Suddenly it was Thanksgiving. Pierre arrived back from college a day ahead of the family feast. I picked him at the bus station in the '54 Ford wagon, the same one in whose wide back seat we'd given (and taken) each other's maidenheads. So much had happened in between ... those eleven months seemed like two lifetimes.
We could hardly keep our hands off each other as we embraced, our tongues twining and searching and tasting, ignoring the stares and titters of other passengers in the crowded station. Pierre threw his small suitcase in the back and we drove home to the empty house, since mom and dad were both at work and my sister and brother wouldn't come till the day of. We raced up the stairs to the guest room at the far end of the hall from my parents' bedroom and tore each other's clothes off in a frenzy.
Pierre let out a wolf-whistle when he saw the heart I'd carved into my pubic hair — I hadn't done it for him, actually, but I was turned on by how much he appreciated it. I fell back on the bed, my knees apart, and he kissed his way around both sides of the heart till he reached the point, and went to work on my swollen clit with his tongue. I was dripping in seconds. He reached up and caressed my breasts with soft hands, blowing gently on my clit which aroused me even more if that were possible.
"Fuck me. Please." He obliged, sliding his gorgeous shaft into my welcoming cunt in one long, s-l-o-o-o-o-w thrust and holding still as he lay on me so we could feel our hearts beat in unison. Clasped together we rolled over on the bed.
On top, I adjusted the angle of my hips slightly so the thickest part of his penis pushed right against my G-spot ... the pulsing of his veins was enough to ignite the fireworks of my first climax, and I gasped and shuddered as it rocked me even as we lay still. Moaning and panting to catch my breath, I pushed myself up with my arms so my erect nipples brushed his lips and tongue, and he began to swivel his hips ever so slowly, so his rigid member stirred the honeypot between my legs. I ground down on him, mashing my clitoris against his pubic bone again and again till I felt his muscles stiffen and his legs quiver and I scrunched my eyes closed and Oh! Again! Oh! NOW! and he jerked upwards again and again and again with a mighty groan.
I collapsed on top of him and he held me in his arms as involuntary tears of pleasure shook me. I felt him soften and slip out as I lay in bliss. Then my practical side kicked in and I tickled him till he got up so I could run the sheets to the basement washer, and get dinner ready for when mom and dad got home.
They were happy to have Pierre stay, but mom said he had to phone his folks (at that point, he was really on the outs with his mother) and at least wish them a happy Thanksgiving, even if he neglected to tell them he was only a few blocks from their apartment. He complied, but kept the call short and sweet.
After my folks went to bed, we crept quiet as mice to the basement. I was dressed like I did at school (with one small difference): white blouse with Peter Pan collar, one of the pretty bras mom bought me for senior year, Madras-plaid skirt, white socks and tennis shoes. When we embraced, Pierre's hands slid down my back, gripped my ass, and discovered I wasn't wearing panties ... I bent over an old, dust-cover shrouded armchair with my feet wide apart, gripping the back tight as he plunged roughly into my cunt, pulled back so the head of his cock teased the lips of my vagina, then worked me into a lather. Our joined sex made wet sucking noises with each stroke and his balls slapped loudly against my clit.
Couldn't have been more than three minutes before I felt his cock start to swell. I pushed back hard. He held my hips in a vise-like grip as he unloaded with shuddering spurts and my cunt clenched in rapid spasms and the fireworks came and my knees buckled and he held me like a rag doll and I loved being impaled on his young sword and I had to bite one fist hard to stop from yelling again and again and again how good it felt to have his weapon spurting deep inside me.
Panting, we chuckled as he unsheathed with a loud wet pop and rivulets of his hot jism ran down my legs.
"Step only where I do on the stairs, okay?"
He nodded, smiled, slid a hand to the wetness under my skirt and held it there as he crept behind me, skirting the creaks in the old staircase. With a silent kiss I sent him to the guest room and crept to my attic haven where I could hear the flying squirrels scratching in the attic, preparing for night flights down the darkened staircase.
