The High School Reunion Pt. 02

The High School Reunion (Part 2)

Kathryn M. Burke

Christy was supposedly coming to the reunion. There was an online list of the people who had said they would be there, and she was on the list; at least, I assumed it was her, even though she was now Christy Lampton (she had formerly been Christy Stevenson). I was pretty sure there was only one Christy in our class, so this must be her.

As I boarded the plane to fly to the reunion site, several states away, I wondered what had happened to her. I'd felt a bit disappointed that she'd not contacted me before she left for college after that momentous encounter in my bedroom; or maybe I was just hoping that she'd come by for another session. Our families were not close, so there was no way I could have found out what happened to her. What was she doing now, at the age of thirty-eight? Was she happily married? Divorced? With a bevy of kids? Who knows?

It was of course a silly fantasy for me to think that we would have some sort of grand, romantic reunion, throwing ourselves into each other's arms and running off into the sunset (after, of course, I discarded my wife--or she discarded me). But at least I'd get a glimpse of her and catch up on how her life had gone in the past two decades.

But, at an informal gathering of my classmates at a local bar, I didn't find Christy there.

I was sure I would recognize her; in fact, I indulged in the additional fantasy that she hadn't changed a bit and would still look the way she did when she'd disrobed in my bedroom twenty years before. But none of the women who were there could possibly be her, and I couldn't find anyone who knew anything about her.

I was so disheartened by her absence that I almost decided to leave the scene and ditch the rest of the reunion weekend. But I'd already paid a pretty penny for the official reunion dinner on Saturday night, so I figured I'd wait it out until at least then. Maybe she'd show up for that.

It was difficult to find enough things to do during the next day to fill up the time. I declined to hang out with some of my old high school buddies, as I quickly realized that I had almost nothing in common with them anymore and really didn't want to be around them. Anyway, the only thing I could think about was Christy, and I was sure I'd make pretty bad company in anyone else's presence.

Finally the time for the reunion dinner came, and I got into a pretty nice tuxedo for the occasion. As I made my way to the venue--a big ballroom in the main floor of the hotel I was staying at--I somehow felt overcome with a sense of dread that all my dreams of getting back together with Christy, or even seeing her again, were about to be dashed.

There was a cocktail hour ahead of the dinner, and I sauntered around without much interest, sipping a martini. I was already tired of boring chatter about high school days, and as I looked hopelessly around the room I once again sensed that Christy was absent. Then something amazing happened.

I thought I saw Christy--not as she must be now, but exactly as she was at the age of eighteen--staring at me from a distance.

It was a dream, surely--that must be what it was. My wish-fulfillment fantasy of meeting the Christy whom I'd deflowered was so intense that I was now actually hallucinating.

But no: this woman was now heading tentatively in my direction.

She came up to me. I noticed she was just a tad shorter than Christy--maybe about five foot four. But otherwise she bore an incredible resemblance to her: gorgeous, glistening black hair, a face that was a little less oval than Christy's but just as exquisite a fusion of wide-eyed innocence and faint sadness; an intoxicatingly shapely body, augmented by her wearing a gray strapless ball gown, bedecked with sequins, that extended to her feet and clung to her body like paint.

She looked like one of those great actresses of the 1940s--an Ingrid Bergman, maybe. No, a better comparison would be Joan Fontaine, with her heartrending look of shy innocence, with just a hint of alarm around the eyes.

I stared open-mouthed at this vision of loveliness. I could not have spoken a word to her: my heart seemed to have stopped beating. But it was she who spoke to me.

"Are you Joel Mathers?" she said in a high, musical voice.

I managed to croak out, "Yes."

She gave me a warm smile. "You don't know me, but I'm Sandra Lampton, Christy Lampton's daughter. I guess you knew her as Christy Stevenson. She really wanted to come, but she sprained her ankle pretty badly a few days ago and couldn't make it. She didn't want to waste the ticket for the reunion dinner, so she said I could use it."

Christy's daughter! I should have guessed.

"How do you know about me?" I said, almost dreading the answer.

"Well, of course Mom told me about you."

