Naughty Nepali Nymph


Well, just as I passed the tall hedge that separates their yard from the corner-house yard, Catherine came sprinting to her car not down the drive where everyone else goes to the street and where the sensor is pointed to turn the light on, but in a beeline beside the shrubs. Dark and not expecting anyone around at that hour, she leaped down from the brick wall and literally right into my arms.

As she did so, one of my hands grasped a boob and the other hooked her crotch. I know no one will ever believe me, but it was truly unintentional that my hands caught her in those erogenous zones. If I hadn't, we would have both fallen to the sidewalk. In fact, she was wearing some loose, wide-legged linen shorts, and my little and ring fingers actually parted her pussy lips with a wet squish without actually going inside, so she was obviously not wearing panties. And you didn't need to squeeze her boob, as I had, to see through the thin white cotton blouse that she was bra-less, too. Nipple city.

Catherine was a nervous wreck. I figured it was because of where my hands had accidentally landed, but from her disjointed babbling, I ascertained that I was not the source of her anxiety at all. She'd been in such a hurry to get dressed when they returned much earlier than expected, that she'd just skipped the underclothes and stashed them into her large, open-top purse before running downstairs. After she patiently brought the parents up to snuff on what she and the kids had done all evening, just as she was about to leave, the overbearing mom/wife noticed the undies and grilled her as to why she didn't have them on. Catherine could come up with nothing better than because she was hot. Oh, yeah, she was hot all right!

So, practically in tears, she just bolted out the front door and raced to her car by the most direct path.

I told her that it was no big deal to not wear underwear, that lots of people don't, and that anyone who had a problem with that was just a stick in the mud. This seemed to console her, and she smiled, said I was so kind and understanding, and gave me a tight hug, smashing those terrific ta-tas into my stomach.

I asked her if she was afraid the neighbors would fire her, and she said she thought the mom was a tyrannical bitch, the kids were bad to the bone, and she didn't want to baby-sit there ever again anyway. Besides, she said fall semester started in a week, and she was pre-med with 21 hours and wouldn't have the time.

"All work and no play?" I asked, arching one eyebrow for effect.

"Oh no. I like to dance. Really helps me work off tension. How about you?" she asked.

"I love to dance, but only if I have a good partner. You have a partner—a boyfriend?" I inquired, making a not-so-subtle overture.

"No, no time for that—not that I'm a lesbian or anything—but I do like men, mature men, as opposed to boys," she answered, which, since I'm obviously much older than she, only served to encourage me on.

"Well, then, we really must go dancing," I asserted to close the deal

I'd like that. I'd like that a lot. But here's the thing. Unless I'm in a swimsuit or dressed like a whore, people think I'm only about 14 or 15 years old, and so if we were out together, that would attract unfavorable attention. We could just stay in and dance around my dorm room. I lucked out this year and got a single—no roommate—and I just bought a great stereo, too, thanks to the money I earned watching those rambunctious rascals. What kind of music do you like?"

"All kinds. Green Day's one of my current faves," I ventured, at once hoping and fearing that she might make the connection.

"Really? Mine too. They really turn me on!"

Of course, I already knew that, and this naughty Nepali nymph sure seemed to have the hots for me. I would soon find out.

But that's another story.

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