The Nymphet A Summer Obsession

What is fiction but an imagined reality?

* * * * *

1. I was the Vice President of Foreign Operations of a major bank and my wife, Millicent, was a teacher. She was active on the local zoning and hospital boards and managed the volunteers for the county library. I am a past president of our local Rotary Club. We were proud to be pillars of our local community.

Megan was the daughter of Henry Kelly, one of my best friends from college with whom I'd maintained intermittent contact. He'd moved away and now presided over a bank down in Alabama. Henry contacted me one day by email, telling me that Megan had been selected for a prestigious summer internship at a government banking oversight agency in our city and was looking for a place to stay. He knew that we had a big, rambling house, and that our own children were grown and had flown the nest. Megan was nineteen and had her own car, he said, so she could get herself around from our suburban neighborhood, and would not impose on us for transport.

My wife, Millicent and I agreed immediately. We were missing our kids, and the house was feeling a bit empty, so the thought of having a young person around was attractive. I emailed our acceptance right away. Henry's wife, Sarah, emailed back and Millicent arranged everything with her.

* * * * *

2. Megan arrived when I was at a business meeting in Europe, so the first thing I saw of her was the car with Alabama plates in the driveway when I got out of my taxi from the airport on my return. I went inside the house and Millicent told me, rather redundantly, that our houseguest had arrived. She had been lodged in the downstairs guest room. It used to serve as my study and while I had moved my computer out, my heavy wirelessly networked laser printer remained there in a corner.

Millicent knocked on the guest room door and asked Megan to come out and meet me. My first impression was shocked surprise. My friend Henry had never been a particularly good looking fellow, but his daughter Megan was incredibly pretty. She was elfin, a pocket Venus, barely over five feet tall, with very straight, shiny dark brown hair that cascaded down to the middle of her back. She had a lovely heart shaped face, with brown eyes and the creamy, smooth, white complexion that Southern girls are known for. Her breasts were firm and pleasingly plump, though petite to fit her diminutive frame. Her waist was tiny and her derriere was rounded and tight. She wore a very tight, short black skirt, a black and white crop top that left her midriff bare and very high heeled thong sandals to give herself some height. She had on a metal choker necklace and hoop earrings.

"Hello, I'm Megan Kelly," she said, advancing and offering me her hand. She had a charming Alabama accent, with just a little lilt. "It's pronounced KI-lly like KITE."

Of course, I'd known her father for years, so I knew this.

"I'm James Hardwicke," I said, shaking her hand.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardwicke," she replied. "I want to thank you and Mrs. Hardwicke for taking me in like this. It is so very kind of you."

"It's no trouble at all," I said. "How's your father?"

"He's well, Mr. Hardwicke, and sends his best," she replied politely.

We chatted in the kitchen for a short while and I learned that Megan had skipped two years of school through an accelerated program and AP credits. Only nineteen, she was already a rising senior in college. Megan soon excused herself, saying she had to get to bed and be ready for work the next day.

Once we were alone, I had a quick bite to eat and Millicent filled me in with some more details. In her correspondence with Megan's mother Sarah, Millicent had learned that she was straight A student and had won a very competitive state-wide scholarship. Millicent told me that Megan left regularly every morning around eight, and worked long hours. Even after she came home, she spent most of her time in her room, working and studying.

"She sounds like she's nineteen, going on forty-five," I joked, as Millicent and I walked upstairs.

"Maybe she has a hidden wild side," said Millicent. "She has a lyre tattooed on her ankle."

"A lyre?"

"Alpha Chi Omega. She's a sorority girl."

* * * * *

3. Millicent and I met in college. She was a year behind me, I got her pregnant when she was a senior, and we were married immediately after she graduated. She has been a wonderful wife in every way. She's been very supportive of my career, and an excellent mother to our two children. She spent endless hours with them through the difficult years of middle school, high school, and college, when I was a bit of a stand-offish father. Thanks to her, they'd both graduated from Ivy League universities. Our son was working in the energy industry and our daughter was in graduate school. At forty-eight and forty-seven, we were empty nesters with a twenty-five year old son and a twenty-four year old daughter.

