Hillary: The Summer of '92 Ch. 02

"Are...are you sure?" she asked, her voice sounding muffled.

"Hillary, that was one of the most fantastic experiences I've ever had," I told her. "It was unbelievable. Are...are you all right?"

I could feel her nodding against my chest. "I...I wasn't sure I could do it," she said, her voice soft. "Not...not all the way, anyhow. And I...I almost stopped when...when you said you were gonna cum, but...I didn't because...because I probably couldn't have finished if I had."

"Hillary, you don't have to do anything to or with me you don't want to do," I explained.

She leaned back in my arms and looked at me. "I...I know that," she said. "But I wanted to do it. I've been thinking about it for a couple of days. I mean, you did it to me and it felt so fantastic..."

"Just because I do something for you doesn't mean you're obligated to do it for me," I said.

She nodded. "I know, but I really did want to do it. I mean, kinda, because part of me kinda didn't want to do it, either." She shook her head a little. "I mean...Jeezum...I wanted to do it, but I was afraid what would happen when you...you know...when you came in my mouth." She looked at me carefully. "Was it really good for you or are you just saying that?" she asked.

I think I surprised her when I pulled her close and gave her a kiss. I could taste myself on her lips. "It was, as you so often say, 'awesome'," I told her. "It really was."

"Neat," she replied, hugging me tightly. "I really wanted it to be great for you."

"What about you?" I asked.

She gave me a funny look. "You're gonna think this is weird," she said softly.

"I'm going to think what is weird?"

"When I was...you know...when I was...ah...giving you that...um...blow job, I..."

"You what?" I asked softly, running my fingers lightly up her back and feeling her shudder a little under my touch.

"Um...I...ah...I had an...um...orgasm, too."

"You did?" I replied, surprised.

She leaned back in my arms and looked up at me. "Is...is that weird...I mean for something like that to happen?" she asked fearfully.

I smiled and shook my head. "I...I don't think so," I told her. "I never heard of anything like that happening, but I'm not surprised to hear that it did."

"So it doesn't mean I'm some kind of sex freak or anything, then?" she continued.

"I'd say it means you are a totally normal young woman with a totally normal and healthy sex drive," I told her.

She tightened her arms around me, burrowed her face against my chest, and kissed me. "Good," I heard her muffled voice say.

She finally backed out of my arms. "I gotta go to the bathroom," she said softly. Her eyes roamed downward and a pretty grin formed. "You oughta see yourself," she giggled.

I felt myself blushing because I knew was standing there - leaning against the sofa, really - naked from the waist down with my pants tangled around my ankles. "I don't make fun of the way you dress," I chuckled.

"Yeah, because I don't dress funny," she giggled. She turned and headed down the hall to the bathroom. I pulled my pants up and got my clothes a bit straighter than they were, then I headed for the kitchen and began putting together the ingredients for dinner. I got out four medium sized potatoes, washed them, punched holes with them with a fork, and put them on a plate to put in the microwave. Then I dumped one of the packages of hamburger I'd bought earlier into a large bowl.

Hillary walked into the kitchen. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Getting dinner together," I replied. "I hope you like meatloaf."

"Sure," she said. "I'm not real fussy about what I eat." She sat down in a chair next to the table and watched while I dumped ketchup, some milk, an egg, and some corn flake crumbs into the bowl with the hamburger and began mixing it with my hands. "I never liked making meatloaf because your hands get all yukky," she commented, making a sour face.

"Yeah, but if you do it right, the yukkiness is worth it," I said. "Meatloaf happens to be my all-time favorite meal."

"You're kidding, right?" she giggled. "I mean there are loads of things better than meatloaf."

"So you say," I retorted. "That just means you haven't had my meatloaf yet."

"Yeah, sure," she said. "You want me to help with anything?"

I shook my head. "Some of the salad you made the other night is in the refrigerator, and I've already got the potatoes ready to go in the microwave." Having mixed the meatloaf ingredients thoroughly, I placed them in a loaf pan, then I spread some barbecue sauce on top and laid a few strips of bacon on top of that. The next step was to put the meatloaf in the pre-heated oven, which I did.

"How long is that going to take?" Hillary asked.

"About an hour, hour and a half," I said.

"What are we going to do while it cooks?" she asked, grinning.

