Alone Again 4

When you're at a job interview, there are a number of things it isn't very wise to mention.

It's not a good idea, for example, to tell the interviewer that you have a real problem with authority, that you don't take orders too well and they had better learn to deal with it. You might also want to avoid ending any response with anything along the lines of "can you dig that?" You certainly can't say that you're having difficulty concentrating because you can't stop thinking about the mind blowing sex you had last night. Which is what I really want to say. I'm looking at this guy's face, marvelling at how I'm operating (presumably) on what little sleep I've had over the past two days, and wondering if he can detect my post-orgasmic haze, which has been running strong for about four hours now. Seriously, I'm fucking glowing. He's asking me about how I would handle a long line of customers while keeping a drawer perfect, and I want to interrupt him with something like "Guess who I fucked last night."

Not that he'd understand. Last night was two years of sexual tension condensed into one night. It was Campbell's condensed sex.

Right now I'm thinking about the way she looked in her bed when I left this morning, with a scant sheet of thin cotton outlining her flawless body. I'm thinking about how she tied my tie. That look in her eyes, like I was the most handsome man alive. I'm thinking about getting back into that bed, not keeping a drawer's count right while dealing with impatient customers who think a deposit can be taken care of in ten seconds flat.

I'm a waiter, and have been since I was eighteen. Anyone else who does that for a living will tell you that it does not take long to get old. It really doesn't matter where you serve, it will always ultimately be the same. And if you do it for long enough, you'll be the fiftysomething pear shaped waitress whose only joy is smoking and getting drunk. And I'm already far too fond of both. So when I saw a bank near where I live hiring, I jumped at the opportunity. I mean I would start out making less, but I would still make enough and frankly I am long overdue for a change of scenery.

I got here about five minutes before ten, and between now and leaving that heavenly bed an hour or so ago I drank more coffee and smoked more cigarettes than I'd care to say. I'm doped up on caffeine, nicotine, and post-coital bliss.

Guess who I fucked last night.

Go on, guess.

I fucked Brenda Seabrook last night, that's who. And it was easily the best I've ever had, for a number of reasons. Firstly, I waited two years for it. Two long, long years. I mean this was a complete explosion of lust with an absolute goddess. A

virgin

goddess. Yes, a virgin. That's right, not only did I fuck her, I was her first. That is a fucking privilege if ever there was one. Because I didn't just deflower any girl. Brenda Seabrook is by far the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. Seriously. You should see this girl. She doesn't just have stunning green eyes, she uses two crisp miniature oceans that resemble clear Hawaiian coasts to see. She's not blonde, she has countless strands of soft silken gold for hair that feel like heaven in between your fingers. Her skin is so smooth; put a silk sheet in the dryer for about ten minutes and take it out and bury your face in it - I'm serious - you're still nowhere near how it feels to kiss her. Pressing those soft lips against your own is like kissing pink clouds. And it certainly doesn't hurt that she has got the tightest little body imaginable.

She could engage in any commonplace activity and I would immediately be wracked with a barely controllable urge to fuck her. Watching her do laundry, for instance, is downright unbearable. Mainly because she's got this pair of clothes she wears exclusively for that. Let me start with those tiny little lavender shorts that cut off at the tops of her delicious honey colored thighs; absolute murder. The fringes have this look, like they've been ripped, or just cut at an awkward angle, and the first thing that comes to mind is to just rip them off of her. The elastic band connects her hips below her belly button and underlines the small of her back in a slightly loose fashion, letting the front jut out and hang ever so slightly. Her ass is emphasized to a bewitching degree; it resembles this semi-round curve ending right before the hem does that just screams to be grabbed. Plus the fabric looks so soft; how wonderful it would be to run my palms over and dig my fingers into them.. preferably with her in them.

Ha-ha.

With that she wears a little white t-shirt. Just a normal everyday t-shirt. You could see some chick walking down the street wearing the same shirt and even not bother with a second look. When this girl wears it, with those sleeves ending just below the shoulders, and her arms looking so soft and smooth, it's absolutely beautiful. And that's not even the proverbial tip of the iceberg; her breasts are barely subdued by it.. and they even push outward a little bit, as if in protest.. and how the bottom rises so that just a fraction of her flat stomach is visible; hinting at the supple flesh within.. I'm telling you, this girl is just a fucking work of art.

