The Summer of '95 Ch. 01

Dear readers: Thank you again for all your comments. Before you begin reading the story below, let me apologize for my brain. I don't know whether to blame excessive creative energy or insufficient discipline, but memories surge out of me without immediate respect to connectivity. The burden of patience is forced upon the reader, while the author whimsically panders to her selfish needs.

I beg your indulgence as strands of this web are spun. They are interwoven inside my head, and will coalesce in time.

The Summer of '95 draws on experiences from my early adulthood and is, as always, a slurry of memory and fantasy. Your comments are welcome and encouraged. Enjoy!

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When you are young, friends with rich parents make for amazing summers. I met Lisha in homeroom the first day of junior high. Drawn to one another initially by our black curly hair (Lisha was also of Mediterranean heritage, but had olive skin and deep brown eyes) we quickly became best friends. I soon learned that Lisha's parents were divorced and lived in different parts of the country. She lived with mom during the school year and dad during selected holidays and summer. Mom liked snow and winter and lived in Michigan, Dad lived in a bay house on the Gulf Coast.

As April approached that first year, Lisha complained that spring break would be SO BORING without her best friend. Arrangements were made (Lisha's parents paid my airfare and everything) and spring break was transformed from watching snow melt to laughing, giggling, swimming, tanning, and exploring the water and sand with the joyous abandon of young teen girls. The week went so well that Lisha's mom asked my mom if I could spend the entire summer at the bay house. I didn't think mom would go for it, but looking back I have realized that mom as a single parent (Dad was military and had been killed overseas) was stressed, overworked, and lonely. The opportunity for personal time was tempting and when Lisha's mom assuaged mom's guilt by explaining the four of us could spend three weeks together at the bay house, all expenses paid, while Lisha's dad was in Europe on business (did I mention Lisha's family was crazy rich), all resistance dissipated.

That was how the bay house became my summer home for the next five years. But as the sixth year approached I wondered if summers with Lisha had come to an end. We were seniors, turning eighteen in May. I didn't know if next summer would be one last time together or the beginning of our new, and separate, adult lives. Lisha abolished my doubts in early December as we watched the first real snowfall silently cover the ground.

"I can't wait until next summer, Ash!"

She had started calling me "Ash", short for Ashley, my middle name, during the summer between ninth and tenth grade.

"At the bay house again?" I asked with weakly veiled trepidation.

"Absolutely silly, it will be the summer of our lives!"

*******************************************

The first day of the "summer of our lives" did not go so well. Lisha's mom had a flat tire. We missed the shuttle to the airport, which caused us to miss our flight. Our new flight arrived in Chicago too late for our original connecting flight. It was almost noon and our new flight wasn't until 2:04. We killed time by eating revolting airport food and window-shopping at overpriced stores.

When we finally boarded and took our seats, we exhaled together across the empty middle seat in a collective sigh of relief. Our hope was premature. As the doors were about to close, an elderly woman entered and shuffled down the aisle, dragging a large carry-on. She stopped at our row.

"I think I am in E," she smiled.

The bin above our seats was nearly full and the woman looked around perplexed and concerned. Lisha, sitting on the aisle, offered to put her small bag under the seat to make room in the overhead. The woman thanked her profusely, apologized for this being her first time flying, then sat down and began to talk.

Forty-five minutes later she was still talking. Lisha and I listened patiently, politely smiling at the stories of grandchildren, her husband (gone six years now bless his soul) and concerns about leaving her cats (three) behind alone with only a neighbor to feed them.

I took a deep breath. "Only two more hours," whispered a small voice in my head. It was wrong.

Half an hour before we were supposed to land, the captain announced that a violent summer storm was buffeting the airport and that we were going to circle for half an hour while it passed.

We finally landed, but by the time our taxi approached the bay house, the sun was setting. The house was unlit and seemed empty. We paid the driver and lugged our bags to the door. Lisha opened it with the hidden key and we went inside.

As I headed upstairs to my room, Lisha's voice called out, "Looks like daddy won't be here tonight. He left a message on the machine. Project troubles are going to keep him in the city."

Mr. D'Amico kept a condo in the city that he lived in during the week. Usually he spent weekends at the bay house, but occasionally work interfered. Lisha and I had grown accustomed to having the house to ourselves most of the summer.

