Weekend at Samantha's

Author's Note: Although this story stands on its own (I hope!), and is the one I wrote first, it is loosely a sequel to events in "Cultural Exchange", which I'd planned out before starting writing either. You don't need to read that first - although some of its surprises will get spoiled for you by this story - but you should definitely read it if you like this one.

///

It was the morning of a warm late spring day, the Saturday of the Late May Bank Holiday weekend. Paul was practically skipping along the street, making his way from the little flat he shared with his mother, up the hill to Windmill Drive, where the posh houses were.

Where Samantha lived.

Oh, Samantha; girl of his dreams - light brown hair past her shoulders, sparkling green eyes, button nose dusted with freckles. A little broad-shouldered perhaps, wide of hip and narrow of waist, which was not the fashion in the mid-90s. But big tits; they are always in fashion. Sexy Samantha; never Sam, she hated that - she was a girl, dammit. Paul had been in love with her since he knew what girls were, and had to endure seeing her at school every day, her and her bitchy bullying friends who were always mean to hm. He expected that kind of nastiness from the boys, but it just seemed meaner from the girls.

Then they'd gone away on a school trip together, her and the rest of the orchestra. Paul left a boy but came home a man; the family he'd stayed with had a much looser attitude to sex than he was used to. He'd got beaten up defending the honour of Sophie, the daughter of that family - but his chivalry had not gone unrewarded. Samantha had come onto him on the journey home, and invited him round to her place for this weekend, while her parents were due to be away. She'd slipped him a note during class with her address on it, and so he'd set off this morning, excited.

But the closer he got, the more the doubts circled. It seemed so unlikely. Why was she interested in him? Was he going there just to get mocked? Was it even her house, or was he going to knock on some random's door - or, worse, on Andrew or Simon or Jeremy's door, to get beaten up again? They'd all have a laugh at that, at pathetic Paul thinking he was in with a chance with one of the hottest girls in class.

But he kept walking. What if it was true? It seemed real enough, when she kissed him on the plane, when she let him touch her - when she insisted he touch her, and where, and how. He had to go, had to find out. He'd wanted a chance with her for years, and here it was. He couldn't pass up such an opportunity.

He walked up the gravel drive, long enough for four cars, and stepped into the porch. It had been a long walk, half an hour or so in the sun, and he regretted wearing the jacket. Great, turned up hot and sweaty to meet her. Oh well, nothing to be done about that now. He reached over for the bell-pull and gave it a yank with a confidence that he didn't feel.

From behind the door came the yelping and barking of the hounds of hell. Paul jumped back from the door, alarmed. Then the barks subsided into whimpers and then silence, and the door creaked open.

And there she was. Beautiful, stunning, sexy Samantha, opening the heavy wooden door to him, with a genuine smile and sparkle in her eyes. "You came!" she said, delighted. Paul nodded, shyly. "I was worried you wouldn't, that you'd think I was teasing. I'm sorry I didn't speak to you at school - I'm just not ready for that. Not yet. But come in, come in!"

He looked her over, quickly so as not to be caught gawping. Long bare legs, trainers, no socks. A pair of incredibly brief cut-off denim shorts, frayed along the bottom and faded and thinned to white string in places; so short they were basically underwear, Paul was sure he could see a hint of black lace along the torn leg holes. On top, a black vest-top with a Guns N Roses logo over one breast, that she'd tied in a knot behind her back to bare her midriff and show off her bellybutton piercing. The vest had a deep neckline, showing off impressive cleavage, into which a gold rope necklace was disappearing.

"Wow, you look incredible," Paul said, realising how lame it sounded just as the words left his mouth.

But Samantha seemed pleased. "What, this? This is something I just threw on." As Paul stepped forward to the door she reached out, pulled him in for a brief hug, and kissed him on the cheek. That already made this one of the top 3 weekends of his life. But before he could say anything else, brown and black fur leapt at him, full of teeth and eyes.

"Down! Get down!" Samantha was shouting.

"No, don't worry, it's okay." He let them smell the back of his hands. The German shepherds - two bitches - started licking his palms; nice and salty with sweat from the walk. Paul knelt so that he could pet them better, scruffing them on their necks and under their chins as they met each other. One of them started licking his face, and he laughed.

