Having reached the age of fifty-five and grown invisible to young women, I find myself reminiscing more and more about my former sex life. It was a good one. The list of women I had intercourse with numbers thirty-six, unless I've forgotten one or two. As I created the list, I realized that more than a third of those were "one-night stands." Seven of those relationships were just bad mistakes, "thinking with the wrong head," and quickly remedied. Seven others, however, were among the most spectacular of my life. This is the first of them.
If it is destined to happen, it will. Sixteen million people won't win the lottery, but one lucky slob will walk into a store, let the machine pick the numbers, and retire for life. I suppose I helped my luck by being a voracious reader. She helped it by being so gullible that she believed me when I said the Theory of Relativity was about incest.
My parents' best friends lived on the opposite side of our city. They had one child, a daughter, who was a blond angel as a child and only got better looking as she grew older. She had long, almost platinum hair, blue eyes, very large white teeth, a perfectly shaped set of breasts, a well-rounded ass, and shapely legs. The mother had a nasal voice with an edge like nails on a chalkboard, and the daughter had partially inherited the bad trait. Other than that, she was a walking wet dream, and I had masturbated to fantasies about her more than once.
The family was Roman Catholic, and they sent this gorgeous daughter, who I'll call Morgan, to a private Catholic girl's school. They did not let her date and were very protective of her. They behaved like the Spanish, even though they were in fact English. To my unintentional advantage, I was one of the very few males her age who she knew. Morgan was actually two months older. When our parents got together, which was about four times a year, they would go on and on talking for hours. Since I was an only child as well, this left us to our own devises. At my house, we'd go up to my room and play board games. At her house, we'd go into their cellar, generally to play two-person spin the bottle, which I won every time. When we were about thirteen, suddenly Morgan started getting very curious about the male physique. She was always after me with "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine." Eventually, I decided there was no down-side to this game. But it was Look Only. Even after we got into our late teens, Morgan would initiate kissing and feeling outside the clothes, but I was never allowed to touch real flesh other than her face and arms.
In our senior years, we both took up tennis. Whenever our parents met to sit on their butts and jaw, we would walk down to a court, play for about twenty minutes, get hot, and then go off into the bushes and get really hot. Once I had my driver's license and we had both graduated from high school, I called her to see if she wanted to play tennis one last time before we went our separate ways to college. I was not even thinking ulterior motives other than bringing along my 35 millimeter camera to take a few shots of Morgan so I could pretend to the guys at college that she was my high-school sweetheart. I figured in spite of her curiosity and natural hot blood, the nuns and her parents had done too good a job on Morgan for me, as much a virgin as she was, to ever get beyond "second base." I was wrong.
As their best friends' "honor roll kid" who grew up with Morgan, I suppose I was the only male her parents trusted with her. What they did not know was that their daughter was not to be trusted. The minute Morgan got into the car she told me to forget about the public courts near her house or those at the nearby college. She had a better place, she told me. It was on the grounds of her private girls' school.
The school had about one hundred acres, with perhaps a third in woods and bushy plantings. It was all but deserted for the summer. Rather than drive through the gate, Morgan directed me to a residential street around the other side. I parked, and she told me to leave behind the tennis equipment but to bring the old comforter I kept in the trunk of the car for picnics and make-out sessions. Such promising words had my cock growing hard. I did, however, have enough blood left in my other head to remember to grab the camera and conceal it under the blanket. Morgan led us to a place in the far back corner of the school grounds, where some accident or perhaps some motivated kids with a rope and a car bumper had pulled a section of the iron fence part-way open. Just inside were planted several rows and heights of bushes. Pulling me along parallel with the plantings, so that we were never exposed to the school buildings or their windows, Morgan led the way to a little space where the vegetation had been trampled to extinction. Evidently, the spot had become well known as a good place to neck. While my back was turned spreading the comforter, Morgan quietly pulled off her tennis shirt. I turned to see her smiling at me with only a pink, rather low-cut bra covering her chest.
"You know where I'm going to college this fall," she said, leaning back on her hands and thrusting her decent-sized, lace-encased breasts at me. I knew that she meant she had purposely only applied to women's schools to please her parents but also only to women's schools near Ivy-league universities. Morgan was determined to get her Mrs. degree and to land an Ivy-leaguer born to money and promising to make a lot more...which is precisely what she eventually did.
I told her that I did know the school.
"I've been worrying," she said. "What if I meet a really great guy right away, a really wonderful catch?"
"So?" I replied.
"But I don't know anything about how to please him and make him my slave. How can a virgin make love well enough to..."
"Trap a guy?" I asked.
"If you must be so blunt," she returned. "And then I thought about you. You have the experience to help me."
It wasn't true. What I had was a handsome older male cousin who had had plenty of experience. He also had pornographic literature (including the works of Henry Miller) and even a clinical but thorough manual on "the art of making love." He delighted in impressing me with minute tales of his personal conquests, in answering my many questions, and in lending out his library. I, in turn for the past year, had lied to Morgan and told her that I was no longer a virgin. At first, I had shared what I had learned second-hand in the stupid hopes of getting her so hot she'd lie back on my bed and let me climb between her legs while our parents were downstairs talking about "the Communist threat" and "that trouble-maker Martin Luther King."
When she continued to rebuff my attacks on her flesh, in retribution I decided to torture her with detailed descriptions of sexual bliss, pretending my words came from first-hand experience. Little did I know my whispered sharings would lead me to the secret love nest at the back of her old school.
The instant after I realized what Morgan had said, my already hardening cock jerked ramrod straight in my tennis shorts. It had been growing faster than Pinocchio's nose at a lair's convention. It wormed right out of my briefs, so that from where Morgan sat she could just see the tip below my tennis shorts. Her eyes widened, and so did her smile. "That's what I'm talking about," she said. She lay down on the blanket and swung her shoulders from side to side, displaying her breasts. "Show me those tricks about handling a guy's penis."
"I will if you let me take a couple pictures of you," I said, pulling out the camera.
Morgan shook her head. "Are you nuts? First of all, I don't want any nude pictures of me showing up ten years from now. And, besides, how would you get them developed?"
This was back in 1967, long before digital cameras and computers. However, I reminded her that my father was a part-time pro photographer, had his own developers and enlarger, and had shown me how to use them all. I told her the film was black-and-white and I swore that I would never share them with anyone else.
"Well, nothing completely naked," she relented.
I was allowed to take a picture of her with her shirt off, hands crossed provocatively in front of her tits. Then I turned her sideways and filmed a glamour shot just over her shoulder, so that only a bit of her bra-imprisoned right breast showed. Then Morgan's natural hot-bloodedness took over. She said "What the hell" and turned full front, allowing me to photograph her breasts inside the bra. Then she adjusted her mounds so that the top crescents of her areolas showed. I praised and complimented her to the limits of my vocabulary. She leaned forward and pressed her shoulders inward so that her cleavage deepened. I could see she was turning herself on by posing. She was at the same time catching hungry glances at my ever-growing cock head. Her jaw actually dropped, and her mouth hung partway open, which made one picture incredibly sexy. Reluctantly, I put the camera down.
"Okay, here's the kind of kissing that really turns a lover on," I said, recalling the torrid passage I had memorized from a hot porn novel.
I took Morgan in my arms, kissing her up and down her neck, behind her ears, nibbling on her earlobes and exhaling hot breath into her ear canals. All of it worked exactly as the novel depicted. She began to purr and twitch.
