Author's Note: This is a longish story with a lot of build up. While I personally find a long build up very erotic and seduction half the fun especially in this category; if you are looking for a story that plunges straight into the action, then this may not be the one for you. Enjoy.
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As I waited for Michael to come home, my mind drifted over the last few months to that night in the fall when we had met for the first time. I had just returned, bone weary, from my job as a copywriter for a major ad agency. While I stripped off my work clothes and slipped into a T-shirt and PJs, I bemoaned the insane hours that my job forced me to keep. Or did it? In my more lucid moments, I knew that the hours were my own doing; that I took on more than I had to -- to postpone having to return to an empty house.
As I shuffled into my nightclothes, the doorbell rang. I was a bit startled, given the lateness of the hour. It was past 9 o'clock. I turned on the light in the porch and peered out of the window at the young man who was standing outside my door. He looked up at the light as it came on and blinked at the sudden brightness.
He was tall and rangy, with tousled blonde hair and a knapsack slung over his shoulder. He was clutching a piece of paper in his left hand. I remember that the piece of paper had ragged edges as if it had been ripped, and not cut, from a larger sheet. Odd the things that stick in your memory. Definitely not someone I knew, I decided. Probably someone wanting directions, I thought, as I opened the door.
"My name is Michael," he said, putting down his knapsack and holding out his right hand. But seeing me in my PJs, with the tiny pink bunnies emblazoned on them, he hesitated, conscious now of the lateness of the hour.
"I am sorry," he said, "I didn't realize how late it was. I will come back another day if you would prefer."
He was already reaching for his knapsack when I asked him what he wanted.
"I came about your ad," he said, waving the piece of paper that he held in his hand.
I was surprised. My ad for a flat mate had appeared only in that day's newspaper and I hadn't been expecting any response till the weekend. Nonetheless, I ushered him in.
"I am Ashley," I offered, holding out my hand for him to shake.
"I have a spare bedroom." I continued, "I thought I would have someone share the expenses."
As I walked him through the house, he seemed distracted, uninterested in the details as if he had already made up his mind. Sure enough at the end of my tour, he said, "I will take it. If you will have me, that is."
I hesitated for a moment. Well, he was the wrong age and the wrong gender. When I put out the ad, I had been hoping for a woman and someone a bit older than this young man who seemed no more than 20. I am, however, a creature of instinct and something told me that this would work out fine. In hindsight, I think it was his face. It was open and transparent, completely without guile.
"You can have it," I said.
He heaved a sigh of relief. "I was hoping you would say that. I am starting University in the coming week and I can't afford their accommodation."
After I agreed, he visibly relaxed and filled me in rapidly on what seemed to me his entire life history. He was from a small town in Oregon that he was sure I would not have heard of. His Dad had a trucking business. In the last two years, the business was losing money. His mom was a homemaker. He had two sisters and a younger brother. Until now, when he was starting University, he had never stayed away from home. He was going to major in history and maybe if the competition wasn't too stiff, make the track team.
I was amused by his candor and his loquacity. Having lived my entire life in a big city where people guarded their lives like currency, it was new for me and somehow touching. He paused all of a sudden in the middle of the rush of words and blushed, afraid that he was talking too much.
"I am boring you," he said.
"No, no," I said quickly, "Not at all."
"How old are you?" I asked him then,
"18," he said, then added, "Almost 19," apparently worried that his age might somehow affect my decision to keep him.
I quickly set his heart at rest. "It doesn't matter. I was just curious."
However, it occurred to me that having an "almost 19" year old about the house was going to be quite a change. We will just have to see, I thought. I gave him my spare key and sent him on his way.
He moved in the next day. Not that he had very much to move in. Everything that he had brought with him took up barely a shelf in his bedroom cupboard.
As I slid into my bed that night, hollow and exhausted after another long day at work, I found the presence of another person in the house curiously comforting. But I was also a little apprehensive. He seemed nice enough, but despite what I had said the other day, his age was a niggling worry. He was a teenager after all. And teenagers could be noisy and messy and inconsiderate and several other things that didn't even bear thinking about. I knew. I had been there.
I needn't have worried. As I shuffled downstairs, bleary eyed, the next morning, I was greeted by an unfamiliar medley of scents from the kitchen. My nostrils flared as my still sleep befogged brain struggled to catalogue them. There was fresh coffee, certainly and there was something else more elusive, some distant, slowly awakening memory.