She sometimes stands idly against the opposite wall in the room too, and she'll open one of her legs so that they resemble an arrowhead pointing right or left; it makes you want to walk up to her and hook your arm behind her knee before you nail her up against that wall. What's even worse is watching her bend over to check the clothes in the dryer... arching her back, extending that entrancing rear, flexing those long, slender legs... whether it was purposeful or not (which it probably was) it would send my mind into a flurry of erotic possibilities. I could walk up behind her and ask how the laundry was going. She'd say something casually and then I'd press my crotch into her bent figure. Maybe we'd even continue conversation as I'd start grinding my concealed hard-on into her from behind. She would tightly grip the edge of that wretched machine as I'd reach my hand around...

I'm getting carried away. Please understand that if I talk too long about how sexy Brenda is words will ultimately fail me, so suffice it to say that not pouncing on her is incredibly difficult.

Maybe I should start over.

*

This story was edited to meet Literotica's site guidelines. If you would like more information on the unedited part of the story, please contact the author.

*

I woke up groggily with traces of a dream crumbling in my head. The bed felt hard below me but the warm sheets and blankets more than made up for it. As I sat up, I found that I wasn't even bothering with trying to distract myself. I wasn't going to think about sheets hugging my knees or the bland white walls surrounding me. I didn't care about the clock on the nightstand telling me that it was 9:40. Brenda was in my head and I let her consume my thoughts. I think I had been resisting, that I didn't want to think of her more than I had to, but now I didn't really care. I didn't know what to think, what to even feel on this morning. I had lusted after this girl for two years, and now I could finally have her. Maybe. I didn't know.

I got up, slid on a pair of jeans, pulled on a t-shirt, and opened the door, walking out into the house. There was no sound, and I wondered if everyone was still asleep. I walked up the stairs and looked to my right, which was where Brenda's room was. The door was open. I slowly walked over and stood in the doorway and looked in.

"Aww, did you come up to wish me a happy birthday?"

The voice was coming from behind me. I turned to see Brenda lying on her stomach in front of the television, with one of her calves up in the air. She was wearing that white t-shirt and those lavender shorts I love so much. My eyes involuntarily followed the seemingly endless curves of her body... up the back of her calf to her knee, together with the other, which led up an identically slender leg to a bare foot pointing backwards. Those thighs entered her shorts, at which point her ass rose and fell into her back, which rose again to her neck and her head.

She's not the easiest girl to act casually with, but over the years I've gotten pretty good at it.

"Maybe."

I walked over and she got up, standing on her knees in front of me, her arms at her sides. Her shirt had a slightly rumpled look to it, and I could see a bit more of her navel than I should have. I thought it was high time I compliment her on her little temptress routine, whether it was intentional or not, but I held back, instead mentioning that she hadn't been as friendly as usual last night.

"Oh, that," she said, a seemingly nervous laugh escaping her, "I was feeling kind of sick yesterday. But I feel better today."

Part of the game.

I sighed and thrust my hands into my pockets. Finally a weak monosyllabic laugh found its way out of my mouth. "So what time did you get up, birthday girl?"

"A little bit ago.. I was just doing some laundry."

Of course she was. What a good girl.

Her nose wrinkled and she made a cute little face of annoyance. "God, isn't Patrick a nerd?"

I wasn't quite sure where that had come from, and I was even doubly unsure of how to respond, what with Julie's bedroom no more than eight feet away. And along with the relief of her not repeating last night's disaffection came an upwelling of nervousness. "I take it you saw him this morning?"

"Yeah, he saw me before he left. He said something about getting party supplies for a night with the rap-somethings. And before he left he said all loud and cheery 'I shall return'. Like he was a character in a Charles Dickens book, or something. He's like an old man."

"Oh come on, that's a bit much," I said. "Sure he uses words like 'poppycock' and will probably bring the house down tonight with his rendition of 'Ain't We Got Fun', but he's not like an old man. Not at all."