After carrying suitcases to our rooms, we met back in the kitchen. A couple sandwiches and diet cokes later we felt our humanity returning.

Lisha smiled.

"What a day! Ready for a shower?"

"God yes!"

Lisha took the shared upstairs bathroom. I grabbed a towel and my travel bag and headed back downstairs to the master bedroom. Closing the door, I stripped off my clothes, leaving t-shirt, bra, shorts and panties in a pile on the bedroom floor. I stood for a moment, cool air caressing my skin. The realization that I was nude in Mr. D'Amico's bedroom spawned powerful sexual energy within me. My eyes drifted to the king-size bed and a vision of Lisha's father appeared, his hips buried between her mother's spread-eagled legs. She screamed and writhed in orgasmic ecstasy as he pumped semen into her cunt-semen that would create my best friend. I struggled to breathe as my heart pounded in my chest; my clitoris throbbed synchronously.

My hand was sliding between my legs when the sound of the shower upstairs shattered my fantasy. Not wanting Lisha to think I was creeping her dad's bedroom, I showered quickly, wrapped the towel around my body, grabbed my pile of clothes and headed back upstairs to my room. Deciding to unpack in the morning, I slipped into clean panties and the oversize t-shirt that served as my summer pajamas. When I got downstairs, Lisha was already on the couch in shorts and a light cotton tank top. Two wine glasses were on the table and a bottle of white wine was in her hand.

"Adults!" she exclaimed, smiling broadly and referring to the fact that we were now in a state that allowed us to vote AND to drink.

"Indeed!" I replied as she filled our glasses.

We occupied one corner of the U-shaped couch. Lisha sat on the lower part of the "U" facing the fireplace. I sat kitty-corner from her facing the floor-to-ceiling windows and deck that overlooked the bay. Our bodies mirrored one another. My right leg and Lisha's left lay flat on the couch tucked into the corner while each opposite leg was pulled up on the couch and held upright against our chests. As we drank and talked and laughed, I noticed Lisha's eyes occasionally glanced between my legs. At first, she would look away quickly and blush, but as the wine took effect, her eyes lingered and she chewed her bottom lip as she ogled me. I realized the t-shirt wasn't covering my panties, but didn't really give it a thought. Lisha had seen my panties and even my boobs before - lots of times. But as Lisha's glances became more intense, I realized she was not staring at my panties but through the sheer lace. As Lisha's eyes focused, examining the dark curls between my legs, mine lowered to her chest. Her nipples were pushing through the soft fabric.

OMG! Lisha was getting aroused peeking at my pussy!

Plenty of guys had tried to look up my dresses, but never a girl. I probably should have been offended or disgusted, but I was still tingly from my bedroom fantasy and tipsy from the wine. Lisha's eyes, riveted on my cunt, struggling but failing to pull away, awakened something licentious. As we drank and talked, I slid my butt forward and let my left leg drift further open. Lisha found it harder and harder to focus on the conversation. I felt deliciously naughty.

"This wine really went to my head!" she exclaimed pouring the third glass. She was handing it to me when we heard the front door open.

"Lisha?" a voice called.

"Daddy!"

Lisha jumped from the couch, running toward her father. I followed close behind. Lisha was just about to jump into his arms for a welcome hug when he held out his hands to stop her.

"Whoa sweety! I am a sweaty mess. Hugs will have to wait until I have showered."

Mr. D'Amico wore an old pair of cut-off jean shorts and flip-flops, nothing else. He was drenched in perspiration. In my half-drunk, totally horny state, he looked delicious.

"I've been in the boathouse tuning up the motor. It is hot as hell in there."

"But your message said you'd be stuck in the city"

"Right after I left that message, we found the solution. Rather than call again, I thought I'd surprise you."

He raised his arms and smiled, "Surprise!"

We talked a bit, but Mr. D'Amico was hungry, thirsty and desperately wanted a shower. Lisha and I left him to eat and went back to the couch. Mr. D'Amico grabbed a coke, made a sandwich and sat down at the kitchen island behind me. Since my back was to him, I saw no problem in continuing my little game.

