Carol Ch. 01

"I don't have any clothes on, Chahlie," she murmured teasingly. "I'm completely nude. Do you like the way I look?" As if she could not tell, from his red, perspiring face, his expression as of pain and torment, his shivering and jerking as he knelt on the sand, and from his fevered pumping of his red, swollen, and foam-dripping cock.

"Yuh," was the best he could do. She was naked in public for his jack-off strain.

As he watched in disbelief, she moved her pretty bare feet wide apart, put her hands behind her head, and slowly crouched, her legs turned outward. When she was halfway to a squat, she stopped and smiled at him. "Do you like this pose?" she whispered. "It's very unladylike..." She thrust her pussy forward and looked down shyly. Everything she had was on display.

And unladylike it was. It was primitive, primal, achingly sexual, as obscene a pose as she could take without lying down. He did not know it then, but that vision would be engraved inside his skull forever after and never leave him, even in his dreams.

He moaned and grunted and could hold back no longer. As he stared at his Carol, the prettiest and sweetest girl he had ever seen, so modest and proper, posing lewdly naked on a public beach in broad daylight, he made a strangled noise deep in his throat and ejaculated on the sand between and on her lovely feet.

She was a good eight feet away, but his jets and arcs of flying sperm flew high and far, and Carol squealed "Ooo!" like a delighted child and held the pose for him as he stared and spurted high.

His eyes were wet with his love for her. He had never come so hard and so long and so much in his life, and his heart had never been so full. She loved him this much...

She held that feral pose till he was done, and just a little longer; and then she ran to him, breasts bouncing, and kissed him deeply as he knelt there with his dripping dick still in his dripping hand.

"That was fun!" she trilled. "Do you want to do it some more?" She crouched again and began to hunch her naked hips sensuously, pumping her pelvis at him as if she were being fucked.

"I'm naked, Chahlie!" she squealed. "I'm naked in PUBLIC! Ooo, jack OFF to me, love! Make it squirt again!" She turned and undulated her pale, bare ass in his face...

And he was hard again in seconds, jacking off to her without thinking. Only staring, and marveling, and loving her for giving him such a priceless gift.

She made him shoot three wads before she lay down naked beside him so he could kiss her neck and feel her off. She came hard, thrilled and frightened and hot all at once at being naked in public.

It became a regular thing for them, and fun for both; she would strip and pose naked for him and giggle with delight when he ejaculated, staring. In the car, in a motel room, and most memorably on that public beach.

One warm day, she shocked and thrilled him by going to the beach without bothering to bring a swimsuit. Under her beach coverup, she wore only a pair of tiny lace bikini panties. He shot his wad ten feet that day when she finally peeled them off and struck his favorite pose.

Later, Charlie remembered looking at those panties, discarded on the blanket next to her, as he fingered her while licking her pussy to a delicious climax--and then leaving them there as they went for a swim. Prim and proper Carol went skinny-dipping and lay naked in the sun, and Charlie was content to just sit nearby and look at her.

So beautiful, he thought. So perfect. And she loves me.

The happiest day of his life? Maybe it was. But there would come another day, much later, that rivaled it.

He loved seeing her naked, and she loved that he did; she loved knowing she looked so pretty that way. She was usually so prim and modest--she knew it shocked Charlie when she displayed herself openly, and she reveled in shocking him by suddenly pulling her knees back and wide open, blatantly exhibiting her tits and pussy and giggling as he stared in astonishment. It was so unladylike!

She felt beautiful and wicked and sexy, and she loved it. If she was naked, and he was masturbating to her at the time, it never failed to make him shoot.

They finally took the ultimate step. They were both vaguely religious and a little old-fashioned, and had hesitated far longer than others might have done; but they talked about it, long and often, and decided that since they were definitely getting married after graduation, there was nothing wrong with premarital sex.

And, too, they wanted it so very much, both of them...

Their first attempt was a fiasco, and I will not tell of it here. Condoms were not an option for them, they learned. Carol went on the Pill right away, and after that they persisted till they got it right.