Millicent was a very businesslike, sensible woman, and quite attractive, but she was not particularly warm. She was not tactile, and did not enjoy physical touching. We'd had wild, hormone fueled sex as teenagers and in our early twenties. But after the children were born, her interest in sex became increasingly dutiful, rather than passionate. Eventually, by our thirties, she endured rather than enjoyed our physical coupling. While she met her conjugal obligations, she told me that she was only doing it to service my physical needs. Our sex life degenerated to a once-a-week affair, usually on weekends. Even then, it only took place if I did elaborate planning to ensure it was not too early (when she would be reading or watching television) and not too late (when she would be too sleepy). She never wanted the light on, and was always in a hurry to "get it over with".

In the last few years, we sometimes went months without sex. I confess that I resorted to pornography, initially the print and online magazines, and later the videos that were available on the internet. I enrolled in some online sex forums. I'm pretty fit -- I lift weights and am an avid runner. So the buff photos I posted of myself were genuine. I struck up chats with some women who hit on me, especially those who posted naughty photos of themselves. I enjoyed racy, suggestive online chats, often receiving explicit photos. I did this late at night after Millicent had gone to bed.

However, I was well aware that many of the participants in these forums were gang members and criminals, looking for extortion targets. I knew that I was probably chatting with some heavyset, swarthy man who looked like a boxer. So I never revealed any information about myself, and was never tempted to respond when the "women" in the chats asked to meet me in person.

* * * * *

4. In the next few days following her arrival, I saw very little of Megan. On some days, I had to leave very early in the morning to get on my conference calls with foreign counter-parties. On other days, I slept in and she was gone before I came downstairs. She often worked very late at her internship, and had dinner in town before returning. She invariably went straight to the guest room and remained in there with the door closed.

However, the very thought of a young, pretty, and very sexy girl living directly below our bedroom was enough to fuel my fantasies. I thought about her being there a lot, though at first my thoughts were rather unformed. Then on her first weekend with us, I went for my usual early morning long run with my running club. On my return, I sat under the fan in the kitchen, cooling down with a beer. Megan walked in, obviously also returning from a run.

She was wearing a neon yellow Nike sports bra and yellow on red Nike running shoes. Her running socks were lo rise, so I saw the pink and green lyre tattooed on her right ankle. Her yellow and red running shorts were little more than bikini panties. It was a hot, muggy day, and she was covered with sweat. Her bra clung to her breasts, emphasizing their firmness and pleasing shape. Her nipples made clear bumps in the fabric. I managed a few surreptitious glances between her legs and saw her pussy lips clearly outlined by the tight running shorts.

"Well!" I said. "I didn't know you were a runner. I'd have invited you to run with my club."

"Oh, I barely run at all, Mr. Hardwicke," she said. "I just run a bit around the neighborhood, very slow. I couldn't possibly run with a club."

"Would you like a drink?" I asked.

"No, Mr. Hardwicke. I'd better get a shower."

She disappeared into her guest room. The guest bathroom doubled as the downstairs bathroom and its door was just outside the guest room. I sidled over to the family room from where I could see the guest room and bathroom doors, pretending to fiddle with the TV. She came out of the guest room with a towel, and smiled at me as she went into the bathroom.

I could not get the picture of Megan's sweat-covered body in her skimpy running outfit out of my mind. That night, before joining Millicent in bed, I went into the upstairs main bathroom, that I used as my own since the children had moved out. I locked the door, put off the light and masturbated with the image of Megan in my head.

* * * * *

5. Thereafter, I adjusted my schedule to try to be in the house when she returned from her occasional evening workouts at a local studio, and when she returned from her short neighborhood runs. She was so arousing in her brief, sweaty workout clothes, that I she always gave me an instant hardon that I had to conceal with a newspaper on my lap. I asked her to run with me several times, but she always refused, most gracefully.

After she had been with us for a few weeks, I was working at home and sent something to the printer before remembering that it was in Megan's guest room. I gingerly entered the room for the first time since she had been in occupancy. Her clothes hung in the closet, a line of high heeled shoes were on the closet floor. She obviously was trying to compensate for her short stature. The bed was very neatly made. Nothing particularly interesting.

