In For A Penny, In For A Pound

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Old friends playing truth or dare in a hot tub.
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neruda
neruda
317 Followers

Please note that this is a long story and although the two main characters meet when they are younger, no sex, sexual activity or descriptions take place until after they are legally of age.

Thank you for taking the time to read it.

*****

Years ago, when I was growing up in the back waters of Louisiana my best friend was Amanda Carson. I still remember the summer she and her family moved in across the street from me. There was a lot of tension in the neighborhood at the time. My side of the street was the upper middle class brick houses that were common in that town at that time. But across the street was a rundown trailer park that Amanda's family lived in. How this configuration ever passed the zoning board is a mystery to anyone that has ever seen the setup. The people on my side of the street couldn't stand that their property values were being dragged down by these trailer park people and the people on Amanda's side believed they had every right to be there like anyone else. Which of course they did.

When Amanda moved in she was a gawky 12 year old girl. A tom boy with too many freckles and bushy red hair. She seemed to be all elbows and knock knees. She was more at home hanging out with the boys than the other girls and we all learned soon enough that she could spit, shoot, fish and fight just as good as anyone else did. It didn't take long before a lot of the boys got really scared of her. Too many of them had been whipped enough times that she carried a certain amount of grudging respect for her wherever she went. But that was never a problem for me. She and I immediately formed a bond, the way some kids do, that no one else really understood. It was all centered on the fact that neither of us could back down from anything. We were dare devils and couldn't be intimidated. The older kids wanted to fight, no problem. There was a bike ramp that needed to be jumped, she and I would race to jump it, skin our knees and do it again.

A couple of years after she moved down here I started noticing an odd phenomenon. People would make comments that they liked me, and they liked Amanda, but they HATED me and Amanda. Of course at the time I had no idea what they were talking about, but in retrospect we always seemed to be getting each other into trouble. Pushing each other too far. Taking the joke one step over the line and then further.

About the time I was 15 Amanda and I were going to separate schools. I had taken a pretty acute interest in girls and Amanda was still not what anyone would call girlish, so we spent less and less time with one another. My parents were pleased because they thought she was a bad influence and her parents were pleased, when they were sober enough to notice, because they knew I was a bad influence. The less time we spent together the less trouble we got into. My family moved away, and although we talked on the phone every couple months I think I went a few years without seeing her.

Eventually I ran into her again when we started college. I was 19 when I saw her, and she had just turned 18. There were some very serious changes that had taken place with her in that time. I would not call her womanly, nor beautiful. But she had a certain country girl, tom boy charm to her that I found amusing. We started talking that day in the Student Union, and I think I was trying to let her know I was interested. I was certainly treating her more like a cute girl than one of the boys like I used to. Either she wasn't getting the hint or she wasn't interested. Either way I wasn't really getting anywhere, nor was I trying that hard. We were leaving and in the process of exchanging phone numbers and promises to keep in touch. Then we both saw it at the same time... A bright, shiny quarter on the lawn outside the union.

Oh, this was one of our favorite games when we were growing up. One of us would see a coin on the ground and the two of us would fight over it and wrestle until one of us had it clutched in our hand in victory and the both of us were covered in grass stains and more often than not mud and blood. Surely she is too old for this now... Then I heard the familiar cry of "It's Mine!" She lunged for the quarter and on instinct alone I went after her and the two of us screamed vile disgusting names at one another and fought over that quarter until a group of people were standing around us and we were laughing so hard that tears streaked down my cheek. I had torn my shirt and she had a loose tooth from the whole thing. I lost because I was suddenly trying to hide an erection. My muddy hand had accidentally slipped down the front of her pants while we wrestled and I felt a part of her that I had never really given much thought to before. It took me off guard enough that I got distracted and took an elbow to the solar plexus hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

The campus cops were called out to the Great Quarter Battle and they kept interviewing her to find out if I was abusing her in some way. Eventually they let us both go with stern warnings that we never listened to. We left the police substation laughing and looking at the ground for another coin to fight over.