Lisha was soon hooked again. She would pretend to sip her wine, using it as an excuse to look down over the rim of the glass, but her eyes would lock between my legs. Her right leg began to slowly open and close-a seemingly innocent motion. But I knew (because I do it myself) that beneath her shorts and panties her lips were being peeled open, then squeezed closed; with each oscillation her clitoris received an excruciating, almost tortuous, slow-motion massage.

Pretending to be sleepy and dizzy from the wine, I leaned back and closed my eyes providing her an extended opportunity to stare without fear of getting caught. After twenty Mississippis, I opened my eyes again. The full moon was rising over the deck and its silver light shone through the windows. The rest of the night sky was lost in the reflection of the house interior on the glass. My eyes traveled up. About 10 feet off the floor, the windows gradually angled in to create a greenhouse-like effect. I had forgotten Mr. D'Amico, but there he was, reflected in the window. He had finished eating and seemed lost in thought, staring up through the windows. Then I realized he was not staring through the window. His eyes, like his daughter's, were riveted between my legs. He seemed to sense my eyes on him and looked quickly away. Behind me, I heard him begin clearing the island and putting dishes in the dishwasher.

"Can you girls start the dishwasher when you go to bed? I am off to the shower."

"Sure daddy."

Lisha and I finished the wine and realized the long day of travel had taken its toll. I put the wine glasses in the dishwasher while Lisha brought the bottle out to the recycling bin.

We were just heading upstairs when Mr. D'Amico emerged from his bedroom freshly-showered and wearing nylon running shorts.

"How about that welcome hug now?"

Lisha ran to his arms and gave him a huge hug, then headed upstairs.

"Carol?"

"Absolutely!"

I reached both arms behind his back and rested my cheek against his chest. His arms encircled my waist pulling my hips tightly against him. He hadn't hugged Lisha this way. Neither my t-shirt nor his shorts were very thick and I could feel his penis through the material. It didn't seem hard, but it didn't seem soft either. He held the hug a bit too long then, hands on my hips, gently moved our bodies apart and looked into my eyes.

"Good to see you again, Carol"

"Thanks Mr. D'Amico," I said fumbling the words as I climbed the stairs.

"Call me Peter."

************

I awoke around 1:00 AM, thirsty and needing to pee. I rose, headed to the bathroom to relieve the latter, then to the kitchen to deal with the former. Luna had risen high into the sky, and bathed Terra in her soft, silver light. The beauty of the heavens whispered to me. Water in hand, I slid through the door onto the deck. Luna's reflection danced on the black water of the bay. I stripped off my t-shirt, raised my arms to the goddess and remained motionless, silently absorbing her energy. When I turned to reenter the house, a delicate glow streamed through the French doors to Mr. D'Amico's bedroom. Enticed, I moved closer and gazed through the glass. Mr. D'Amico lay on his back, nude, the top sheet and blanket were thrown aside, his tan body a sharp contrast to the moonlit sheets. My eyes roamed, tracing intimate contours of muscle and bone. A craving to masturbate, to carnally worship Mr. D'Amico's body, to orgasm beneath Luna's gaze, arose in me. My fingertips had slipped under the elastic of my panties, combing through dark curls of pubic hair, anticipating that explosive pleasure of first clitoral contact, when I discerned something odd. I leaned closer to the glass.

My panties were in Mr. D'Amico's right hand.

I became a woman possessed. Inhibitions vanished. Common sense evaporated. Head spinning, heart pounding, I slipped back inside, draped my t-shirt over the couch, tip-toed to the slightly ajar bedroom door, and peered inside.

Mr. D'Amico lay as I'd seen through the glass, left hand behind his head, the right resting beside him wrapped lightly around my panties. The moonlight cast silver shadows across his chest. He was breathing slowly, without snoring, chest expanding and contracting. The pectoral muscles I'd rested my cheek against earlier that evening rose and fell. His nipples were erect, hardened from the cool air.