"That one with the tongue, that's Tegan," Samantha said, "and the one on the right is Nyssa. And this naughty boy," she said, as another dog came down the hall, with a suspicious look on his face, "is..."

"Turlough, surely," Paul said, smiling up at Samantha.

"How did you...?"

"Oh please, I'm chief geek, remember. And the Fifth Doctor is my favourite."

"Really? I've always been a bit of an Ace fan, myself," she replied. Paul was surprised - yes, Samantha did have a bit of a wicked air about her, but he didn't have her down as a Doctor Who fan. It made him realise that actually he didn't know much about her at all. She played violin in the orchestra, and... What? He had nothing. He wondered what other surprises there might be in store.

"Fancy something to drink?" Samantha walked off towards the kitchen, and Paul had a great view of her shapely arse, only partly covered by the ripped shorts and with definite black lace underneath, sway its way towards what he assumed was the kitchen. She looked back over her shoulder and beckoned him to follow.

///

Samantha was glad Paul had come, she really thought he would have chickened out. And the outfit had hit the mark bang on. The 'just thrown on' look was a result of her having woken up at 6am, too excited about the day ahead to sleep, and trying on practically everything she owned to get the right effect. This outfit was too formal. That one was too hot for the sunny day ahead. This one was too slutty, don't want to scare him off. That one was not slutty enough; this was a first date weekend after all. Then she remembered the karaoke from the exchange trip, and how confidently he'd belted out Sweet Child o' Mine beside her, and she knew that the G'n'R top was ideal. Really it was a man's vest, it had come from an old boyfriend; but Paul didn't need to know that. She tied it up, nice and tight round her tits, showing off her flat stomach and piercing.

Then he'd arrived, all nervous and tense, and the dogs jumped him. He loved dogs! Her heart reached out to him them, he knew just how to behave around them, and the dogs took to him straight away. He didn't even care when they licked his hands, or even his face. Not like her ex, he hated dogs and they picked up on it, the feedback loop resulted in barking and snapping. She should have known then that he was a wrong-un. But Paul... The dogs liked him. And they were generally good judges of character, and always had her best interests at heart.

So, she walked to the kitchen, feeling happy and upbeat about how this was going to go. She put extra swing in her hips, shaking her arse as she walked down the hallway, then turned her head to make sure Paul was checking her out. Then she crooked her finger and invited him further into the house.

"You must be hot from the walk," she said. "Lemonade?" She took a jug from the fridge and poured them both a tall glass. She'd mixed it last night after her parents had left; she hoped the sharp lemon would cover the taste of the vodka. She felt a bit guilty spiking his drink, but she wouldn't let it get out of hand. Just wanted him to loosen up a bit; she knew how anxious he must be.

"Thanks," he said, taking the glass from her hand and having a sip. He raised his eyebrows a bit - was it just too sour or did he know? But he said nothing. "So, err, your parents are away...?"

"Yes. They've gone off for a smoochy weekend, it's their 20th wedding anniversary," she said, miming gagging herself with her fingers. "Grosses me out, but I'm glad I don't have to hear them at it. Which means," she said, looking him straight in the eyes, "we have the place to ourselves for the weekend." Paul gulped, and she laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not going to eat you," she teased. "Which reminds me, I think we've got some crisps round here somewhere," she said, fussing about. She knew exactly where everything was, but was just stalling while they thought of something to talk about.

The radio was playing in the background; Starship were explaining how even if the world ran out of lovers, they'd still have each other. Samantha idly started singing along as she pretended to hunt for snacks. Paul had been standing in silence and she found it rather awkward, but he was watching her, rapt.

"What?"

"You have a lovely voice," he said.

She blushed. "Thanks. I love singing, but only for myself. I didn't realise I was doing it."

"I love signing, too," Paul said, and joined in with the chorus as it came back around. Samantha knew Paul loved singing; he'd starred in the school musical back in their first year. One other thing he'd been endlessly teased about. She felt sorry about that, now; how horrid to be put down for the things you were good at.

They went through to the lounge, and Samantha flicked on the TV and switched to the music channel. They sat on one of the leather sofas, half-facing each other and half facing the TV. The dogs followed them, ever hopeful for crumbs; Turlough put his head into Paul's lap, sniffing at his crotch, until Samantha batted him away.