She was walking a bit funny and when I asked her what was wrong she punched me in the shoulder and said "Now I have to go home and wash dirt out of my cunt. Thanks a lot." But she was smiling enough when she said it for me to know she wasn't actually mad. She was not very lady like at that time.

Something occurred to me though. During our game I realized that she was much stronger than I remembered her to be. The last time we had wrestled I was easily stronger than she was. That was when I was 16. Three years and several farm jobs later I was a man grown with a man's muscles. But she was like a coil of bailing wire, and that grip of hers made my knees weak when she had gotten a hold of my elbow. She was stronger and faster than any other girl I had ever known and that made me a little bit wary.

But I also kept thinking about how surprised we both were when my hand slipped and went inside her jeans...

A week later I found out why she was in such good shape. I was passing by the school track and saw her running. No, not just running, running like there was a fire inside of her that would consume her if she couldn't out run it. None of the other girls could keep up. None of them even had a chance. It turned out that Amanda had a track and field scholarship and was one of the most sought after student athletes in the country. I should have known; there is no way that her parents could have afforded to send her to college otherwise. Another interesting thing happened. I saw her in her track clothes. She was so thin growing up, and always had hand-me-downs that she never looked like a girl. When I had seen her in the quad her hair was styled a bit more, and she was wearing makeup to hide some of the freckles, but she was still more of a tom boy than anything else. But on the track, in clothes that looked like they had been spray painted on, she looked like a woman. She had the flattest stomach I had ever seen, perfect six pack abs, with the muscular thighs and calves that only true runners can develop. Her running top was straining against her modest chest, making it look larger than it should with her small frame and narrow waist.

...And I must have stared a little too long, because I got a sports bottle in the face for my troubles.

"Looking that hard is going to cost you, tough guy." She yelled at me.

I took off after her, but was absolutely no match for her raw speed, especially when she was already warmed up. I can distinctly remember the sound of her friends laughing at me.

Amanda had an on again off again boyfriend at the time that I met later. They had one of those explosive, drama filled relationships. One minute they were making out in public and the next she was burning his CD collection in front of his dorm. I had a series of girls, mostly older students, that I had brief, intense relationships with. Maybe the timing was never right with us. Maybe we just had too much fun with the competitive friendship. I don't know. What I do know is that it wasn't long before I started hearing the familiar refrain again, "We like Paul, and we like Amanda, but we can't stand Paul and Amanda." With good reason I could see.

Amanda loved to get guys to fight over her, she once told me it made her incredibly wet to think of two guys beating each other over her. She even roped me into it a few times by telling some guy I was harassing her in a bar. We both drank hard and partied harder than anyone else we knew. I kept in good condition working, she did it running. We argued all the time, but the only thing we ever really disagreed about was that occasionally she would snort some coke, and I didn't like that. Other than that we were two peas in a pod.

One time I was coming up to my dorm room and saw the girl I had been sleeping with storming off. She slapped me across the face so hard I knew it would leave a mark. When I got to my room, Amanda was getting dressed. When she heard Carrie knocking she had stripped down to her underwear and pretended to be my girlfriend. She was laughing so hard it took me ten minutes to get the joke out of her. I repaid her by telling the biggest gossips on campus that she was a lesbian and had been taking secret pictures of her team mates in the shower. They were seriously pissed. I think she actually got in a fight with a couple of the girls. She thanked me for that by bleaching all of my pants. I had to go to a funeral wearing a $300 suit with $20 jeans I bought at the last minute at Wal-Mart.

And around and around it went. Everyone liked Paul and everyone liked Amanda. No one liked Paul and Amanda. We just brought out the worst in each other.

My Junior year, her Sophomore year at university, her parents were killed in a drunk driving accident. Her mother was the drunk driver and took a family of three out with them. The news made a big deal of it because her mother had been arrested for DUI before. It made things uncomfortable for her at school. She had no other family around here so her wealthy uncle came down to get her. She moved to upstate New York.

