tagMatureThe First Summer of My Summer

The First Summer of My Summer

byLightningSeed©

summer

noun sum·mer\ˈsə-mər\

1 : the season between spring and autumn comprising in the northern hemisphere usually the months of June, July, and August or as reckoned astronomically extending from the June solstice to the September equinox

2 : the warmer half of the year

3 : year - a girl of seventeen summers

4 : a period of maturing powers


They can say whatever they want about how boys have all the power: maybe in some ways they do. But we have some, too. Yeah, now that I'm a little older I get tired of the leers. Tired of the endless "naughty" jokes and entendres. Somehow I thought that would all stop when I got engaged but if anything that stuff actually gets worse. Guys see married -- or soon-to-be married - women as somehow safer. They can get what they want without risking us wanting a relationship. They fantasize we're all unfulfilled and of course they are just the one who can fill us up in a very literal way.

So yeah, the power works both ways and it gets annoying. Wearying even. But it's still...let me tell you, when it's new in your hands it's a cold fast rush.

I grew up a really straight-laced girl in a fly speck town that was essentially a suburb of a slightly bigger fly speck town. I grew up really happy, but really insulated. Same group of people, same group of kids all growing up together. Same church. Same straight-laced church. Same witheringly regimented, suffocating church. But I didn't know that then so I was very happy.

I knew I was a pretty girl, knew my shape had shown up kind of late but had shown up well. But again, being around the same people I never walked into a room that wasn't full of people who hadn't seen me the day before and the day before and the day before, so it was hard to tell if anyone really noticed. Dating wasn't a major part of my life. I hadn't had any major boyfriends, just boys to go to dances with. I wasn't the class tramp but I wasn't a prude either. And while I wasn't a virgin, I could count on one finger the guys I'd been with and on one hand the times we'd done it.

When the summer after high school hit I wasn't even sure I was going to college. Two things had me considering: First, I knew I couldn't spend my life in Flyspeck, Jr. And second? I was, as of very recently, dating a guy who was in college. We'd met kind of accidentally and I was feeling him out as I was letting him feel me up. We hadn't gone much further than that, which was starting to be a problem in a backwards kind of way: I didn't really have any desire to push the relationship that far, but he was using his slow-moving ways as some declaration that he was more "serious" about me, and I should be properly thankful. Every make-out session that his hand didn't go down the front of my pants, every time he didn't unzip himself and try to guide my head in that direction, he saw that as some sort of deposit in a long-term interest-bearing commitment account, and that account would be cashed in on a wedding night sometime down the road. Basically the message was he was sacrificing now to show me how devoted to the idea of permanence with me was, but once that permanence had a name -- and I had his name -- he intended to fuck the living shit out of me, me smiling all the while, tits jiggling with joy in appreciation of the respect he showed for my pre-marital virtue.

One night, on a rare occasion that my bra came off, he kissed and squeezed me, speaking directly to my chest as he told me (them?) how he respected my virginity. How it would be the greatest gift of his life.

I didn't have the heart to tell him.

I realize I must make him sound like a bad guy, like he was unlikeable, a fumbling over-earnest Barney Fife. But he wasn't that. He was a nice guy, cute, friendly. Fun to be around and a real nice car. He was just too serious at a time when I was just sticking my head out of the nest, craning my neck to see what existed on the horizon beyond Flyspeck and Flyspeck, Jr.

As the summer hit its midpoint he also helped get me a job at a department store at the mall. It was there where I realized an awful lot about the power.

Looking back, it's funny to imagine how naïve I was about what I had going for me. The evidence was everywhere. College boy wanting to lock me down six weeks after meeting me. The interview with the store manager taking about five minutes. My department boss trying to give me all sorts of ...help. And me, in my form-fitting blue jeans and white shirts fitting very snuggly under the department store logo-ed vests, thinking the whole world was just so friendly.

Now I see it was exactly as friendly as any mirror was to me at the time, itself gazing on an almost 19-year old blonde girl of medium height and more than medium curves. Blonde, Blue eyes, striking Black eyebrows and the latecomers, those suddenly larger than average boobs, which only on graduation day finally found themselves breathing easier in a roomier bra. That was me, the same as my report card: Three B's and a pair of D's.

The first week or two I got hit on of course, but my co-workers were like my high school boys: keyed-up and hot for everyone. I was just another in their endless streams of come-ons and rejections. Nothing new to see here.

Then came Robert.

I was in a toy aisle rearranging dolls some eight year olds had systematically cleared from the shelves as their mothers stood nearby, cart-to-cart, talking to each other but not watching their damn daughters.

Robert was probably late 50's, grey hair, very fit. Very fit. Eyes bluer than mine. He came down the toy aisle with a cart filled with frozen dinners, a few household items and a case of beer. He wasn't looking at any toys, unless maybe that's how you see me. Depending on who you are, I might be ok with that.

