Never In My Wildest Ch. 01 - Heather

"Great game guys, thanks."

I was dripping wet. I'd come to the park to shoot a few baskets before it got crazy hot. Just when I thought it was time to call it a morning a couple of guys asked to play a little one on two. If you don't know the game, two defenders versus one with the ball, only the "one" can score, lose the ball due to defense or missed shot and now you're the #3 defender, the # 2 defender becomes the #1 guy with the ball. The ball always rotates 1, 2, 3 so a good rebounder or defender doesn't dominate. We played first to twenty one, halfway through the heat hit us - not that we stopped playing. That game was a fucking Hell match...I did not win.

Thus was the successful conclusion that left me absolutely dripping with sweat. No way to avoid it really. We're in week five or six of a vicious, brutal heat wave. And as bad as the heat is, the humidity is way worse. I'd come to the park early enough to shoot some baskets and finish before the heat became oppressively intense. A good idea until I got too wrapped up in that game. And now I was wrapped up in soaking wet cotton.

Damn.

I stripped off my t-shirt (it's a classic Deadmau5, saw him at Coachella last year, and yeah, I got the t-shirt) and walked to one of the last picnic tables still in the shade. My shirt was wring-worthy wet but there was no way I was going to twist it - that was a sure way to damage the graphics. So stopping at the table beneath some of the last shade of the morning was a necessary part of my cool down and the preservation of one of my favorite shirts. That the table was up slope from a popular jogging trail was an added bonus.

I sat on the tabletop, my feet on the bench, and draped my shirt over my knees and thighs to allow it to dry. At the same time I let the shirt act as a privacy curtain because the crotch of my shorts was soaking wet (I sure as shit wasn't going to take them off.) The short walk had emphasized that a game of 2 on 1 and sweat soaked cotton shorts - especially when you go commando - can really chafe you raw (and right where you don't want chafe to happen.) So with t-shirt in place I pulled the left leg of my shorts up over my groin and adjusted the boys to air dry them. The right leg I stretched out toward my knee with the intention that when it was dry I'd switch.

Once set I leaned back to watch for cute joggers bouncing past. And bounce past they did, I'm not the type to indulge in age discrimination and nodded approval at women in their 20's, 30's and more (not that any deigned to acknowledge my attention.) It had all the makings of a perfect morning. During a pause in the jogging parade I slowly rolled my head in each direction to loosen my neck and shoulders. I was actually looking up when the voluble invective began.

"You miserable excuse for a...for a...you asshole!" I smiled first, some guy was catching shit. Then I noticed that it was getting louder, was someone walking towards me? What? I glanced toward the source of this venting ire, OH CRAP. "You spermswilling - pusbreath - shitlicker!"

Spittle was flying from her mouth. Apparently words beginning with the letter "P" were the prime cause, although an explosively expressive "FUCKTARD" also contributed to the aerosol bombardment, as in;

"You predatory...ball licking...jerk-wad-prick-fucktard..."

Who was yelling at me? Heather McCann, recently graduated and likely headed off to University in a week or three. There was a time and it was a relatively recent time at that - when confronted by an angry girl, especially one as angry as Heather - I would have folded. I would have been paralyzed-in-panic, frozen-in-fear, completely and utterly unable to respond, other than profusely apologizing for anything, everything or nothing I'd done. Seriously, having any girl rounding off on me - let alone one as high up the pecking order (to say nothing of her undeniable hotness) as Heather McCann - that can be socially detrimental in its significant, i.e., being indelibly assigned to the Loser List. The word goes out and you find out you're toxic, no more invites to parties (and if you show up some jock or three tossed you out.) I knew a guy who had that happen to him, his high school social life simply ceased to exist.

Heather's anger was unabated, she was moving way past livid, and closing in on thoroughly frothing. Her forehead was creased in anger and her face was red and blotchy. She was waving her arms around and every so often she'd point a finger at me as she made her point...whatever point that she was trying to articulate. If I wasn't sitting on top of a picnic table I think she would be trying to kick me. You had to wonder (I did) how much longer was she going to be able to keep this up.

