Covidiots part 4
Another Covid Confession
By
de Vere
Women know when a guy wants to screw them.
Contrary to popular belief, it isn't all of us all the time. You know what I mean. Some have a voice like The Nanny. Some are so batshit crazy I wouldn't screw them with someone else's dick. I don't want to be mean about it, but, you know. "No chemistry" is what I usually tell the ones who just are not appealing.
No, the ones I'm talking about are the hot ones. They know.
We guys fit ourselves into 3 basic categories around hot women. Some guys know they have zero chance of fucking the hot girls, but they still like hanging out with them, if only to look. Maybe to torture themselves.
The second group are the guys who have zero shot, but convince themselves that they do. We've all been there.
The third category are the guys who think they have a shot, and the hot girl agrees.
Red and I are still in lockdown together, and I have no idea which category I fall into. Definitely not the first, but maybe in the third. More likely the second.
The thing most guys don't get is they have no choice if they are in category 2 or 3. That is the hot girl's decision, and there is not a damn thing they can do about it. Or is there?
I'll let you in on a secret I learned a long time ago. I'm frickin' old, so I had a lot of time for trial and error, and there were a lot of errors. I spent a lot of my life in CAT 2. Then I had this revelation, and damned if it didn't work. You can't change the hot girl's mind. Not if she's really hot. Then it usually won't work. But I learned hot chicks can sometimes be Jedi Mind Tricked. This IS the guy she is looking for. The key is, you can't chase them. Women want what they cannot have. Same as us, except the hot girls
can
have us. Just act like they can't, and sometimes you get bumped up to CAT 3.
In case you have not read my first few memoirs, Red is not her name. It is descriptive. Red has curly red hair. It was about shoulder-length when the Covid quarantine began, but it is longer now. If you saw her, your first thought would be that she is 40, tops. A MILF. Cougar. Hot mom. What you would never guess is that she is over 50. But she is. A tight 123-pounds of red and white hotness who, for the last six weeks, I'd had all to myself.
Red is nature's warning color.
Pretending you don't want to screw the hot MILF when she is your sister and you are living under her roof is a lot easier said than done.
Where did I leave off last time? Oh, yeah. The Shower. After she walked in on my shower, I walked in while she was showering. And she took my offer of washing her, letting me shampoo her gorgeous red hair and to scrub her back and bum, as she washed mine. She didn't let me touch her milky white boobs, though. But she seemed to enjoy drying me, and me drying her, and did not stop me when I toweled off every part of her lovely, firm, MILF body. I knew she wanted more, because she would not tease me like that. But, after what happened when we kissed that one night, the amazing oral sex the next night, I think she was really conflicted.
But, hey—we are self-isolating in her house. This was back when everyone thought Florida was doing great and, from what we saw on the news, this pandemic might be over soon. They had it under control. Red thought differently. She believed this pandemic was going nowhere soon. Neither was I. It is only a matter of time...
This part happened around the end of April. Maybe May. I can't be sure. It is like
Groundhog Day
here, except hot. The weather is warmer, too.
Red might need to stay home because of her being in a high-risk group for Covid, but that did not mean she needed to stay inside. The rain ended for a few days, so she took advantage to do some yard work. Pulling weeds, trimming bushes, that sort of thing. She ordered a bunch of seeds online that she scattered around.
She came in for a glass of ice water and asked if I wanted to help her out. She had on an old, worn tee-shirt, oversized like it came from the 90s with its collar cut off, for some reason. It was so sweaty that it clung to her chest and, from the natural shape and the nipples poking out big around as the tip of my pinkie, I knew she didn't have a bra underneath. Under those circumstances, what brother would not help?
It does not get this hot in Atlanta, where I am from, until June, at least. She saved me the job of pushing her ancient mower over the full carpet of grass. Thanks. The exhaust made it a good 20 degrees hotter behind that mower, and I was covered with grass clippings before you knew it. She kept looking up at me and smiling while she worked on a trellis in the shade. She completely suckered me into this.
"Hose me," I said.
"What?"
"It is a thousand degrees. I am sweaty and covered with dirt and bits of grass. Turn that hose on me, will you? It will feel incredible!"
I was right—it did. Starting at my head, she held the handle for that wide, almost misty spray on my face, washing my neck. At my chest, she squeezed it into a powerful jet, which she washed down my nasty legs, washing off all the crap stuck to them. Then she hit me in the balls with that jet and cackled like a kid.
Dripping nozzle in her hand like a gunfighter holding a smoking gun, she asked, "Can I trust you? To hose me?"
"Is there anyone else you trust more to hose you?"
"Guess not," she said with a wink, handing over the nozzle. We were in her backyard, where only a couple of neighbors could see, acting like we had when we were six and nine.
I sprayed her face and hair with a fine mist, and she moaned like she might climax. Then I gave her a wet tee-shirt, making it cling better than the sweat had pasted it to her flesh earlier. A little stronger flow on her arms and more still on her legs. Then I shot her with a strong jet in the crotch, holding it much longer than necessary.
After that, I played the jet on one nipple, then the other. That wet tee-shirt looked awesome stuck to her like it did. Because her nipples are so light pink, almost translucent in the way redheads' pale skin sometimes does, no dark circles showed through the light blue fabric, but it didn't matter too much. Her pokies bulged out, and the thin, old material stuck to her so tightly I could even see the bumps on her enormous areola tighten up from the cool and stimulating blast.