When I entered the kitchen, I found myself laughing. There was Michael, looking confident and utterly comfortable in my kitchen, flipping a pancake with complete élan. He grinned at me.
"Sorry I raided your larder, but I thought your might enjoy having breakfast made for you for a change."
Tell me about it.
"I am glad you did," I said, "I haven't had pancakes in ages, not since I was a kid."
He slid me a plate of pancakes across the table and a steaming cup of coffee. He sat opposite me with his own cup, watching as I dripped a golden trail of honey onto my pancakes. I was filled with an almost childlike glee. I didn't remember feeling so good in a long time. Things were certainly looking up.
"I am not very good in the morning," I said. I was too happy to sound apologetic.
"I gathered."
"It should be a crime for someone to look as bright as you do so early in the morning,"
"Some of us have work to do," he teased.
His smile was beginning to grow on me. It never seemed far from his face. I was only afraid that all this was too good to last. Surely, he had a demonic alter ego that would emerge in time.
But, apparently, he had none. In the weeks that followed, there was no dent in his disposition. He was helpful and considerate and a fanatic about order and cleanliness to the point that he began to make me feel guilty about my own occasional lapses. He was quiet and unobtrusive when he sensed that I wanted him to be and lent a willing ear when I was in the mood to talk. He was such a willing and uncritical listener that I found myself opening up more and more to him, sharing confidences and intimate details of my life that I had revealed to no one else.
At this point in my life, I had indeed a great deal to talk about and anguish over, not the least being my disastrous love life. I had recently acquired a knack for dating losers. They followed one another through my life in an inexorable procession that I thought would never end. They came in all shapes and sizes -- too ugly, too arrogant, too pompous, too pretentious, too presumptuous, too dumb.
It was getting tiresome. Every morning after another disastrous date, I sat amidst the wreckage of my love life, pouring my heart out to Michael who made small clucking noises in the back of his throat, looked deeply sorry for me, patted my hand intermittently and generally made me feel that the world had not yet ended and that there was still hope.
The shift in my feelings for Michael was so imperceptible that I did not notice it or maybe I did not want to notice. It slowly crept upon me while I was not looking until one day, I woke up in the middle of the night, my body bathed in sweat, from a dream so erotic that my legs were trembling. What really shook me was that in my dream, I was splayed open, my face twisted in ecstasy as Michael lapped at my soaking cunt. As I conjured up that image again, now completely awake, a small tremor ran through my body and my pussy pulsed, wet with longing. As I slowly, tentatively slid a finger through the wet folds of my cunt, my nostrils flared with the scent of my own arousal. I knew I was in trouble.
The next morning, I was quiet and subdued, not in the mood for conversation. I avoided meeting Michael's eye as I nursed my coffee.
"Are you okay?" he enquired. The look of concern on his face made my heart lurch. For one insane moment, I was tempted to pour my heart out to him, to tell him everything about the previous night -- my dream, his soft lips working between my trembling thighs, the undeniable hunger in my body -- and to compel him to come up with an answer. The moment passed. This was something that I had to work out for myself. This was not a burden that I could lay on his shoulders. Even my desire fogged brain could see that would be unfair.
"I am fine," I mumbled.
He left me alone after that to sort out my feelings, but the answers were not quick in coming.
Over the next few days, the problem occupied every one of my waking moments, at home and at work, until my head was throbbing and my nerves frazzled. I didn't know how Michael saw me -- as a friend, as an older sister perhaps, but as a lover? I doubted it. There was a voice inside my head which kept reminding me that I was ten years older than Michael, an eternity in teenage time. I had always been confident about my body. I had shapely legs, a tear drop ass and firm breasts that fit nicely into a man's palm. But now, I found myself agonizing about whether Michael would find me attractive. Would I measure up, I wondered, against the girls that he met in college? I had never seen Michael with any of the girls from his class. He certainly brought none of them home. Nonetheless, my feverish brain was filled with visions of cute little butts in cheerleaders' uniforms gyrating in front of his eyes, teasing him, seducing him, fucking him.
But in the end, the voices in my head that advised caution did not matter. Michael was in my head and he was there to stay. At night, as I fingered my clit to ease the gathered tension of my longing, visions of him filled my mind. His lips trailing over my body, tasting every inch. His hands, kneading my soft, firm breasts, making my nipples hard as pebbles. His fingers tracing the outline of my pussy, teasing me mercilessly. His hard, throbbing flesh pulsing in my hands. Those visions brought me to orgasms so hard that black spots danced in front of my eyes. And yet, I was not sated.