The night before she left we decided to go get drunk and have one more wild night dancing and causing trouble. We both got so drunk that we could barely walk. I was carrying her by the time we got back to her room. I set her on her bed and she was sound asleep, or maybe a better term would be passed out. I thought it would be a nice thing to take her shoes and socks of before I tucked her in. Then I realized that her jeans were awfully tight on her and couldn't be comfortable all night.

To this day I remember standing over her, watching her sleep asking myself if I really wanted to take off her jeans. I told myself it was just to make her comfortable. I told myself she wouldn't care. I've told myself a lot of lies over the years and I make it a point to believe them all.

I leaned over her to unbuckle her belt, and I could smell her hot sweaty flesh from dancing and walking in the humid night air. Her jeans were the kind that button all the way down the fly and it took my drunken hands a moment to work them. Her panties looked improbably small on her, pink and cotton with a little rose in front. Her hip bones were so pronounced that they held them away from the skin of her flat stomach. I shucked her out of her jeans and threw them on the floor. They would be unnoticeable there, with all of the other clothes that had been discarded around her room.

I was rock hard in my pants, and drunk enough that if I turned my head too quickly the room would spin. I stared at her panties for a long time. There was a darker pink splotch in the middle of them, whether from sweat or arousal, I didn't know. They were formed to her shaved pussy in the perfect camel toe.

I made up my mind that I would simply jerk off to her like that. No harm there. I would jerk off and tuck her in, and then go home. Just looking at her wouldn't hurt her, and she and I had talked about masturbation enough that I knew she did it too. She wouldn't begrudge me that.

But it's never enough, is it? I wanted to see her tits too. Who wouldn't? She was the perfect girl in perfect physical shape. I had known her all my life and I was curious. Or maybe I was just horney. "In for a penny...", I told myself.

She was wearing an old faded button down shirt, kind of a western style, with snaps instead of buttons and a lot of frilly needle work on it. We had gone out to a redneck bar and she had wanted to fit in. I had noticed earlier in the evening that she wasn't wearing a bra, so it was easy to pull both sides of her shirt and open it in one motion.

I had been right all along, her breasts were small, maybe as big as a B but probably she wore an A cup. They were very perky though, the way only an 19 year old girl's can be. Her pale white skin made the dark rose of her nipples stand out against the tan lines of what must have been her most daring running bra. Freckles graced every inch of her tender flesh.

My hands were starting to shake and my heart was beating too fast. I felt the room swim on me from too much booze and too much desire. I bent to her chest and took one of her little rosebud nipples in my mouth and tongued it for a moment. Then bit it gently with my teeth. Then harder to feel the shape of it.

It must have been just a little too hard because I felt her stir underneath me. Her hips shifted to press against my side. In doing so, the right side of her panties pulled down about three inches. The shift exposed the top inch of her slit to me. She was shaved, but not recently enough. There was some light red stubble around her lips.

Tentatively, very carefully, I touched the top of her slit where her clitoris would be, barely touching it at all. A heat was coming from her. A heat that made my breath catch again. Sliding my index finger down further I found the answer to my question. She was dripping wet. Before I really realized what I was doing my finger was slipping inside of her, straining to touch her deeper, feeling her body react to my touch.

This whole time she was unconscious on her bed.

But it was all too much for me. I just couldn't continue to pretend that I was just getting ready to jerk off. I stood up, steadied myself, and pulled her little cotton panties down, past her ankles and off her feet. I dropped them by the bed. I walked to the door of her bedroom and made sure it was locked. I didn't want her nosey roommate to come in if she heard some noise. I took off my own jeans and shoes and finally released my cock from the painful confinement of my boxer shorts. They were saturated with a thick layer of precum.