I followed the salt and pepper line of his chest hair past his navel. His left leg lay open, bent at the knee, and his balls hung loosely between muscular thighs. His penis was totally flaccid, falling to his left and cradled in the crook between his thigh and hip. I leaned against the door frame, enraptured. Almost imperceptibly, his penis rocked back and forth with each breath; unconsciously my tongue slid against my upper lip, mirroring the subtle motion. I don't know when it happened, but my hand was inside my panties, a finger between my lips, lazily dipping in and out of my very soaked cunt. In the silence, the soft slurping as my lips clung to, then released, my probing finger, was hypnotically sensual. Reluctantly, I tried to pull my hand out of my panties. My finger slid slowly between swollen lips, trailed across my clitoris and rebelliously hovered there, tracing small circles around the swollen bud.

I carefully pushed the door open and crossed the room. One knee at a time I crawled onto the bed. Then, on my knees with one forearm on the bed and the other hand between Mr. D'Amico's legs, I lowered my face to within centimeters of his manhood. I inhaled deeply. His scent was captivating-fresh soap from his shower lingered and mingled with rich male musk. I inhaled again, eyes closed; my vaginal muscles quivered with arousal. I lowered my cheek to his stomach, my lips grazing Peter's beautiful penis. My mouth opened, I inhaled, firm and steady, drawing his penis to my lips until the tip slipped inside. I pressed forward until the entire length rested inside my mouth. I moved him around, relishing the soft skin and tracing the ridge of his glans with my tongue.

In spite of the attention, Mr. D'Amico's penis remained flaccid. I found the sensation intoxicating. Subconsciously, I fell into an undulating rhythm. Like a recently nursed newborn child still clinging to her mother's breast, I suckled Peter. Peace mixed with profound arousal engulfed me; nothing existed but my mouth, sealed around a soft shaft of skin, muscle, and blood that pulsed with each beat of Peter's heart.

My left hand slid upward and wrapped around Mr. D'Amico's scrotum. His balls hung loose, like marbles in too large a sack. As I suckled, my hand absentmindedly played with his testicles: lifting them, testing their weight, rolling them in my hand, gently squeezing one at a time or both together. My hand was milking his balls, his penis deep in my throat, and my tongue extended, slathering where shaft met scrotum, when a drop of precum oozed onto my tongue. Another followed. In my hand, Mr. D'Amico's balls contracted. Against my cheek, his abdominals tightened.

I realized my best friend's father's soft penis was about to cum in my mouth. Lust flooded me. I sucked hungrily, nose buried in Mr. D'Amico's pubic hair. He groaned in his sleep, then came. I froze, mouth sealed around him. His orgasm was gentle and protracted. There were no spurts that sprayed and gagged; semen streamed from Peter's soft penis in tender waves. I suckled and swallowed, suckled and swallowed.

Time vanished. Everything vanished, except Mr. D'Amico's penis, feeding me in the moonlight.

Eventually, the streams ended. I massaged the last few drops into my mouth, then released him. Sliding off the bed, I stood over Mr. D'Amico, admiring his naked body. My hand slipped inside my panties, scooped a finger-full of cream from my vagina and began tracing gentle circles around my clitoris. I imagined Peter awake, watching me. His penis hardened, lengthened. The tip grew swollen and turned deep purplish red. I imagined straddling him, the tip of his penis spreading my labia minora. In reality my fingers probed my vaginal entrance. In my mind, my hips pressed down, my weight forcing him deep inside me. In my panties, middle and ring fingers slid into my cunt. As my fantasy self bucked up and down, fucking Mr. D'Amico with wild abandon, my fingers frigged in and out of me at a frantic pace.

My orgasm was not gentle.

Eyes bulged. Vision blurred. Throat constricted. Pelvic muscles cramped. Guttural animalistic sounds-remnants of stifled screams-escaped through clenched teeth. My anus and vagina contracted repeatedly. My legs quivered and nearly collapsed. My fingers kept pounding and pounding. Then, as the first orgasm slowly abated, they curled around and pressed my G-spot, triggering another, deeper orgasmic wave. I cupped my labia, two fingers curled inside, as each contraction gripped, then released me.

When it finally subsided, I bent down to kiss Mr. D'Amico's penis lightly on the tip. It spasmed and a final drop of semen appeared at the meatus. I pursed my lips around the tip sucking the sweet fluid into my mouth, then pressed my tongue into the opening to lick him clean.

Exhausted, spent, I backed through the door, carefully pulled it to its original position and went back upstairs to bed.