"Did you do any more work on your assignment?" I asked.

Hillary made a pouty face I could tell wasn't sincere and said, "Yeah, I did. You want to read it?"

"It will give me a chance to rebuild my strength," I said. "Your...ah...greeting pretty much wore me out."

My comment got a very attractive blush from Hillary.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"In there," she replied, making a gesture toward the living room with her head.

"Let's go see how much you've improved it," I said as I walked into the living room alongside Hillary. I sat down on the sofa.

"OK," she said. She got the papers she'd brought with her, brought them over and handed them to me, and curled up on the sofa next to me.

She seemed to be getting the idea I'd wanted her to get. She'd changed the first few pages so they sounded a lot more like a teenage girl talking instead of a student trying to write a scholarly paper. That was exactly the effect I wanted, even though it meant violating just about every rule of grammar in existence.

I looked at her and smiled after I'd finished reading. "This is exactly the way I wanted it to sound," I told her and watched her beam with pride as I did. "It reads almost exactly as if you were saying it. Keep using that style for the rest of the paper."

"OK," she said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," I said.

"How come you're using those Louis L'Amour books instead of the books they usually use in English?"

I shrugged. "Partly it's because I really like Louis L'Amour. I have every book he's ever written and I think I've read all of them at least a dozen times."

"No kidding?" she said, looking surprised.

"I also think he's an excellent story teller," I continued. "And I think he does a better job of telling what things were really like during the time periods he writes about than history books do. Think about Conagher. What kind of life did the woman in that book have?"

"Pretty sucky, really," Hillary replied. "Jeezum, her father died and she didn't have any money, so she winds up married to a guy she doesn't love, going out in the wilderness. I mean, it was almost like she was a babysitter or something, not really a wife."

I chuckled. "Louis L'Amour didn't write much about sex, but I have to assume she was expected to do her...ah... wifely duties for her husband. How did she handle all that?"

Hillary shrugged. "Ah...well...after her husband...after he left, she got really lonely and started pinning those poems to the tumbleweeds, didn't she?"

I nodded. "Did she complain?" I asked.

Hillary sat there looking thoughtful. "Ah...no...um...not really. She just did what she needed to do. I mean, then those guys from the stage line came along and..."

"Exactly," I said. "She found herself in a tough spot, but she made the best of it, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Hillary said. "Still, I sure wouldn't want to live like that. I don't think I could do the stuff she did."

I smiled at her. "I'm not sure you're right," I told her. "I think you might be surprised. I have a feeling you have, in Louis L'Amour's words, 'a lot of sand'."

Hillary looked surprised. "You really think so?"

I nodded. "Yes, I do. I believe you can do anything you want to do, as long as you put your mind to it. Look at what you've accomplished in the last few days."

Hillary giggled. "Yeah...it's been wild."

I could feel my face getting hot. "Ah...that isn't exactly what I was talking about," I said. "I...I meant the work you've been doing on your school work. You did a great job during discussion in class today and the paper you're writing will be incredible once you've finished it."

It was Hillary's turn to blush. "OK, if you say so," she said softly. "You...you think I could be a teacher...like you?"

"Is that what you want to be?" I asked, a little surprised. I'd heard reports that she actually did quite well in the program that involved mentoring younger students, but I'd also heard about her reputation for putting her social life ahead of her schoolwork.

She shrugged. "I...I don't know. I...ah...I never really thought a lot about it, I guess. I mean, the only reason I'm going to the college I'm going to is because my dad had pull and got me in."

"It actually has a very good reputation," I told her. "If you really do want to be a teacher, they certainly can help you. What brought this on?"

"I don't know, exactly, I guess it's being in that mentoring program, and seeing the way you work with kids, including me, I guess."

"Teachers don't make a lot of money," I pointed out.

"I used to think that was a big thing, I'm not so sure any more," she said, sounding surprisingly mature. "Maybe it's better to do something you really like doing instead of trying to make all kinds of money and doing something you hate - like Mr. Brillstein."

I smiled and nodded. "Maybe," I said.

Hillary sat there, legs folded under her, lost in thought for a few moments. I wasn't sure how long her interest in teaching would last, but she did have the ability, if she was willing to work hard enough when she got to college.

"You've been spending a lot of time here," I said. "Don't you miss your friends?"