Songs came and went, and they sang along, harmonising together. Samantha was having a surprisingly good time, Paul was turning out to be great company, and he knew a lot about rock music. They managed to get into a spirited discussion about whether Slash, Brain May or Eric Clapton were the better guitarist, which led to a lot of record-playing and air-guitaring.

Samantha sat and listened as Paul sang her 'Somebody to Love', by Queen. Paul of course had nothing like Freddie's range or talent, but he did the best he could, and his naivety and innocence suited the song. It was only as he got to the end of the track that she noticed the tears in his eyes.

"Hey, what's up?"

"That song... I never thought I'd find anyone to love, either... But now I'm here, with you, and..."

She stood, and walked over to him, holding his arm with one hand and wiping the tears away with the other. She kissed him gently on the lips. "Look at me," she said, softly. She needed to be careful how she said this. "I don't love you. I don't not love you, either. I hardly know you! I know you think you love me, and sure you've had a crush on me for like forever, but that's lust, not love. Not that there's anything wrong with lust, ya get me? But I'm not going to go around using the L word, not until I'm sure." Not again, she added, to herself.

Paul looked at her, blinking. God, I wish I knew what was going on in that brain of his, she thought. Say something!

"I'm sorry. You're right of course." A pause. "I'm sorry you've been hurt so badly before. Sorry I'm rushing you. I'm happy being friends, happy just to spend time with you, if that's what you want." He seemed utterly crestfallen.

She kissed his forehead. She'd been misunderstood, just as she feared. "Paul, I'd love to be friends with you, I just want to know more about you. And as it happens, yeah I do fancy you. I'd hoped you'd got that impression from our time on the plane!" She pulled his face down to hers, kissed him on the lips. "Remember?" she said, and pressed her lips against his, opening her mouth and inviting his tongue to slide in through her lips. God, she loved how he trembled when they kissed like this. She wrapped one arm round his waist and the other round his neck, holding his head against hers and drawing him deeper into the kiss. She could feel his erection pressing against her stomach. Job done; fragile ego salved.

"Stay here, there's something I want to show you," she said, and skipped off out of the lounge and ran up the stairs.

///

Paul's head was a mess. He was having such a wonderful time with her; then he'd blown it by saying the wrong thing, declaring he loved her... But she didn't love him. But then she kissed him anyway, the way girlfriends kiss their boyfriends. His thoughts were so mixed up. Was this normal? Maybe this is what it meant to be dizzy with love. He wasn't sure he liked it.

Then she came back, bounding into the room, causing her boobs to bounce as she moved. Then she sat cross-legged on the floor; Paul's eyes were drawn straight between her legs, where a small strip of faded denim barely protected her modestly. But then the guitar obstructed his view, and his eyes returned to hers. She was worrying at the frets, finding her place.

"I've been practising something," she said, "and I want you to hear it." Then she started to play, both hands working in unison. Paul recognised it instantly - the introduction to Metallica's Fade to Black.

Paul was impressed, and also somewhat surprised. That she liked popular rock was a pleasant surprise - but heavy metal didn't seem like her thing at all. And who knew she could play guitar? She was a violinist, and could play piano well enough to accompany others. She was so talented... He could watch her all day. He followed her fingers as they danced over the fretboard. He started to sing the verse, when she reached that point in the song.

"Wow, I can't believe you can play that, it's so cool!"

"It's actually not that hard," she said. "Do you want to try?"

It had been years since Paul had given up trying with the guitar. Singing was his thing. But how could he say no?

"Come over here, let me show you," she said. He sat in front of her and she laid the guitar on his lap, then reached round from behind him to play. "Watch," she said, and bridged her left hand into the first chord. Only then did Paul notice how the polished red nails on her left hand were short, and the ones on her right hand were long. Ideal for playing guitar. How could he not have noticed that before? She played slowly, and he tried to follow the pattern of her fingers; she let him pluck the strings first while she played the chords, then walked him through the fingering. Paul tried very hard to follow, but it was incredibly distracting to have her boobs squishing against his back, the smell of her perfume in his nostrils, her hair tickling at his neck. But he made a passable attempt and was quite proud of himself.