In the morning before dawn I slipped into his bed, took his morning wood into my already lubricated vagina before he was half awake and brought him off as quietly as I could before cleaning up and heading down to the kitchen to help mom stuff the turkey.
The meal was a warm family affair, a crackling fire in the fireplace, my dad smiling benevolently down the long, stained-oak trestle table at my mom and my sister, my brother and me. He offered a toast to our smiling guest before we tucked into the turkey with roast carrots and yams, mashed potatoes, crisp-steamed broccoli and crunchy green salad. Pierre basked in the warm feelings. Face glowing in the candlelight, he produced a bottle of fine French brandy (he must've saved for weeks to buy that, even at D.C.'s bargain prices) to sip with dessert: pies, pumpkin and mince and apple, with ice cream.
It was a long, long weekend of family, food and fun. Pierre and I romped in the woods behind our old house, once with Jess and a trio of the long-haired dachshunds her family bred. We held hands like high school lovers and our trysts beneath the trees turned into wild love-making interspersed with deep silences that communicated more than any words were able to do. But it all ended too soon.
Tuesday morning I drove him to the bus. Hugged him hard. He kissed me and turned away, eyes glittering. Uncertainty was in the air as I waved to the Greyhound, grinding through the D.C. traffic in a cloud of blue diesel smoke. Who knew what was coming down the pike?
Schoolwork was a bore, except for an English class with a wonderful old, wise teacher who had us reading carefully selected passages from Shakespeare that alternately heightened and dampened her class full of raging teenage hormones. I tried my best to concentrate on schoolwork, but life was too much of a rollercoaster. It was all I could do to hang on.
Homework was a daily burden. College was like a sword of Damocles hanging over me: Would I get early admission? Have to wait until spring? Get in at all? The tension was almost unbearable.
But a couple of nights a week I got to babysit the twins. I hadn't learned much more about Virginia's absence, but George's house had begun to feel like a second home: warm, welcoming and safe. I looked forward to my time with the kids, who were less like little hellions now that they were used to me. Once they were in bed, I'd read them a story and they'd drop off to sleep. I'd move down the hall to George's study and bury myself in my schoolbooks.
Some nights I was just too engrossed in a project or nervous about the next day's test to respond with more than "Hi!" when George knocked softly on the door. But I was getting pretty randy and about a week after Pierre went back to college I changed into the silk maid's outfit after a futile hour and a half trying to parse French sentences. When the knock came a few minutes later, I was more than ready. George's Manhattan went right to my head and I sat on the mahogany desk, crossed my legs, flipped my hair and tipped my head to one side. My best imitation of a trollop's come-on.
Not that George needed an invitation. He stood close, his strong arms around me. Scent of soap and powerful man. I melted. Holding my shoulders, he gently laid me down and pulled my ankles onto the desk. He took a deep breath when he saw the heart I'd shaved into my bush, then ever so slowly moved to one side.
I was wide open to the mirror, my cunt dripping with nervous anticipation. In the dark glass, I could see faint movement.
George knelt in front of the desk. His tongue gently, tantalizingly tweaked my clit. Again. And again. I groaned and clamped my knees together, clasping his ears between my thighs. Clenched my buttocks. Pushed up.
Another liquid lick. Eyes closed, fireworks exploded in the night sky of my mind.
The climax rocked me. Left me soaked and quivering. My knees relaxed and George stood up. Smiling.
Stepping to one side.
After I caught me breath, I lifted my head and stared at the mirror. I touched the rosebud at the top of my cunt, unsheathing it to full view of whoever was behind the dark glass.
"Now, George. Now."
"You're sure, Taralee?" The concerned lawyer. "This could change your life."
"Now!"
A door creaked. In strode a very tall man. Thin. Shock of thick white hair. Craggy, tanned face, not exactly handsome but full of character. Memorable.
"Taralee, meet Eugene.
"Eugene, Taralee."