There was another problem, actually a couple of problems that I was unable, if not incapable, of ignoring. Thank God I was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Why you might ask, because in the presence of Heather's perfect pokies - the phrase "hey asshole, my eyes are up here" - becomes so many random syllables without any comprehensible meaning. I mean, c'mon, we're talking about Heather McCann, the girl voted "best boobs" four years running (not that you'll find any mention of that in our glorious yearbook) and her nippleliness was the stuff of legend (you know how everyone talks about the nipples of that actress on TV, the one on the show about..whatever it was supposed to be about. The one with constant pokies! You know who I'm talking about. Well there's no contest - Heather's pokies win.) The case for nipple excellence is simple, they have to be be more 'on' then 'off', any effort to disguise them draws even more attention to their prominence. I am a great believer of embracing the nipple(s). And an undeniable advocate of "if in doubt thrust them out" for all to see and appreciate.

I'm guessing Heather didn't figure on encountering me when she decided to go for a morning run because the sweat-soaked jogging outfit she was wearing was not capable of hiding her enchanting and thoroughly beguiling figure. I've enjoyed seeing her pokies since they first appeared lo those many years ago. Which for some strange reason reminded my of Emily Sandoval and the first time I touched a bare nipple. And touch it I did to the point that Emily got so hot and bothered that she didn't even notice that I'd exposed her breast until I licked it (her nipple.) Emily oh Emily, talk about a young man's sexual education.

There was this one time she came over to the house and I convinced her it was National Skinny Dipping in a Pool Day. She was bare-assed in no time and that image when she bent over to take off her bottoms and I was behind her...OH SHIT! The memory of the naked and delectable Emily gave me a serious, mind-numbing ERECTION! Between Heather's pokies and the fond memory of Emily's bare ass... I had a major wood event! It felt like a freaking redwood was sprouting between my legs. Clearly my cool down strategy had not just failed but become borderline disastrous.

If I'd known Heather would be jogging past my spot and see me sitting here I might have timed things different or planned on being somewhere else. I certainly would have been more careful regarding air-drying my dick. Unfortunately, my rampant stiffy was pointing right at Heather, if she snatched my shirt away - BAM - she would be eye to eye with my very erect dick. I tried not to think how pissed that would make Heather (on top of her current incinderary-level pissed-off-anger at me). Never-the-less I couldn't stop it from happening. I couldn't distract myself away from the reality that I was steel pipe hard.

You guys know what I mean, there are dozens of varieties of erections, but steel pipe hard ones are damn uncomfortable. The skin of your dick is stretched so taut, add in your heartbeat, and you'll have your out of control dick bobbing up and down. The only downside was sometimes this state was accompanied by a really twitchy trigger. That would disastrous in more ways than I cared to imagine.

So put yourself in my position, there are two 'put your eye out pokies' aimed right at me, I have a throbbingly achy hard-on pointing right back at one of the hottest girls around, who is bouncing and jiggling (though not for my benefit) her Instagram worthy boobs in their borderline transparent, sweat saturated jogging bra (oh, and let's not forget the skintight volleyball shorts and the subsequent camel toe! What guy isn't going to react?) Then toss in the fact that while she certainly didn't want someone the likes of me seeing her looking so hot, sweaty, and sexy - well, here we are.

And all the while she is waving her arms around, causing those beauties to bounce and totally going off on me. "You should have...you had no right...how could you...do something like that?" OK, I really tried but the mention of the encounter at the heart of her tirade caused the corners of my mouth to twitch upwards.

"You think this is funny, you think what you did was some kind of joke, this was...you did...I was practically." Her voice climbed in volume and pitch. The term "purple with rage" seemed appropriate.

And I suppose she had every reason to be - at least from her point of view. From my point of view, based on my experience, I have a completely different perspective. I tried to maintain a calculated cool because I knew what was likely to happen if I didn't. I honestly and sincerely tried not to react. But I couldn't stop it, I was past the point of any physical control. It just happened...I smiled.

Did Heather notice? Oh yes she did, the cursing stopped (and the ensuing silence - though brief - was scary), and then she got really serious.

"There is nothing funny about sexual assault." Each word was spoken so that it carried more invective than the previous. Heather had her hands on her hips and her chin thrust forward. "There is nothing funny about being..."

"Whoa! Whoa! Stop right there." I held up both my hands. "Heather, are you really accusing me?"