"What did she say?"

"Not a whole lot--just that you were a good friend of hers and that I should make a point of looking you up. I had to look at a picture of you in your high school yearbook and then hope you hadn't changed a whole lot!"

"Have I?"

"I don't think so. I recognized you right away."

During this almost surreal conversation, I could scarcely take my eyes off this ravishing creature. There are some women who know they're beautiful, and others who don't quite know. Sandra was one of the latter, and it made her even lovelier in my estimation. And I could already tell she had a lot of other virtues as well.

"May I ask how old you are?" I said.

"I turned nineteen about two months ago."

"Are you in college?"

"Yeah. I just finished freshman year. Mom was never able to finish college, because Dad got her pregnant during her freshman year and she had to drop out. So did Dad. But they've done pretty well for themselves."

"I'm glad to hear it. So... they're still together--your parents?"

"Well, course! I have to say, Dad--his name is Peter--is just about the most wonderful man you'll ever meet. Everything a girl would want from a dad!"

I felt a curious mix of emotions as I heard all this. On the one hand, I was crestfallen (and envious) that Christy seemed to have such a happy and long-lasting marriage; on the other hand, I was becoming increasingly enraptured by this enticing young woman chattering away innocently in front of me.

It was now time to move to the grand ballroom for the actual dinner. I was pleased to see that Sandra trailed along after me--kind of like a wide-eyed kitten following its owner so that she wouldn't be abandoned. I sat her down next to me at a big round table. It was designed to hold as many as eight people; and sure enough, six other classmates (none of whom I knew well) sat down on the other seats, continuing their conversation from the cocktail hour. I ignored them all and devoted my sole attention to Sandra.

I told her something of myself: my job as a freelance consultant for tech firms, my own college years, and so on. I coaxed out of her something of her home life, but I was more interested in what her hopes and dreams were. It thrilled me to learn that she was attending a college that was only about two hours' drive from my house. I filed that bit of information away for future reference.

Something strange and wonderful happened during that hour-and-a-half talk over dinner: Sandra and I really connected, emotionally and mentally, in spite of the nineteen-year difference in our ages. Don't get the impression that I thought of her as a kind of stand-in for her mother, and that I was just trying to relive my youth; there was way more to it than that. Sandra was a vibrant, lovely woman in her own right, and only in her appearance did she remind me of Christy. And what was really amazing was the incredible bonds we established with each sentence we said to each other. It wasn't at all that we had similar tastes or interests; it was that we seemed to share an identical outlook that could be expressed in that old Latin expression Carpe diem ("Seize the day"). We wanted to drink deep of everything life had to offer, and no one was going to stand in our way. In spite of what I had initially taken as shyness or timidity on her part, the more I talked with her the more I realized what a strong, determined young woman she was.

So it was a natural thing that, after the dinner was over, that we would tacitly agree to continue our rendezvous in my hotel room.

I led her to the elevator, placing a hand on her back. I couldn't help noticing that, underneath that gorgeous gown she was wearing, she wasn't wearing a bra: the gown itself had some bust support built into it, but that would only work with a woman whose bosom was firm and large--as Sandra's clear was.

She did give that wide-eyed, Joan Fontaine look when she actually stepped into my room. It was one thing to meet the long-lost "friend" of her mother in a public setting; it was an altogether different thing to be alone with him in a room whose most prominent feature was a king-size bed.

I couldn't offer her a drink from the minibar: she was underage, and I didn't want to corrupt her in that way. So what I did was to turn on my iPhone, set it to run a succession of soft jazz pieces, and say to her, looking into her eyes, "Would you like to dance?"

She looked down at herself in a demure way, then raised her head back and looked right back at me, nodding with quiet self-assurance and saying, "Yes, I would."

The music was slow, and we gradually found our rhythm. At first we kept a bit of distance from each other, but pretty soon we realized how silly that was and came together in a close embrace. She threw her hands around my neck and rested her head against my chest: she was too short to place it over my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her waist but didn't clutch her like some lustful college boy: she deserved better than that.