Back at the bed I grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her to the edge of the bed, letting her legs go on either side of my hips. In one swift motion I penetrated her, her unconscious body more than ready for what was coming.

I would like to tell you that I made her cum, or that she moaned in her sleep or some other demonstration of my prowess. But that's not the truth. The truth is that I was young and drunk and hornier than I could ever remember being in my life and I came after only a few desperate moments. Fortunately I pulled out and spent my load on the carpet rather than inside her.

As soon as I came the guilt kicked in. I couldn't believe what I had just done. I found one of her old t-shirts on the ground and used it to wipe off her pussy as best as I could, making sure to get between the lips. Doing so I felt my dick start to twitch again. I picked up her pink panties off the ground and pulled them back on her. I made sure they were on the right way. I buttoned her shirt back up the way she had it and tucked her under the covers.

I was a mess. I was drunk and I had cum leaking out of my dick. I grabbed the same t-shirt and used the other side to clean myself off, then the floor. I dressed again, making sure that I hadn't left anything. I folded, what was now, a very soggy shirt and put it in my back pocket.

I unlocked the door and left. That was it. We never spoke of it. She was very sexually active anyway; she had a lot of men around her all the time. I'm sure she knew she had sex, but was drunk enough not to remember the specifics. She may have figured out it was me, but probably never guessed that she was already unconscious when I fucked her.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Amanda's life changed dramatically after leaving. Her uncle Martin was really good to her. He cared about her and did everything he could to erase the years she spent living with poor, alcoholic parents. We didn't talk much during that time, but when we did, I could tell that she was blossoming.

The first few times on the phone I kept waiting for her to say something about that night, or ask me an uncomfortable question or just make a downright accusation. She never did. She always seemed happy to hear from me.

She had the desire to reinvent herself and with her uncle's help the resources to do it. The few pictures I got showed her with longer hair, more makeup and in clothes that fit her and accentuated her slender figure. She was no longer relying on a track and field scholarship and so her hips and breasts had filled out. I always wondered if maybe that was also due to her eating better. That thought always made me sad. At some point she moved to Manhattan to get her masters in art history from NYU.

By the time I graduated college I was already working full time for a security company. I didn't even have a thought of going to grad school. The money was too good and the job was too exciting and I was very very ambitious. I never went to my own graduation. I took my last final (Macro Economics, if I remember correctly) and went straight to the airport. I spent most of the next two years overseas, first as a body guard and then as a corporate security consultant.

But still my thoughts would wander back to a girl I knew and grew up with from time to time. We hadn't talked in years, our communications had dwindled down to an email every few months when one of us was feeling particularly nostalgic. Still she was a fond memory more than anything else that I occasionally felt guilty about.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Things changes when I was in my early 30s. I had long since moved back to Louisiana. I was still traveling a good deal, but I had a house here now and a place to come home to. I had reconnected with some of my old friends. Out of the blue I got a call from Amanda.

"Hey, Tough Guy" she said in the phone. I really hated it when she called me that. The fact is that I do think of myself as a tough guy, but when she said it like that it sounded mocking and that stung my pride. I had to have a little fun.

"Cynthia! I can't believe it I never thought I would hear from you again."

"It's not Cynthia. Try again" A lot less humor in her voice.

"Amber?" I asked tentatively.

"Not Amber either!" She said. No sense of humor left. I started laughing and she realized I was joking. "You're a jackass! I should just hang up on you after that."

"You deserved it. I can't believe you called me. What's the occasion?"

"Good to hear from you too, Paul", she said sarcastically.

"Sorry, let me start over. Why Amanda Carson, as I live and breathe! How delightful it is to hear from you after all this time. Whatever in the world did you call me for?"

"Here I was thinking you would just be happy to hear from me."

"I am. But you didn't just call to make me happy. Although you have. What's up?"

"Fine, fine fine. You caught me. I need a favor," she said, making it sound like I was frustrating the living hell out of her.

neruda
neruda
317 Followers