"Play me something," he said to her.

She thought for a moment. "Have you heard the new Clapton album, the acoustic one?" Paul shook his head. "You must. I love this song," she said. She started to play a beautiful ballad, singing along: "Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven..."

By the end of the song, they both had a tear in their eye. "Wow," Paul said. "That's so powerful. And you're such an incredible musician. Why keep it to yourself?"

"I'm not good enough," she shrugged. "And I couldn't, not in front of people."

"I'm people," he said. "Being on stage is scary, sure, but it's also liberating. You know how shy I am, but up there... it's different. The audience are there, in your hands, and you make them feel what you want them to feel. They want you to transport them away; they're on your side. And you're talented, and beautiful, unlike me. You'd be amazing. You are amazing." And he reached out and stroked her hair back behind her ears, and leant in for a kiss.

Neither of them noticed the guitar hit the floor.

///

They'd taken the snogging to the sofa, and things had got a bit handsy for a while, but somehow they'd gotten interested in the film. Samantha was somewhat frustrated. Any other guy would have seen her outfit and dragged her straight up to her bedroom. Her parents were away, for fuck's sake, why were they wasting time down here on the sofa when they could be as loud and as freaky as they liked? But on the other hand, she was genuinely enjoying Paul's company. And it was nice not to be jumped on and pawed at all the time. It was just that, for someone who'd been in lust with her for years, he was being entirely too shy about it for her liking. What would it take, she wondered? She'd bounced her tits at him, flashed her thighs and practically her pussy, wiggled her arse, kissed passionately, pressed her body against him, mashed her boobs against him. She'd had all week to think about him, about how he stroked her to orgasm on the plane, and here he was, and she was horny as fuck. She wanted - needed - his fingers back inside her, so she'd practically been throwing herself at him. He must have noticed; maybe he was just too polite - or too scared - to act. So, she'd have to take the lead. She lay her head on his shoulder, and rested her hand in his lap, idly stroking the inside of his thigh.

Paul felt Samantha move to lean against him. Hard to believe she was here with him, watching cheesy movies together like they were old friends. He stole glances down at her; he could see right down the top of the vest at her boobs, the chain disappearing between the soft flesh. Oh, how he longed to follow it down with his fingers, or - if he was completely honest - with his tongue. Her long, long naked legs tucked up onto the sofa, all the way up to her pert bum that was hardly concealed in the cut-off shorts. He noticed the button was undone at the front, and the denim had peeled open to reveal delicate black lace underneath. How he wanted to touch it. But he settled for wrapping his arm round her shoulders, stroking her arm and casually, "innocently", brushing against her boob.

Now this is more like it, she thought. Undoing her fly had been a masterstroke, flashing her undies had set the thought in his mind. Now he kept stroking her tit, thinking she hadn't noticed, but he could see him getting harder in his trousers. Then, with luck, a sexy scene started in the film. Samantha stroked her way up Paul's thigh and began to stroke his swelling dick through the material.

Holy fuck, she's playing with my dick, Paul thought. He abandoned all pretence and cupped her boob in his hands, lifting it and watching the gold chain roll over the flesh. With his other hand, he stroked her face, and she kissed his fingers, then sucked one into her mouth, looking up at him.

Fuck I'm so horny, Samantha thought. His hand feels so good holding my tit, but it'd be so much better on my butt. She shuffled again, laying on the sofa, head in Paul's lap and facing him. Paul had to move his hand, it was awkward to grab her tits from that angle, and he slid it up her leg to rest it on her arse cheek. Samantha couldn't see the TV anymore, but she could hear kissing noises and bed springs. Paul's cock was rock hard but bent in his trousers at an awkward angle, it had to be painful. "Let me help you with that," she said, reaching for his zipper.

Oh my god, she's getting my dick out, Paul realised, torn between the show on the screen and Samantha's body lying on him. It was no real contest. She had his dick in her hand, right by her face. She started to kiss it. Paul was amazed he didn't come right there and then. Instead, he ran his hand up her thigh, right to the top, and tucked it under the leg hole of the shorts. Her pussy was wet already, and he easily slid two fingers inside her, as she adjusted her leg to give him better access.