Hillary shook her head. "Not really," she said. She giggled. "I'm having a whole lot more fun than they are."

"But don't they think it's weird that you stopped hanging out with them?" I asked. I was afraid that if her friends got suspicious, they might try to find out why, suddenly, she'd dropped out of her social circle.

"A couple of them asked what was up," she said. She grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. "I told them it was because you were being a real jerk and giving me all kinds of assignments."

"Oh," I said. "A real jerk, huh?" I tried to look hurt but I don't think I pulled it off because she giggled at me.

"Oh, come on," she said. "You know that's not what I think about you." She slid over so she was sitting on my lap and slid her arms around my neck.

Of course, the minute her lovely bottom settled on my lap, my body began to respond. The fact that she giggled softly told me she felt my response. "See, your body knows how I feel about you," she whispered. Her eyes widened and softened and her face started moving toward mine. Then our lips joined, our mouths opened, and we dissolved into a passionate kiss. My arms slid around her waist while hers tightened around my neck. And, of course, my response to her bottom being on my lap became even more pronounced. I'd never, in my entire life, been as randy as I'd been since my affair with Hillary began. Actually, I never thought I had even a fraction of the capacity for randiness that I'd discovered with her.

Wonderful, thrilling, exciting, incredible, astonishing, amazing, extraordinary, staggering, mind-blowing, staggering, mind-boggling, and fantastic are all descriptive words that could be used to explain how I felt when I kissed Hillary, but none of them comes close to accurately describe the powerful sensations that suffused my body as we kissed. My heart began pounding, my breath became more rapid, and every one of my nerves was highly attuned to receiving inputs of pleasure.

I slid my hands from Hillary's back, slipped them between us, and began unbuttoning the sleeveless sweater she was wearing. That took me just seconds, then I began running my fingers over her upper chest and the part of her breasts not covered by her lacy bra. She moaned into my mouth and shuddered a little. I slid my hands around to her back, undid the clasp holding her bra closed, then slid them back to her chest and cupped her now-freed breasts against my palms. I got another impassioned moan and another more noticeable shudder in response.

We kept kissing for a while longer, but both of us seemed to realize we weren't going to be able to progress much beyond kissing as long as she was sitting on my lap on the sofa. I don't know who moved first, but the next thing I knew, Hillary was sliding off my lap, then both of us stood up and began shedding our clothes as quickly as we could.

Hillary won our disrobing contest. She was lying on the sofa, totally and wonderfully nude, while I was still shedding my pants. I'd kicked off my shoes, but still had my socks on. A microsecond's debate about whether to take them off or leave them on wound up with me getting on the sofa, between Hillary's legs, with my feet clad in socks. I leaned forward, stretching my body over hers, holding myself above her on out-stretched arms. She gazed up at me, her eyes filled with passion and need while I lowered my hips and was surprised to feel the tip of my erection bury itself between her dewy vaginal lips.

"Yessss!" she hissed avidly as I lowered myself, burying my rigid penis deep inside her. "Oh, God, I need you so bad! I always need you bad!" She lifted her legs and locked them behind mine while at the same time she clasped my buttocks in her hands and hauled on me, as if she was trying to drag all of me inside her body. "Take me! Oh, shit! Take me!" she groaned. She began to rock her hips wildly. I could feel my hard organ lashing around inside her, rubbing the walls of her vagina. Remember what I said about not being able to describe the pleasure I felt before? Well, this was even better.

I looked down into Hillary's lust-glazed eyes as I shoved myself deep into her. We were literally joined into the legendary "beast with two backs" while our bodies strained and struggled, attempting to reach the apex of pleasure. Neither of us was making coherent sounds any more, although we were making plenty of noise. Grunts, groans, moans, and hisses issued from both of us as we ground our bodies together. I managed to bend my head down far enough to allow me to suck one of Hillary's nipples between my lips.

"Ngggahhhhhh!" she wailed when I began lashing the rigid fleshy bud with my tongue. "Gahhhhhh! Nnnnnahhhhh!" Her fingers dug into my bottom and her already frantic hip movements grew even more so. I knew she'd have her orgasm soon and realized I was just as close.

Then it happened. A kaleidoscope of sensations and brilliant lights began exploding behind my tightly closed eyes while intense feelings of ecstasy raced through my body. I could feel my insides working, and my fluids rushing up through me and jetting into Hillary.