I glanced over and saw him looking at me, and I swear to you that's the first time I ever saw that look...but even so I immediately knew what it was. It wasn't that school boy gaze of lust that every girl lives with. His look said three very clear things: I was a woman, he wanted to fuck me, and -- maybe most importantly -- he knew that I knew that's what he was thinking. An adult was wanting to fuck me not like a girl but like a woman, which means he'd actually wait for me to come, probably.

What he didn't know then -- and what I suddenly and firmly did -- was that he would. And I would.

"I guess I'm in the wrong aisle," he started. I'm not sure he intended to talk to me at all. He probably just intended a drive-by eyeful, but when I looked him right in the eyes and smiled then there wasn't much he could do but say something.

I looked at his cart.

"Don't want a doll to toss in with your Hot Pockets and beer?"

He looked at his cart and the avalanche of plastic babies and laughed self-deprecatingly.

"I guess I look like a gourmet chef right now." He looked back at me with an explanation.

"My family is off to the beach for a week. Summer vacation."

I cocked my head.

"No vacation for you?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid. Work calls."

"I'm Becky," I said, pointing at my name tag, itself facing up slightly due to the curve it sat upon.

"I'm Robert," he said, reading my tit for confirmation.

"So Pizza Pockets and Pabst for the whole week," I laughed, my shoulders taking slow turns moving forward and back.

"Beer is for a guys' night later this week. I'm more of a wine guy."

"The wine section is over in that corner," I pointed helpfully. He broke out in a laugh, then worked hard to stifle it quickly. My face scrunched up a bit.

"This...well, a department store...that wouldn't be where I buy my wine," he said, talking over me but doing it as nicely as he could while making it clear he was still doing it. I felt weak in the knees.

"Do you like wine," he asked me.

"I'm nineteen. So..."

"Do you like wine?" He had that look back. Second time I'd seen it. I didn't want it to ever leave his face, but I wanted to see what other looks I could make that face make.

"I've only had a few sips ever," I confessed. That seemed to remind him of something. Probably my age. Or his kids. Either way, the look was gone again.

"Well, maybe someday," he said, then started rolling his cart past me, almost certain not to turn towards the vino. A speed-bump launches off my baby-pink tongue and lands in his ear.

"Do you want to teach me?"

That stopped him. I swear his back shivered.

Jesus, this was fun. He turned around.

"I don't think that would probably be a good idea. Seeing as how you're not twenty-one and my wife isn't big on me making friends with a pretty woman."

Woman. Another swoon at the knees. I would have done anything to keep him feeding me that vibe. I wondered: was he telling me that he can't because he's married, or was he asking me if him being married was a problem? Every day before in my life it would have been. Today, not so much.

I smiled at him while subtly arching my back. I touched my finger to my lips, brushed off something imaginary, then sang two words to a song that didn't even exist, my shoulders and hips slowly swaying in time.

"Suh-mur vay-CAY-shun..."

———————————

Ten o'clock that night, my college boy dropping me off in front of Robert's house -- the mansion. I couldn't resist. Robert didn't really want my car parked out front, and having him drop me off saved me Uber money and honestly turned me on just a little.

"Wow, this is a pretty good babysitting gig," he said, admiring the windows, the doors, the shutters, the iron fence. "You sure you don't want me to stick around and help?"

I leaned over and kissed him.

"Nah, too boring. Kids are already in bed. They'll get suspicious if I bring in some guy. I'll Uber back home. They could be out late so who knows. I mean it's ten and they're just leaving. Plus my parents know I'm coming home at two or three. I think they'd be a little suspicious if you brought me, too," I manufactured a pixie grin for him and he grinned back.

"Someday, Becky. Someday."

I swear to God I could see his idea of future me reflecting in his eyes. I was holding a child, wearing a skirt from Little House on the Prairie. Basically I looked like a girl in an Amish porn movie. I winked and closed the door. Waited for him to drive off, then walked to the side of the house by the trashcans. As smoothly as I could I got my bra off and slipped it out the bottom of my white tank; shoved it in the can. Thank God I wore an old bra to work that day. Wonder what the trash guys thought.

I knocked on the door and he was quick to answer. Polo and blue pants. No shoes.

"I thought I heard you being dropped off, but then no one knocked. Figure I was hearing things," he explained, his eyes losing their battle to ignore my chest. Then he remembered his neighbors I think and hurriedly waved me in.

Inside we walked towards the kitchen, with a family room sharing that open space. A sectional, two recliners. I belatedly kicked off my shoes, sat on my knees on one end of the couch.

He brought over two glasses of wine. For all his confidence at the store he was decidedly more nervous now. Around the room maybe eight frames filled with pictures of his wife and kids smiled down on us. That might not have been helping. He handed me the white wine.

"This would probably be a good starter considering where you are on this," he explained.