I picked up my printout from the tray, but dropped a sheet. Bending down to pick it up, I realized that Megan's laundry hamper was just under the printer. Right on top of the pile of laundry was a filmy, lacy, Victoria's Secret Pink bandeau bra, with the letters 'PINK' emblazoned on both cups. I stared at it for a long moment. Megan was at work, Millicent was at school and neither one of them was due home for hours. But even so, I looked guiltily at the guest room door before picking up the skimpy garment. I felt its delicate texture before putting it to my nose. It had a faint, but definitive smell. I closed my eyes and thought of her firm breasts and imagined her hard nipples, the bumps that I had seen several times in her athletic bras.

The next garment in the pile was the matching pair of panties, with the lettering 'PINK' across the seat. With trembling fingers, I picked it up. I turned it inside out and put the small crotch pad to my nose. The slightly sour, musky smell was much stronger and intoxicating. Time stood still as I kept breathing in the smells of her pussy. I thought that just a few minutes had passed, but when I glanced at my watch, it revealed that I had been inhaling the scent of her crotch for over fifteen minutes. I realized that I had an enormous hardon.

I pulled my handkerchief out of my pocket, unzipped my trousers and massaged my rigid member. I was more excited than I had been in years. I jerked myself off, and was so far gone that I spurted my load after just a few strokes with my hand.

* * * * *

6. I stayed away from Megan's room for a week after that. But I thought about it constantly and after seven days, I gave into temptation again. Thereafter, my slide downhill was rapid. Every day I worked at home, I spent time in Megan's room, going over the underwear in her laundry hamper. Some days I came across panties with heavier smells than others. I particularly enjoyed smelling her running shorts, for they were a gold mine of her sweat mingled with her pussy juices. I realized that she must have done her runs and workouts without panties under her bikini shorts.

I was embarrassed with what I was doing, for I was conscious of my position in society. But I could not help myself. I felt like an addict. When I saw her coming back from a run or a workout, I made mental notes of her attire so that I could look for it the next time I was in her room.

It was only a matter of time before my need for Megan's underwear became too strong for me to wait for the opportunity to sneak into her room. The next time I found a particularly strong smelling set of panties -- a thin white Lycra pair with gray cross-hatching -- I stole it. I concealed it at the bottom of my own underwear drawer, in a plastic bag.

That evening when Megan came into the kitchen to chat with Millicent, as she often did, I made sure to be there. At a lull in the conversation, I asked Millicent if she had seen my running shorts. Of course, she said no, she had not. I went on for a few minutes, talking about several items of underclothing that I had lost in the laundry recently. "Gremlins!" I concluded with a laugh.

* * * * *

7. I had difficulty chatting with Megan. When she spent time with us after work in her business attire -- modest knee length skirts and thin, white chiffon blouses, and high heels -- I always visualized the panties and bras under her clothing. Her skirts were always tight enough to reveal a clear panty line. Worse, she often wore dark bras under her white blouses, the color tantalizingly visible through the translucent material. I imagined the panties she was wearing were the ones I'd masturbated with and often recognized the bras she wore from my forays into her laundry hamper. Seeing them tight on her breasts always gave me a hardon and I had to work to conceal it. It was difficult for me to keep my eyes off her breasts and her crotch.

Millicent noticed that something was up, but she was not sure what.

"You seem uncomfortable around Megan," she said to me one night in bed. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course," I said, trying to sound normal. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," she said. "It's just that you don't seem to look her in the eye. I sometimes get the feeling that you are staring at her tits and ass, but then I tell myself that's impossible. She's younger than our daughter, Heather!"

"You're right, that's just ridiculous!" I exclaimed. I laughed, hoping it sounded natural.

"Well, she's a very attractive young girl," said Millicent. "It would not be unusual to look at her twice."

"I barely notice her," I said. "You're the one that spends so much time talking to her."

"Yes, that's true," said Millicent, opening the book she was reading.

* * * * *

8. Our 25th wedding anniversary fell on Wednesday. I got a congratulatory text from our daughter Heather first thing in the morning. However, she said that she had a group assignment meeting and would be unable to come home to celebrate with us. In typical fashion, our son Nathan forgot all about it. Even Millicent did not mention it before she left for school.