Spent and gasping once we finished, we clung to each other for a few moments. Finally, when I was at last able to move, I straightened my arms, lifted my upper body up off Hillary, and looked down at her. She smiled up at me. "That was, as you always say, 'awesome';" I told her.

She rocked her hips a little, causing a delightful little burst of pleasure to shoot up through me from our still-joined hips. "It was, wasn't it?" she replied. "Making love with you is always awesome."

I lowered myself and we kissed gently, then I pushed myself up again. I knew I should get up and let her up, but I found myself not wanting to lose contact with her. My erection continued softening, however, and eventually slithered out of her. She giggled when it did. "That tickled," she chortled. "Can you let me up, I gotta go to the bathroom?"

"Of course," I said. I slid off her and got to my feet. She got up and headed down the hallway. Just as she did, the timer on the stove went off. Talk about timing. I got my bathrobe and headed for the kitchen. I turned off the oven, opened the oven door and left it ajar. Then I turned on stove to cook the vegetables and put the potatoes in the microwave to cook. After that I got out the salad and some salad dressing and set the table. I'd just finished when Hillary, wearing the white terrycloth bathrobe that had unofficially become hers over the past couple of days, walked into the kitchen.

"You should have waited, I'd have helped set the table," she said.

"No problem," I said. "It's my turn to use the bathroom. If the timer goes off, turn off the veggies on the stove and get the potatoes out of the microwave."

"OK," Hillary said.

I was back long before the timer sounded, so both of us put the food on the table once it was done cooking, then we sat down to eat.

Hillary took a potato, some of the mixed vegetables I'd made, and some salad. Then she cut off a slab of meatloaf and laid that on her plate. She cut a piece off with her fork, then put it in her mouth. I could see the look of pleasure forming while she ate it. "Oh, wow!" she exclaimed after she'd swallowed. "That's the best meatloaf I ever ate."

"See, I told you so, didn't I?" I replied.

"Yeah, you did."

Both of us were hungry and ate without saying much more than "Pass the potatoes," or "Can I have the salad dressing," stuff like that. After we finished, Hillary helped me clear the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher.

"I have to do some laundry," I told Hillary. "You can watch TV if you like."

She giggled. "I can't believe you do laundry," she said. "I don't think my father even knows how to turn the washing machine on."

"You learn to do what you have to do in order to survive," I told her. "This place would fill up with dirty clothes and bedding if I didn't do the laundry once in a while." I swatted her fondly on the bottom. "Especially the laundry, the way somebody has been helping me mess it up."

"Hey, you started all that," she responded, laughing.

"I guess I did, didn't I?" I admitted.

"If you want, I'll help you with the laundry," she said.

"I never turn down help with things I really don't like doing," I told her.

Hillary helped me strip and re-make the bed in the bedroom we had been using. Then she carried the bedding to the laundry room while I carried the hamper holding my dirty clothes and the towels and washcloths we'd been using. Apparently she'd helped her mother do laundry, because she immediately began sorting the clothes into "dark," "light," and "white" piles.

"Since we're doing wash anyhow, is there anything you need washed?" I asked as we sorted the clothes.

Hillary grinned and shook her head.

After the clothes were sorted into the proper piles, I put a load of white wash in the washer, added soap, bleach, and fabric softener, then turned the machine on.

"I've never seen a washing machine like that before, except in a laundromat once," Hillary said.

A few months earlier our washer had died and I bought a tumbler-type washer to replace it, mainly because the salesperson told me it used less water and was easier on the clothes. "It's supposed to be the latest thing in washers. The sales clerk who sold it to me said it used less water and soap," I said. "And the video that came with it says it's easier on clothing, too."

"Oh," Hillary said. "It's really quiet."

"Except when it spins," I said. "Then it sounds a little like a jet."

We stood there, watching the washer, experiencing a bit of a clumsy moment. It emphasized, for me at least, that despite how easily we seemed to get along some of the time, the relationship between Hillary and me was different. Two people who live together learn to share chores and keep busy. In a way, Hillary and I had been simulating living together for a few days. The discomfort we both seemed to be feeling as the washing machine did it's thing came out of the fact that there was no way to characterize our relationship except to say that it was wrong.