The first time that it was good, they were in a motel room they had taken for the purpose. They had a quick and hurried dinner at their favorite restaurant, where they usually lingered to talk; but that night, they wanted to get back to their rented private space and enjoy each other's love. Somehow they both sensed that that night, it would be as wonderful as they knew it could be.

They were two children still, teaching each other. Between Charlie's shy, gentle patience, and Carol's stunning beauty and blossoming sensuality, they were learning.

When they got back to the room, Carol undressed slowly. Charlie helped, taking pleasure in unfastening her bra for her, then standing behind her at the mirror and fondling her breasts as they both watched each other's faces and his hands on her body.

"Let's take a shower, love," she whispered.

How he loved it that she called him that.

He kissed her and nodded, a little overwhelmed. This would be new.

He stepped into the tub. Carol was already there, the almost-too-hot spray turning her pale, perfect body a lovely, rosy pink.

As always, he was stunned at the sight of her naked. Her body seemed incandescent, radiant and perfect in the light from the vanity. "God, you're beautiful," he said.

She smiled at him and held out a bar of soap. "Here, love," she said. "Lather me up. All over."

A little dazed, he reached for a washcloth. "No, silly," she giggled. "With your hands..." He turned the shower head aside and began.

It was shattering, mind-wrecking, wonderful. Smooth, slippery skin, slick, heavy breasts, taut soapy nipples, foamy, softly parted pussy lips--she shuddered and mewed like a kitten when he stroked them, letting his fingers slip inside her. Deep wet kisses under the hot, pounding spray, her wet hair in his face.

Her soft and soapy hands all over him, caressing his ass, fondling his wet balls, and gently but insistently soaping his iron-hard dick from base to head with her knowing, teasing fingers.

Their whole bodies pressed together, bare and slick with foam, his pinning hers against the tiles, their hips working against each other in rhythmic anticipation.

Finally, with their bodies clean and warm and still moist even after drying each other, they got in bed, still naked. Charlie pulled the covers over them and they snuggled for a few minutes. It seemed cool in the room after the warm, steamy shower. Under the covers, it was Paradise; clean cotton sheets and bare, smooth skin.

It began with kissing, of course. Deep, passionate kisses, hands roaming over each other, breathless words of love.

"I need you so much..."

"I'm yours, Chahlie..."

"Oh, Carol... Tell me again..."

"I'm yours, love. I belong to you... Take me..."

He kissed and sucked that secret spot above her collarbone, and she sighed and gasped. He held her breast and sucked at her stiff nipple, biting it lightly and making her squirm and shiver. He felt her pussy, so warm and wet for him, twisting and rotating his finger deep inside her as she hissed and moaned with her need. They kissed, their mouths greedy for each other and wide open, tongues wrestling as he squeezed her tits and she held his balls.

Finally, he lay on top of her and moved upward. Her smooth legs were wide open for him, and his dick was pressed downward between them; it was nestled in her warm crotch, his leaking dickhead almost at her asshole, the top of his dick lying pressed against the length of her oozing, all-but-hairless slit.

She rolled her hips upward, opening herself wider--And his cock slowly levered upward, entering her by itself as if it knew the way.

"Oh, Chahlie..." she breathed. "Oh, Chahlie, you're going inside me..."

She was so smooth, so slick, so warm and wet as her tender membranes parted for his smoothly sliding dickhead. His mind, his heart and soul, and all his senses were in her pussy as his quivering cock slid deeper and deeper, questing for her center, seeking to touch her soul in the warm, slick darkness.

And he found it. He was all the way inside her, their pubic bones pressed together, her sweet vagina impaled completely on his bare, sensitive, and steel-hard dick.

Carol was trembling, clinging to him and breathing in short puffs. "Oh, Chahlie--Oh--Oh, it's so BIG... It feels so GOOD..."

What could be better for an inexperienced boy to hear? Charlie didn't feel like a man. He felt like a god.

As he slowly began to fuck her, she moaned and moved with him. "Oh, yes," she gasped. "Oh, yes, Chahlie... Slide it in and out..."

"What do you have on, Carol?" he gasped.

"Nothing... Oh, nothing at all.... I'm naked, Chahlie... Naked for you to fuck..."