And yet, I couldn't help feeling the contours of her entire body as we lost ourselves in that dreamy music. And you can guess what happened to me. She was well aware of it too, and it didn't seem to bother her; in fact, she interpreted it (quite rightly) as a fitting tribute to her beauty and freshness.

So, after nearly an hour of slow dancing, she pulled away from me a little. Giving me once more that intense but still slightly shy and fearful look, she took hold of her gown at the very point where it was held in place by her breasts--and she pulled it down.

It slid silently off her body and fell in a heap to the floor. She daintily stepped out of it. Now she was wearing only panties. Without taking her eyes off my face, she peeled those panties off and let them fall down to join that gown.

The figure that was revealed almost made me faint. I sensed she had large breasts--they were that, but they are also high, firm, and exquisitely shaped. Her flat stomach led to gently swelling hips, a nice patch of dark fur over her delta, and strong thighs and calves. I couldn't see her bottom, but I suspected it was as lovely as the rest of her.

She threw her arms around me again and held me close, resuming our dance. But she made a point of rubbing her abdomen into my groin, sending a pretty clear signal.

It's a wonderful thing to hold a naked women close to yourself while you're fully clothed. There is usually an aching vulnerability that comes from being nude; but I felt that Sandra was, in spite of her youth and seeming innocence, in complete control of the situation. I felt I was the callow coed and she the mature adult.

Then, with a faint smile, she pulled away again and began undressing me. She was careful not to spoil my tux: she removed the jacket and placed it on a nearby easy chair, then unbuttoned my pants and let them fall to the floor as her gown had done. My bowtie and white shirt came off next. Bending down to kneel in front of me, she took my shoes and socks off, then addressed herself to the last piece of clothing I was wearing: my boxer briefs.

They were seriously distorted by my erection, and she looked up at me with a knowing smile that said: I've done that, haven't I? I peered down at her with a smile of my own: Yes, you have--and no one else could have done it so well. Then she laid hold of it with both hands on my hips and pulled it down.

My cock, free of its encumbrance, bounced up and down in front of her face. Taking the base of it with one of her small hands, she at first just licked the tip with a flick of her tongue, as if gauging its flavor; then she thrust several inches of it into her mouth.

I had had a naïve thought that she might be a virgin, but the skill she showed in cocksucking led me to reconsider that. I was still hoping that she hadn't had too much experience with other men: I was already feeling jealous of whatever cocks had felt the velvety vagina she must have. But none of that really mattered as I watched her perform: we both knew that this would be a fusion of bodies and souls such as neither of us had ever had before.

Sometimes she took my cock out of her mouth and licked my balls. At one point she expressed some amused irritation as a small hair landed on her tongue. She removed it and went back to sucking and nuzzling my organ. I had to exercise great restraint in not exploding in her mouth.

After several minutes I felt she had done enough for me as far as foreplay went, and that it was my turn to reciprocate. But I had some other thoughts in mind.

I wouldn't make the same mistake I'd done with her mother all those many years ago: I wasn't going to be an uncivilized boor and just plunge right into her. Instead, I was not only going to make sure that she was thoroughly ready for my invasion of her body, but that she would in fact receive the ultimate tribute of my devotion.

In other words, I was going to make her come first.

I led her to the bed and urged her to lie on her back. She did so readily, splaying her legs as if expecting me to plunge into her. But I didn't do that; instead, I buried my face in her sex, licking and sucking and making her even wetter than she already was. When I looked up at her at one point, I saw her staring wide-eyed at me as if she couldn't believe what was happening. Then she flung her head back, her eyes almost rolling in her head, giving way to the sensation of being serviced by a skilled and experienced man. By this time she knew this was a lot more than foreplay: she knew I was stimulating her to orgasm. When that climax did wash over her, she clutched the bedsheet tightly with both hands and let out a kind of choked gargle, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. I think she wanted to scream, but the possibility that people in neighboring rooms might hear her held her back.

I let her calm down gradually, sliding up her body and resting on top of her, my body firmly ensconced between her legs. As I looked down at her I said, "Did you like that?"