I took a sip. Somehow it was sweet and bitter simultaneously. I scrunched my nose. He smiled. I have a cute nose scrunch.

"You'll want to sip it."

I did sip it. And I wouldn't want to sip it again at all. Yuck. I considered pouring it all down my shirt, but decided he'd be all paper towels and frantic sopping for the next hour. That wouldn't do.

I gestured at his.

"Now this is a red," he over-explained. He started to hand it to me but instead I just leaned toward him, nothing but low-cut and lips for him to consider. It seemed like every time I reached into my bag of tricks I pulled out something new.

He scooted closer, touched his glass to my mouth. I took a sip and licked it off my lips. Made a smacking noise. He seemed repulsed and eroticized at the same time.

"Thoughts?" he asked. I looked at him. He didn't exactly look as lusty as he did at the store. Almost like he was retreating.

Suddenly I began to worry he might not make a move, and I still to this day think I was right to be worried. For him just to get me here no doubt stoked his ego. Now he's sitting here playing the teacher role, touching glasses to my lips and looking down my shirt. It crossed my mind he might order an Uber any second, sending me home with the satisfaction that a) he's still got it and b) he's still a faithful family man. Two massive self-esteem boosts wrapped up in one. He goes to bed with a virtually clean conscience and a wash cloth with me crawling into the back of a Ford filled with cat hair, breathing second-hand smoke for fifteen miles. My forty-dollar bra isn't headed to the dump for that. I coyly put my arms behind my back.

"I definitely liked the red better," I said, making my eyes as big as I could. "Thanks for the lesson."

I looked around the room very obviously and very slowly so he could steal a good look at exactly what's pushing up against the thin fabric of my tank top. After a good ten-second scan of the room I come back to him.

"What should we do now, Robert?"

He looked a little nervous.

"We can try some different wines," he offered weakly.

I stood up.

"This would probably be a good starter considering where you are on this," I parroted, peeling my tank up over my head, my nipples et al dropping out of it and springing back into place, just like I wrongly thought they always would.

And suddenly it was my turn. Now I knew what he knew I knew: that he was past the point of no return. I took my steps slowly. He sat motionless, no expression, no breathing. I straddled him, again on my knees, my arms each pressing against the couch cushion behind him, my blonde locks forming a tent around my face looking down on him looking at my bare chest.

As his mouth sucked my right nipple into it, my eyes fluttered as I glanced at he and wifey's wedding photo, her holding a cake knife in her hand and looking at me fairly menacingly. I looked back down at the top of his head, his mouth still engaged and his hands with all sorts of things to do. I made this happen. Just because I wanted to.

That was the best moment, right there.

Yes, he'd give me my first orgasm a little while later, but inside me I think it started the second my tank top hit Robert's hardwood floor. A stirring spark down in my box as I marveled at what - at that moment - I thought was courage. Courage to talk to him, twist his will, twist his commitment to wife and family, twist his resolve and watch it snap right in front of him.

But I'd change my mind later that night, after straddling him again, this time us both naked save for a sheen of perspiration, watching his face contort as I let him go ahead and spurt inside me, sending forth the first seed ever to touch my insides, coat my inner walls, (the previous five sets wasting their dying moments in latex.)

I'd change my mind after letting it all drip back out of me, seeping into the sheets and mattress on his wife's side of their bed. As he slept, his head using my breast as a pillow, his hand on the top of my thigh, I realized my courage was actually not courage at all, but simply a new awareness of a power I only now knew I had. A muscle I hadn't flexed until right then. A muscle I've flexed every day since.

I haven't seen Robert since that night. I never answered or returned his calls, which stopped abruptly when summer vacation at the beach ended. But I still hope to see him again. Bored with not ever even having to use the power (or the penis) on my college boy, I left him for a regional manager at my store, spending two years believing that was actually a status-filled position. Then about the time he had his divorce under control and was plotting permanence, I left him for a job as a nanny on one of the coasts. A couple more years with the perfect host family. The kids adored me. Their mom suspected I was fucking her husband, which I really only did once. (In all honesty the guilt made him a better husband. I should have billed them both.) Then their introduction to a freshly-divorced neighbor with three ex-wives, two alimonies, one yacht and no prenups, which a year later evolved into an engagement and a plan to move from my Nanny's quarters in one McMansion into the master bedroom of the one next door. I'll no doubt be quickly replacing caring for someone else's children with paying a much less attractive girl to care for my own. He'll still probably fuck her, but at least he'll know he's slumming.

Some year soon I know we'll come visit my family and my new husband will want to stick his head in on the Flyspeck country club, have a nice(ish) dinner there. And I'm hoping to run into Robert and his wife. Smile as we're introduced, all of us outside on the deck sipping martinis and enjoying my endless summer.

*

Definition of summer © 2018 Merriam-Webster, Incorporated.

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