[Time out. This is a really good story and if I let Heather do the telling you're going to get the wrong idea. But the simple facts are that you need to hear the whole story - right from the beginning, you need to hear the stuff that Heather doesn't know. So relax, take your time, trust me I'm a good guy. Well, at least I think I'm a good guy.]

OK, while the event in question was almost five weeks ago, we need to go back about three months. For a brief moment in my years on this planet I thought that one of a young man's most anticipated rites of passage was finally going to happen - I was going to get my V card punched. Yeah, I know, eighteen years old and still a virgin - not typical in this modern age of ours.

I'm a nice guy, I'm a good guy, I've dated a number of girls and I've gotten relatively lucky up to but just short of that one night in paradise. My last girlfriend (name withheld out of courtesy and respect to her, not that she showed me much.) and I had a very satisfying sexual relationship; blow jobs and pussy-licking, hand jobs and fingering were a regular part of our dating life. The whole "giving it up" was something we (at her insistence) were saving for the end of the school year Senior Prom (she being a Senior, I being a Junior.) Then right when I was asking her what color tux to rent - we broke up (which I totally did not see coming.) She went to Prom with some other guy (turned out he was her boyfriend from the year before) and from all reports the deed was done.

I was pissed. I was bummed. Talk about a swing and a miss. So I rolled into summer vacation this past June feeling pretty low. Fortunately my uncle Henry (my mom's younger brother) offered my a sweet gig working for him. The primary job was the renovation of an apartment building he had just bought. He also offered me work at a house flip he was doing (the flip offer was a cash under the table job.) I ended up busting my ass for six weeks, working some seriously long daylight hours. I'd work with the apartment crews from 7 AM to 3 or 4 in the afternoon, then putting in a fistful of hours or more doing whatever was necessary at the flip.

The house flip was intended to wrap by the end of July, which it did. The apartment project was scheduled to last a minimum of six months. The apartment building project had crews refurbishing it in four unit segments that took three to four weeks to complete. The time differential depended on how much the unit was messed up. It seemed a strange use of labor and materials to parcel out the work like that. I asked my uncle about that and he just smile saying " be patient Michael, BE PATIENT."

The house flip was wrapping up when Uncle Henry brought a bunch of suits through the apartment project. They were leaning heavy on my uncle "why are you doing all this" and "there could be so much more here" all the while he pointed out all the upgrades and how much more he would be able to charge new tenants. A few days later we were pulled off the apartment project, it had been sold. The next time I saw Uncle Henry, he whispered "patience " and showed me the sales contract - when I saw all the zeros my jaw hit the floor.

With the end of the projects uncle Henry gave me an envelope stuffed with cash for the flip and a very "reasonable" paycheck to impress mom and dad.and satisfy the IRS. I swung by the bank depositing the entire check, less $100 cash. Then I went to a second bank where I - as a now 18 year old - opened an account in my name (that's where the envelope of cash was deposited...yeah, I got some stink eye from the teller.) Nothing illegal to see here, just my parents are on the other account, and this money is 'by the sweat of my brow money' which makes it completely my money.

I came home to find my parents talking animatedly about a week in Las Vegas. Through some deal at work my dad had earned or been awarded or rewarded with a four night - Wednesday through Saturday - vacation in Sin City. We're talking Las Vegas baby, Nevada the Silver state, where prostitution is legal (although not in Las Vegas itself.) I pictured myself sitting poolside, a bevy of horny girls, and me with a pocketful of cash. Getting laid seemed a forgone conclusion.

"Oh man Las Vegas. That is going to be so awesome!" I was pumped.

"Oh sweetie," yeah, yeah 'sweetie' that's what my mom still calls me, "it's just your Dad and I going."

WHAT THE FUCK? I was devastated, was there no silver-lining here? Wait, hold on a minute; house to myself, swimming pool ready, bar-b-q clean and working, maybe a short summer fling wasn't completely out of the picture. I immediately began to create a list of "likely girls."

Now, I am not a "you better put out or get out" kind of guy. I'm not the guy looking for a quick hook up [which admittedly puts the whole Vegas thing in a sketchy light]. I'm in high school, these are girls I know, ones I've grown up with. I'm just not that 4F guy (oh c'mon - find 'em, feel 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em.) That ain't me, these are my friends although I am more than ready for some benefits to come my way. I was becoming ever so slightly optimistic.