She still seemed dizzy and confused, but managed to say with twinkling eyes, "It was fabulous!"

"I'm glad," I said. Then I slid into her.

The fact that I was able to do that so easily surely meant she wasn't a virgin. Well, that was fine: I really didn't want to cause her pain. She wrapped her legs tightly around my hips, but not so tightly that it impeded my thrusting into her. She closed her eyes as I began pounding her more and more forcefully, squeezing those big breasts of hers and also giving her back and bottom some firm strokes. She was tight, but her wetness smoothed the course of my cock into her vitals. If she wasn't a virgin, she was pretty close to one; and that somehow made me feel strangely virginal myself. No, it wasn't that I was remembering doing this to her mother: I repeat that Sandra was her own person, and I never mistook her for Christy. It was simply that her own youth and freshness made me think of my own thirst for female flesh twenty years ago, when I saw tempting young women all around me, all heart-throbbingly beautiful, and all hoping--but also fearing--that a strong man would forge his way into their bodies.

When I shot my seed into her, it seemed to flow out of me more easily than it had in years. She felt my emission also, opening her eyes and smiling placidly at me as if my discharge was a sign of my devotion to her--which, in fact, it was. I felt totally fused, in body and in soul, with this divine creature. The fact that she was so much younger than me didn't matter: she seemed ageless, a perfect embodiment of the "eternal feminine."

We uncoupled reluctantly, and I flopped over onto my back next to her. For a time we just lay there, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard. Then she swung her body toward mine and nestled against me. She wanted to cuddle, and that was fine with me.

"You know," I said, "I had half thought you might be a virgin."

She chuckled at that. "No, I'm not a virgin. But I'm close!"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've only had two guys before you."

"Only two?"

"Yeah. Both were during freshman year. The first one--well, I didn't even know who he was. I was just so tired of being a virgin that I just kind of chose him at random at a frat party."

"You had sex with him at a party?"

"Yeah, sort of. We went upstairs and just did it in a vacant bedroom. We didn't even take our clothes off. I unzipped his pants, he pulled down my panties, and then he just stuck his thing into me. We did it standing up."

"Did it hurt?"

"Of course it hurt. And I bled a little too. I guess he was surprised at my condition: he assumed I'd already had some experience. That made him kind of freak out, so he quickly put his cock back into his pants and got the hell out of there."

"That doesn't sound so nice."

"No, it wasn't."

"What was the second one like?"

"That was an actual relationship--but pretty brief. I went to bed with him a couple of times, but then I discovered that he had at least two other girls he was sleeping with. So I gave him his walking papers."

"Good for you. That kind of behavior is very bad."

She looked askance at me and then held up my left hand. "Um, what about you? You're married, aren't you?"

"Well, yes," I admitted. "But not happily. We'll probably break up real soon."

She perked up her ears at that. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

"But you're still committing adultery, aren't you?"

"Believe it or not, my wife gave me permission to bed down with anyone here at this reunion. But I suspect she didn't think it would be someone like you."

"I'm sure she didn't."

During all this discussion, Sandra was playing idly with my cock, apparently fascinated by the juices (both hers and mine) covering it. Naturally, her actions had an immediate effect on me, but they caught her by surprise.

She gazed at my stiffening member and said, "You--you want to do it again?"

"I sure do."

"I heard guys couldn't do that."

"You heard wrong. Most guys have trouble getting it up a second time. I do too, ordinarily--but you've inspired me." That was no compliment, simply the plain truth.

She smiled broadly at that. "I didn't know I had that kind of effect on men."

"On me you do."

She was preparing to get into position again for what she assumed would be another round of good old missionary-style sex. But I stopped her, holding her close.

"I wonder if you'd like to try something else," I said.

"What?" she asked, a little apprehensively.

My hand had been massaging her curvy bottom, and now I directed a finger close to her anus. "Um, how about back here?"

She took a while to understand what I meant, then gasped at the realization. A peculiar look of resignation came over her face as she said, "You want to do that?"

"Only if you do," I replied. "You've never done it, have you?"

"No. But it's gotten real popular on campus. My girl friends have told me so."