Brenda laughed. I loved watching her already blinding smile evolve into a laugh. Those voluptuous lips had some pretty damn perfect teeth behind them. And that velvety looking tongue.. delicious.

She sighed. "I guess we'd better not make fun, we might get in trouble."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, he might give me a spanking." I heard an inflection in her voice matched with a look of suggestion buried in her eyes at the word "spanking".

"Actually I talked to Patrick last night. He told me that he wanted me to do that for him."

"Oh, is that right?" Arched eyebrows, a slight smile forming at the edges of her lips. God I love it.

"Uh huh. He said 'That Brenda, she's a real troublemaker. I'd give her a spanking myself, but with my arthritis..'"

Brenda let her head fall back a bit as she laughed again, exposing her throat betwixt two rivers of gold. How I could be so drawn to just a girl's neck, I still couldn't tell you.

She stood. She plucked my t-shirt with her thumb and index finger, her eyes never leaving mine. "Well you are in his house, you should do as he says."

Oh shit, I thought. Here we go. I actually felt more nervous than I ever had before with her. In the past it had just been teasing, but now something might happen. I know it's what I had wanted for years, but I was finding myself startlingly apprehensive.

My little siren led me to the couch, and I was watching her cute little butt as it waved to me from inside her shorts. She released me, got on her knees on the couch, and motioned for me to sit. I sat. She knelt on my right side, and slowly she extended her nimble body to lay her stomach over my lap, resting on her forearms. "Make me really regret it."

My heart was threatening to shatter through my ribcage. If you're wondering how an newly turned eighteen year old girl could be so provocative, believe me, so was I. The way she was laying on her stomach reminded me of a dream I'd had; I couldn't remember when I'd had it exactly but it had remained as vivid in my head as it was when I first had it.

I'm living in this house, this single story house with three bedrooms. They are all on the same side of the hall which divides them and the bathroom from the living room and the kitchen. I'm in the living room watching television when a girl comes out from the hall. She's wearing shorts like the pair I like to watch Brenda prance around in with a t-shirt. All I can recall is her face looking very innocent, maybe even a little helpless. The soft little lips part to tell me that she can't sleep. She comes up and sits next to me on the couch. "My mattress is too hard," she says, half complaining and half asking. She crosses her smooth looking legs toward me and leans back into the couch, sighing. I remember her petite arms folded beneath the slow heaving of her chest. "I'm so tired," she says, "I'm so sleepy, I just want to sleep."

She offers no yawn to support her claim. In fact, I haven't really any reason to believe her. She seems perfectly awake to me. Then again the walls behind the television are quivering slightly and the ceiling is gently rising and falling. The colors of the house's interior continue to change and windows look like they're melting and slipping down the walls like old magnets on a refrigerator. This girl is the only non surrealistic thing in this room other than me, which is probably why I take her word for it.

I tell her to go into my room, that she can sleep in my bed. I have no problem sleeping out here in the living room, as I'm not even tired yet anyway. She gives me a hard look. "You don't have to, you can sleep in your bed too."

Too?

"No, that's fine, go ahead," I say, "You can have it to yourself." If i had looked at her I would have seen a look on her face that could either have meant gratitude meshed with guilt or longing. Innocence or lust. I have no clue how I know this.

Finally she gets up and I watch her disappear into the hall. Now I can get back to my television program. It's

The Price Is Right

. Bob Barker has a blue suit and a large head wider than his shoulders. It looks penciled in over his real head. The announcer talks about prizes while Bob's strangely sinister smile broadens, revealing large, razor sharp teeth. The type of sharp teeth a child would draw, like a short succession of capital V's inside his mouth.

"Place all of your prized possessions in this solid oak armoire.."

"Take your armoir on your next roadtrip in your brand new winnebago..."

"Put your brand new winnebago in this state of the art blender.."