"I love you," he breathed as he did that. "I love you, Carol. You are my life."

"I love you too... Oh, fuck me, Chahlie... Fuck me, love... Fuck me good..." And he did.

It was easy for Charlie to come when he masturbated to her, but when they fucked, he had a problem with delayed ejaculation. This was frustrating for him--but Carol, of course, rather enjoyed it.

He could fuck her for an hour at a time, then do it again a half-hour later. That first time, he fucked her for forty-five glorious, marvelous, wonderful minutes, and she came in his arms a dozen times or more, shuddering and jerking in her intense orgasm, each one harder and deeper than the last.

When he finally came, it felt like his very soul was shooting from his cock to mix with hers. He fucked her three more times before morning.

As time went on, they got even better at it. She loved to take him from behind, lying on her face and knees with her precious, perfect bottom high in the air and quaking as he slammed into her pussy, his balls slapping her clit with every impact.

By April, they were comfortable and confident lovers, and knew each other's bodies intimately. Charlie grew more assertive and dominant, and Carol found she liked being made to submit. Being held down and fucked hard, Charlie's big dick slamming into her deep and fast, left her breathless and weak with repeated orgasms, and she slept in his arms afterward with his cum leaking from her pussy.

She never learned to feel comfortable with sucking his dick. She kissed it now and then, but she just never got there. Before she could--it was over.

----

Carol had grown up a lot in those two years, and she knew what she wanted. By the end of their sophomore year, Carol had decided that Charlie would never have any money. And that, for her, was the end of it.

Charlie was sweet and loving and devoted and sensitive, always gentle, more dedicated to her pleasure than his own, and a sensational lover--but he planned to become an actor, and he was always broke. She knew that she would always be loved if she married him, but--secure? That was another question.

He had taught her how to love, and how to make love, and that she was beautiful and special and sexy. She knew that she could get another guy without much effort. Whether it was cold or not, whether it was fair or not--Carol decided to move on.

She never faced him, though; she never told him straight out that it was over. Indeed, when he sensed that she was growing cold and distant that spring and confronted her with it, she simply lied and told him everything was all right. He wanted to believe that so much, he'd always accept it.

That was fine with Carol. She didn't much care about his pain and worry. She really just wished he'd take the hint and go away. It was such a bother to have to deal with his feelings; it made her uncomfortable, and she didn't see why she should have to.

When school was out, she made the break. All that summer, she put him off with excuses and pleas that she was too busy to see him; finally, she just stopped taking his calls. When she heard his voice, she'd hang up.

She knew it was hard on him. When he came to her door and she refused to open it, she could see him through the peephole, standing there and weeping, pleading with her just to talk to him for a minute.

Too bad. But it wasn't her problem. He'd just have to get over it.

She turned away without a word, every time; and she never shed a single tear.

For his part, Charlie was far beyond crushed. His world had ended; Carol's love was more important to him than air or food, and she would not even speak to him. He was plunged into despair.

Though he tried, hard, and many times, to shake it off, a song would come on the radio, or he would see a woman with a familiar walk, or long brown hair, or a pair of sandals he recognized, and everything he had lost would come crashing down on him again.

For two years, the happiest of his life, his every waking moment had been filled with Carol. If not beside him or in his arms, she was on his mind and in his heart. After a lonely childhood without brothers or sisters, with distant parents, and only a few close friends, all male, he had finally found her.

Not only the girl of his dreams. A kindred soul, someone who really knew him and accepted him and loved him for who he was, with whom he could share everything. She was not only his lover; she was his closest friend, his confidante, his partner, his lifemate, the other half of his soul.

She was his life. Nothing else in his world was important by comparison, or ever had been.

If she had died, he would have been devastated; but he could have healed after that. She had not been taken from him by cruel, impersonal fate that strikes quickly and cleanly, though.

She had left him, and slowly; deliberately giving him hope and promises till he knew that hope was dead in spite of her words. She had gradually abandoned him, and the wound was long and slow in being inflicted, and tore him as deep as his soul.

There were so many facets to the pain. Where once they could sense each other's thoughts, there was a closed door. He had once been her life, too; and now he didn't matter to her at all. Where once love and deep friendship had been, now there was only cold indifference. She knew him better than any living soul ever had--and she had pronounced him not good enough.