Then Dad threw cold water out of that idea. "Oh, and we're going to have the house tented for termites while we're gone."

Tented for termites? SHIT! They're going to tent the house, is nothing working out to my advantage!? Mom saw my distress and quickly added, "We've already made arrangements with Dave's mom, you'll be staying with them."

Oh. Okay. Well at least Dave has a killer video game set-up and his mom is an insanely awesome cook.

So fast forward to day 1 at Dave's. Life at Dave's was nearly perfect; great gaming, incredible food and the chocolate cake Dave's mom made for dessert that night was...oh man, it was incredible.

Day 2 was more of the same, at least until later that night. That's when Dave got sick. I'm talking blowing it out your ass AND puking your guts out at the same time sick. I was quickly moved out of Dave's room and put in his older brother Paul's room. Paul is the glorious, incredible athlete in the family. He's probably going to be the starting quarterback in this - his junior year - at University. He was supposed to have come home this weekend, but once Dave got sick the decision was made that it would be better for him to stay away and avoid the chance of getting sick.

Saturday Day 3, was Hell on Earth Day. Dave was still sick, so no change there. It was his little sister Nicole, she would not give me a moments respite and Dave's mom was too busy with Dave to pay much attention. My problem(s) with Nicole were manifold; she was the typical little sister who was always trying to include herself in anything Dave and I were doing. Add to that she apparently had no understanding of the meaning of the word "NO" or of recognizing personal space. She especially liked bothering me (Dave has told me more than once, "sorry dude, I don't know what her problem is, she pretty much leaves all my other friends alone.") But the most troubling thing of all were her boobs. Last year there was barely any sign of them. Well they sure as hell were here now, the simple truth of the matter is this...Nicole is stacked. You want a challenge, try to not stare at the little sister of a very good friend when she has suddenly developed some way too ample for her slight frame boobs - and I tried - I really did. But Nicole seemed to find endless reasons and opportunities to bend over in front of me or brush her boobs across my arm, or press them against my back. It was excruciatingly difficult, so there I was trapped in The Day of the Endless Hard-on. Yes, I took matters into my own hands but even two vigorous rub outs had done little to remedy the situation. My dick was getting sore from the near constant action.

The demon wench even ambushed me that night right before bed. She popped into my room (Paul's) to ask if I needed anything. She was wearing a threadbare t-shirt that was many sizes too small. It stretched across her ample chest so tightly that it actually squashed her boobs making them look even bigger. But that wasn't all - oh no - her nipples were hard (in all honesty I wouldn't have been surprised if she had pinched them erect before opening the door.) They created a horizontal ridge of cotton between them, there was no way to avoid looking at them. (Sorry Dave) And I'm not kidding about the threadbare part either - her dark aureola's were there to be seen and I saw them. Even worse, the 'almost not quite there shirt' ended well above her panties. FUCK! I could see (and the little I couldn't was all to easily imagined) pretty much everything; a no-doubt-about-it camel toe, and more than a few whisps of ebony black pubic hair curling out from her panties. Oh yeah, and don't forget to add the unmistakable fragrance of young girl in heat. I swear the bottom of her panties were dark with wetness. The result? BOING! Great, yet another very major hard on.

Thank God I was sitting down and that I'd thrown the sheet over my lap (when it's this hot I sleep au natural) when I heard the door knob rattle. Even as I told her I was fine and didn't need anything, she looked at the tented sheet (there was no hiding that,) and cheekily asked if I was sure. All the while smiling in victory, then she turned and left with a final flip of her shirt. OH COME ON, GIVE ME A BREAK! Nicole was wearing a thong, she was wearing an honest to God string disappearing right between her butt cheeks "hey there, just look at my perfect ass" thong! And you want the icing on the cake, she had no visible tan lines - none. Just a smooth expanse of light brown skin. AAARRRGGGHHH!!

Rub out #3 followed shortly, and only then was I finally able to lay my head down to sleep. And I nearly was asleep or maybe just slightly asleep when I heard the back gate with it's distinctive squeak, open and close. As dark as it was I could just make out someone walking across the yard. I smelled her perfume first and it smelled really good. Then I smelled the alcohol - whoa - someone had tipped a few or more tonight.