It's around here that Bob's outdated microphone falls from his hand and his feet lift up from the black and white checkered ground. He moves upward, as if floating, until he starts coming out of the television. Now the walls are a faded green as Bob's head leads his body up to the ever rising ceiling, much like a balloon being chased by its string. It dawns on me to check on the girl, and I get up and head over to the hall. The hall quickly becomes a long corridor, with blue flowers pasted in a seemingly random pattern across both pink walls. They eventually become dark red, and soon black. I find a doorway on my left, and I start to hear noises. Wierd noises. I can't tell what they are until I hear a breathless whisper. It's the sound of a girl moaning. The sound drifts over me and finally through me, and I can properly identify it. It's the girl. She's quietly sighing and groaning. I'm not quite sure why, but a strange excitement grips me as I approach the doorway. I walk through and the moderately lit room looks normal. Or maybe I don't really notice. The first thing I see is my bed. On my bed is the girl. The noises have grown louder, and there is no doubt now as to the source.

She is on her stomach, and the side of her head is buried into a pillow, facing me. I remember her eyes closed and her mouth forming a little o, sending out those orgasmic sounds. Her arm closest to me is bent, with her hand flat next to her slightly open lips. The other is underneath her stomach with her back sharply arched. Her shirt has ridden up the small of her back and a good amount of flesh can be seen between its end and her shorts, the light playing across it. I can't see her hand shoved inside the front of those shorts, but there's clearly something in between her stomach and the elastic band. I watch her rear gyrate into the mattress. Her moans grow louder as her legs continue to open into the bed, forming a diamond. No sheet or blanket covers her body and I just stand there daftly, watching as this girl pleasures herself. I can see beads of sweat on her forehead. I watch the o of her mouth enlarge, to reveal white teeth and a pink and very capable looking tongue. She looks to be grinding her face into her pillow now, moaning even louder. Her fingers are viciously squeezing the end of the pillow. Her hips move faster over her hand. Soon her rear lifts up, and it takes me a moment to realize that her knees have closed slightly and I can now see her hand inside her shorts, this bulge within the fabric behind her wrist that seems to rapidly scurry without moving from that single spot. Her moans get louder, she gasps breathlessly and her entire body appears to be tightly drawn. Her knees dig into the mattress with her calves lifting up slightly, her flexed feet clad with small white socks.

And that's when, her face looking its most desperate, she makes eye contact with me. And she releases this incredible, ragged howl of an orgasmic scream before her eyes shut again.

The sensation of my palm burning into the backside of Brenda's shorts brought me back into the present. She felt so obscenely warm, so incredibly soft, for a moment I had completely no idea what to do. I started to caress her with my open palm in a small clockwise motion, and the gravity of the situation failed to hit me until I felt the top of her right thigh, which hung over the edge of the couch, graze against my leg. I grabbed her hip and held it. "Oh, I can't hurt you Brenda," I said dunderheadedly. "Besides, maybe this way Patrick will spank me too."

Eric, you're choking, I screamed to myself. What the hell are you doing?

She got up onto her knees and sat in my lap, facing and straddling me. She gave me a hug. "You're so sweet, Eric... you're just bursting with fruit flavor, aren't you?"

Yeah, I thought. I'm bursting with something. Here's Brenda on my lap, her creamy thighs on either side of me, my arms around the small of her back. And here's me sitting there, harmless as a eunuch.

I felt humiliated. Humiliated by myself. Why was I freezing up? Was I just so used to not being able to do anything? I tried to convince myself that it was because of Julie being in the next room. Or that Patrick was going to be back any minute. But the reality is that I choked, plain and simple. That was my sole thought as she gave me a big kiss on my cheek and got up. She walked into the laundry room and I felt like too much of a wimp to even enjoy the visual of her walking away.

God, I thought. What am I, gay?

* * * * *

"Make me really regret it."

Eric started rubbing his palm against her ass, savoring the sensation of the soft shorts over her delicious rear. He heard a quiet "mmm" escape Brenda's lips and he smiled, letting his other hand slide up her back.

I'm back in the bedroom. I'm lying on the bed with my eyes closed. My right hand is inside my unzipped jeans and over my boxers. I'm stroking my cock in a downward motion with my index, middle, and ring. It's already coming to life, but not enough to poke through the buttonhole yet. I've taken off my shirt because I don't want to get it dirty so early in the day. The door is locked.

Eric starts massaging the back of her neck along with her butt. "Maybe I should," he tells her in a low voice. "I think you might even like it."