considered going inside to change into something scanty, something to reveal more skin to the sun. No, not this time, but she promised herself to buy a bikini soon. If she worked at it and the summer weather cooperated, she could have a marvelous tan by fall, and with it a new confidence and a better outlook on life. What a simple bikini could do.
Through half-closed eyelids she looked at the surface of the still water in the pool. The reflection of the sky was a brilliant blue. She sat up and considered taking a plunge. No, that would mean having to go inside and changing into her black one-piece swimsuit. Unless, of course, she went in naked. Skinny-dipping. She smiled to herself. She hadn't done that in years, not since she was a teenager. Hey, who was going to see? Her body was nothing to be ashamed of. Sure, the boobs and butt sagged just a little but that's what happens over the years. A nice thought. She spread sunscreen on her legs, arms, and shoulders, touched up her cheeks and forehead, then rolled the tank top up to just below her breasts and massaged some into the pale skin of her tummy. That would have to do until bikini time. She reconsidered. After glancing around, she stripped the tank top over her head and deftly unhooked her restricting brassiere. She slipped the straps off her shoulders, pulled the cups away from the heaviness of her breasts and dropped the flimsy flesh-toned garment beside the chaise. Her boobies were naked to the sun and the breeze. She shivered, not from the temperature but from the naughtiness of it. Quickly she slipped her top back on but left it rolled up under her breasts, her belly and back bare to the sun.
She lay back with her eyes closed and concentrated on the sun's light and heat on her exposed skin. It was different with no book or radio to distract her mind. The occasional slight breath of wind, the hum of a bee in the flowerbed, a trickle of perspiration through the hair at her temple, nothing disturbed the overwhelming sensation of being receptive to the sun. The heat seemed to penetrate deep inside her. She became aware of two things; it made her lethargic, unwilling to move, and it made her horny.
She considered her non-existent love life. The anger and betrayal when the dickhead had moved in with her best girl friend right after asking for the divorce had consumed her, left her with neither energy nor inclination to pursue another man. After the split was final she had let one of the girls from work set her up with a friend but that had not worked out. Sometime soon she would have to make some sort of connection to a supply of single men. Meanwhile, all she could do was dream. And dream she would.
It took a few minutes before she realized just what she was daydreaming about. Suddenly she was aware of the sticky dampness between her thighs, that the images drifting through her mind and the sun on her exposed skin had combined to produce that effect within her body. Oh, boy! She was fantasizing about men, naturally, but young men. Boys almost. She recognized the perceptions even though she couldn't put a name to them immediately. The thin, almost amoral presence of the lead singer of a local rock group she'd seen at a bar last week. The intense baby-faced actor in a dark film from the past summer. The eager young man from down the street who'd helped her with moving some furniture yesterday. God! She was becoming wet; she could almost feel herself squish as she moved her legs together! She tried to relax, to lie back and enjoy the sun but her hands clutched the side of the chaise longue and her buttocks tightened in such a way that her snug shorts created extra pressure against her crotch. Even the slightest tightening of the muscles in her thighs sent gentle tingles throughout her belly. She let herself languish in the slightly lascivious sensations.
She reached and unfastened the button at the waistband of her khaki shorts. The looseness made her feel slightly more comfortable but now she had to put out an effort to keep her hand from slipping under the fabric, from scratching that deep itch. Don't think about men, she told herself. Too many of them are like the dickhead: kind and thoughtful until they figured they owned you, then egotistical and inconsiderate when you didn't want exactly what they did. A complete turnaround in just over a year. Good thing there hadn't been any kids. Yet. She let out an audible snort, then quickly looked around just in case someone was close enough to hear. Anger and resentment were not things she wanted to explain right now.
So, think about other men, she told herself. They're not all like that. She caught herself thinking about male bodies, bodies she would use to please herself and discard when no longer useful. Disposable members of the opposite sex. Boy toys.
And boy toys brought her mind right back where she had started. The young actor with the baby face, the thick pouting lips, and that steamy languorous look in his eyes. If he was here now, she'd bite those lips, chew on his face, plunge her tongue deep enough to lick his tonsils, suck the breath out of his lungs. And he would do the same to her. She delighted in the quick shivers that ran down her spine. But then again, that singer with the band. Couldn't remember his name nor the name of the band but she sure remembered his hands. Saw them sliding up and down the mike stand, imagined them sliding up and down her arms and legs, reaching for other places. That long lean body swaying hypnotically like a cobra on that stage, she could almost feel it sliding and slithering all over her.
And then there was young Paul, so delightfully innocent. She could remember his name. He lived two houses away and was so sweet. Only yesterday she had called him over to help her rearrange some of the furniture in the downstairs den. He'd been polite and helpful, refusing money but willing to accept a soda and sit with her in the kitchen afterward. He'd seemed shy and unwilling to talk about himself much, but she'd caught him a couple of times letting his eyes sneak glances at her breasts. She had pretended to be unaware of his interest but secretly provided several more chances for him to ogle her boobs. And then she had screwed up. She straightened after picking something off the floor and caught his eyes still buried deep under the low neckline of her shirt.
'Do you like what you see?' she had asked.
Stupid. You don't ask such questions when the answer is so obvious. She had embarrassed the kid. He had flushed and stammered an apology, emptied his glass and taken off as if threatened by an unknown beast. She still felt a twinge of shame. That was no way to treat a guy; she'd never done so before, not even when she was his age. The age of discovery. The rage of hormones.
Now here she was, lying in the sun, alone. The cool invitation of the pool on the one hand, the unanswerable arousal of hormones on the other. A nasty pickle for any girl to find herself in. Again she considered taking a dip in the pool. No, she would lie out for another five minutes and then go in. Then she would decide whether to change and go for a swim or whatever. Maybe less than five. Her nipples were pushing against her top and her panties were sticky. Something had to be done soon.
She was so wrapped up in herself that she heard no sound until he cleared his throat. Young Paul, the subject of her raunchy little fantasy, stood at the gate to the back yard, hesitating to come in. She swung her legs over the side of the chaise and sat up.
'Hi, Paul! Come on in.' She gestured toward a chair beside the patio table.
'Hello, Miss Wernechenko.' Still seeming unsure of himself, he sat as she directed. 'I just came over to see if you wanted any more help, you know, like yesterday?'
Automatically she corrected him. 'Please. It's Angela.' At least it wasn't Mrs. Dickhead any more. And she had always hated that Ms., that stupid hum with a buzz on it. For better than ten years she had been Angie Andrews. Yech! Even the memory left a bad taste in her mouth.