And never, not once, had she expressed the least hint of regret, sorrow, or compassion.

Nothing else mattered. Carol didn't love him any more. Being left to die with a bullet in his belly would have hurt him less.

He tried to kill himself four times, and almost a fifth. He cut his wrists, but couldn't dig deep enough with the dull knife he had; he drove his car into a bridge abutment, but had forgotten to unfasten his seat belt and walked away with only bruises--and without a car. He got drunk and took a bottleful of sleeping pills, but they were over-the-counter pills and he woke up the next day with only a headache and a stomach that could hold nothing down for a few days.

He had gotten a summer job and rented a small apartment for the summer, to be near Carol and where he had hoped they would make love and laugh and enjoy each other in privacy and comfort.

She never saw it, and he sat there alone and dreamed of her arms and sweet death and an end to the agony of living another day without her love.

The absolute bottom was a day in early August. He had no car, and so had lost the silly summer job he had taken to pay for his apartment; he had no phone, and he had no money.

There was a pay phone at the gas station on the corner. He panhandled a dime from a stranger, then got himself ready.

He wanted to sound okay; cheerful, positive, friendly, not pathetic or pleading. When he felt he would sound upbeat and happy, he called her.

She picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Carol? Hi, this is Charlie. I just wondered if--"

Click.

He didn't have another dime. He didn't have another plan. He didn't have another hope, another moment to look forward to. He thought about tomorrow, and could see nothing but pain, and loneliness, and no Carol to turn to.

There was a large plate-glass window across the way from the pay phone. What the hell. He walked toward it resolutely. He saw hope there. He did not slow down a fraction or hesitate a step as he walked through it.

Tempered glass was not common then. It shattered in large, jagged sheets, and they fell into him and on him--

With not enough effect. Lots of blood, scars he would carry forever, but nothing deep or wide enough to let him bleed to death. He had failed again.

With some assistance from the gas-station clerk, who was terrified of being sued, he bandaged himself up and limped back to his apartment, where he sat and stared at the wall.

There was nothing to do, so he did nothing. He just sat.

A few days later, his landlady called his parents.

----

He had no clear memory of the following few days or weeks. He next remembered the hospital, and being drugged and sleepy. When he was awake, he thought of Carol and ached; when he slept, he did not dream. He mostly slept.

He eventually was released to his annoyed parents' care, with a bottle of pills and an appointment for therapy.

He did not register to return to school in the fall. How could he? Every square foot of that campus held memories if the two of them together, and every human he saw would ask why they were not together still.

He sat in his father's study all one night, holding his .32 pistol. It was a Colt Pocket Model, almost an antique, but he had fired it and knew it worked. He put it in his mouth, over and over, and took it out again.

He thought of her, and the joy he would never know again for as long as he lived--not just the sex; of knowing Carol loved him--and he cried, and stopped, and cried again, and put the gun in his mouth, then took it out again and looked at it.

Each time, something stopped him:

His mother would be so angry about the mess; but then, if that's all she's worried about, piss on her anyway.

Maybe he should write Carol a letter and tell her why he did it, and lie and tell her it wasn't her fault so she won't feel so bad; but she wouldn't blame herself anyway, so it's pointless.

Still, a letter might be good; but then it's not like she'll care all that much anyway. I'll just be out of her hair.

His dad would think him a loser; but then, he did already.

What if she decides to come back to me? Nah. That ship has sailed. False hope really isn't better than none at all.

Finally, he was ready; he said his final prayer, and closed his eyes, and lifted the gun--

And then he thought of something that stopped him for good.

What happens after you die?

Hell didn't matter. He was in Hell now.

But what if he had a chance to see her in the next life? What if he could make her understand? What if he had a chance to have a place in her heart again, in some other world?

And what if he'd be screwing that chance up if he killed himself?

He put the gun away and went to bed, just as the sun was rising.

Before he slept, he prayed. He prayed that God would let him die and end his pain, since he dared not do it himself for fear of losing that tiny chance to touch her heart again someday.