"Do you think that's enough?" She giggled, so I kept hosing her.
"You tell me," I answered.
"You really are a perv," she said, so I zapped right on her left nipple and she squealed and pretended to protest, but I suspect if I kept at it for another minute or so she'd come right there in her backyard in the middle of the afternoon. She must have suspected as much, too, and turned around to avoid that public spectacle.
I hosed her ass down, too. Then her upper back and the backs of her legs. After that she disarmed me and shoved the nozzle down the back of my shorts and shot it full power. It felt surprisingly good.
Disappointed that I did not run away, she stuck it down the front. I didn't flinch, so she pulled the nozzle and a jet of water hit my half-erect dick full-force. It curiously hurt and felt good at the same time, and she stood there, those Heineken-bottle-green eyes locked onto mine from only a foot away waiting for me to run, or at least to flinch. A puzzled expression crept into those eyes. She said, "Is this getting you off?"
"Not sure," I answered. She must have given up, or didn't want her hose job to cause me to blow my wad in her yard, because suddenly the water was spraying in my face. I did run, then.
We were both soaked to the skin, dripping, her shirt pasted to her boobs and stomach, laughing loud enough to make any neighbors look to see what was going on. I wiped my face and she wring out the bottom of her shirt, and that annoyed me because it broke the seal gluing the wet tee-shirt to her skin. At least her nipples still poked out from that sopping fabric. Once I caught my breath, I asked, "Did you just sexually assault me?"
In an offended tone, she said, "Hey, you sexually assaulted me first!"
I walked past her, shaking my hands at her face to spray her with water dripping down, and she pointed the nozzle below my belt. Hands held up, palms out, to show I would not do anything, I leaned close enough for our cheeks to brush together and said, "We hosed each other."
"Probably not the way you hoped for." Then, taking a step back again pointing that nozzle at my balls, she said, "And I'll do it again."
"What are we supposed to do now?" Tugging on one leg of her shorts, she stated the obvious. "We are soaked to the skin. Should we take off these wet things in the garage, then go inside for something dry?"
"Hell, the sun will dry us out in ten minutes. Don't you have any other chores we can wrap up before we head in?"
"Ten minutes in the sun without sunscreen will put me in the burn unit," she said, and she wasn't exaggerating much. That alabaster skin redheads have burns only slightly slower in the sun than a vampire's. But I only misted her face and arms and neck, and when I pointed that out, she decided the sunscreen might hold. "The flower bed out by the road still needs weeding."
Red doesn't like chemicals, so she pulls all her weeds by hand. Well, sometimes she Tom Sawyers some dumb guy into doing the work for her the way she did that day. There we squatted out by the quiet road she lives on, using those pointy weeding tools to tug a million little sprouts out of the ground.
Her hair fascinated me, the way the sun lit it like a thousand gems. I remembered that from years before, but now I saw it differently. Like I had taken off some sunglasses or something. It shone like fire in the sun, flashes of reds and gold and orange. Just spectacular. No blonde or brunette will put on a light show like that.
It was lunchtime by then, already hot as hell, and I hoped these clothes took less than ten minutes to dry. They already had stopped dripping, so we could have gone in at any time.
I looked over toward where she was working about ten feet away, about to mention that I was hungry when I noticed something else. Because she had cut the collar off that old shirt, it hung down as she bent over to pull those weeds. Maybe it started when it got wet, the added weight pulling it down. I don't have any other explanation how I had not caught wind of it before then. So, instead, I moved closer. Sure enough, from the right angle I got a full view of her boobs.
I cannot stress for you enough how spectacular her boobs are. They aren't particularly big; probably Bs. That reminded me, I should check one of her bras to confirm my estimate. I might have to volunteer to do laundry later that afternoon. But she is tiny, and those fit her so well, they look bigger on her than they are. Firm to the point that they look like they were stolen from a college co-ed, with big, pink, pointy erasers that, even at her age, pointed up.
There was too much shadow inside to see the nipples that are bigger than silver dollars because they are so pale, so light as to be nearly invisible even when staring at her in the shower under bright light.
Finding the right angle while squatting down in front of her turned out to be more challenging than I anticipated, but I refused to give up. After a couple of tries, I found out that standing and bending over gave me a wonderful view. If it meant I ended up in bed with a bad back, so be it. "Think you've got enough weeds here, Red?"
I called her Red to her face, but since she had no idea I had begun writing this story, she probably thought nothing of it. She grimaced. "Probably all that rain we had was good for them." If she had any idea of the show she was giving me, she hid it well.
"Does poison ivy ever grow in your yard?"
"I don't know. What does it look like?"
"You are pulling weeds with your bare hands and you have no idea what poison ivy looks like?"
"Pretty much." She reached for another weed and, bent forward like she was, her boobs swayed marvelously. By that time, I was staring down her shirt more than I was pulling weeds and, as much as I enjoyed the free show, I started feeling guilty. Each time she reached, they swayed and my eyes widened. Would a neighbor see me and suspect something? When would she catch me? She didn't mind me watching her shower—even invited me to join her that one time—nor did she have any problem with watching me.
That's pretty much all we did now. Covid turned us into a family of Peeping Toms.
"You've got pretty titties." It just seemed right to let her know, and ladies love a compliment, right?
"Is that any way to talk to your sister?"
"Sorry," I said, adjusting my voice to make it deeper, more formal. "Your breasts are magnificent."