I had taken the day off, but by eight in the morning, I found myself alone in the kitchen, re-reading Heather's text for the tenth time. I wandered upstairs and pulled out Megan's purloined panties from my underwear drawer. I crawled into bed and inhaled deeply, but Megan's scent was growing faint.

I went downstairs, entered Megan's room again and replaced the white and gray panties in her laundry hamper. I rummaged through it till I found a cobalt blue pair of v-string panties with black lace trim. It was a prize -- she must have masturbated in them, for the crotch was soaked with her pussy juices. It was still damp and her feminine aroma went straight to my head. Holding it to my nose and mouth, I could almost feel my nostrils and tongue deep in the folds of her pussy. My semi-tumescent organ was instantly erect, and harder than I could ever remember it being.

I quickly unzipped my trousers and released my erection. I got my handkerchief out to cover my member and barely managed one stroke before I ejaculated such a large load that that my handkerchief could not contain it. I dribbled some drops over Megan's clothing in the laundry hamper. I leaned on the printer table in my post orgasmic high, feeling light headed and slightly dizzy. I realized that I had left traces of my ejaculate on her clothing -- mostly on one of her white office blouses.

I put my prize -- her cobalt blue panties -- in my pocket. I took her blouse to the laundry room sink, where I rinsed the spot where the gob of my semen had landed. It was gooey and would not come off easily, so I ended up wetting a larger area than I intended. There was still a faint residue, but I did not want to wash the blouse, for that would raise too many awkward questions. I put it back in the hamper, hoping the thin chiffon would dry by evening.

* * * * *

9. I got on my laptop and went to work, going through the dozens of emails that had come through overnight. I did a conference call at noon, and then I fixed myself a light sandwich. After lunch I headed upstairs to our bedroom, where I pulled out my prize -- the cobalt blue panties -- and masturbated again with them to my nose and mouth.

The first thing I did in the afternoon was call and confirm the table for two for dinner that I had booked at L'Auberge du Mouton Rouge, the best restaurant in town. Thereafter, I worked steadily, drafting memos and sending them out to our worldwide offices. It was my usual afternoon's work, shepherding through a dozen deals, approving loans to foreign entities, re-negotiating terms with delinquent borrowers. I was well pleased with my efforts and shut my laptop at five. I went for an hour long run and hopped in the shower on my return.

I came down, dressed for the evening at six thirty and found Millicent and Megan chatting in the kitchen. It appeared that they had just come in, for they were both in their work clothes. I stood around quietly for a while, endeavoring to keep my eyes off Megan's ass, that looked particularly sensual -- her skirt seemed even tighter than usual and her panty line seemed even more pronounced. I let my eyes linger just a bit too long -- for my mind was filled with thoughts of her cobalt blue panties soaked with her pussy juices -- and she caught my eye with a questioning look.

I quickly looked away, but it was too late. There was heat in my eyes, for I was imagining her masturbating on the bed in our guest room, wearing the cobalt blue panties. The vision was so erotic that even both my hands in my pockets did not fully conceal my hardon. Fortunately, Millicent was on the other side of the kitchen island and could not see my lower body. However, after our eyes met, Megan quickly glanced down and saw it. I thought there was a brief look of shock in her brown eyes, but it came and went so quickly that I could not be sure. She turned back to her conversation with Millicent, and they carried on as though nothing had occurred.

I let them talk on for another fifteen minutes before speaking up in a gap in the conversation.

"Millicent, we better leave now," I said. "I've got a dinner reservation for us."

"Why? Where are we going?" she asked.

I was little irritated. It was our 25th wedding anniversary and she was acting as though she did not know it.

"It's our 25th wedding anniversary, remember? I've made a reservation for us at L'Auberge du Mouton Rouge."

"Oh, that's nice dear." She turned to Megan. "Do you have plans for dinner, Megan? Would you like to join us?"

Megan glanced at me before responding.

"Oh no, Mrs. Hardwicke. I wouldn't want to intrude. You and Mr. Hardwicke go and have a lovely time."