Rich offers his hand in greeting, introducing himself politely. He makes sure to leave out the part about "I'm the one who's here to sit around your pool and ogle your daughter's body." Mrs. Graham is pleasant enough, reserved, certainly probing him with questions about college, his job situation, blah blah blah. He tries to make his recent "down time" sound less pathetic than it actually is. He doesn't want her thinking that her daughter is hanging around an unmotivated loser, certainly. She talks about her daughter like she’s a kid, he thinks, criticizing her frequently and making it a point several times to mention that "she is only seventeen, you know." He’s a little uncomfortable, the situation being a little awkward, and is relieved when Traci steps out of the house onto the sunlit patio.
Traci is barefoot, clothed up top in a cropped, zip-up hooded sweatshirt of thin cotton, black with white piping and form-fitting to her ample chest. Below she wears only a brief, powder blue bikini bottom, leaving her long, tan, shapely legs and hips nearly bare. He can't help but admire the muscle tone of those legs, the tautness of her flat midriff. Afraid of his gaze being caught in some place it shouldn't be, he struggles to keep his eyes on her face as they exchange smiles. Her dark blond hair, highlighted by a summer in the sun, is pulled up in a ponytail, exposing her long neck and delicate jawline.
"Hi, honey," her mom intones, "your friend Rich is here. We've been getting to know one another a little bit." She reaches her hand out to smooth a stray lock of hair on Traci's head.
Traci pulls away from her mother. "Great, mom," she says, rolling her eyes.
"So, it looks like you two have a nice day for a swim. Is that your blue suit you have on?" Her mother asks, with a hint of disapproval in her voice.
"Yes, mother," Traci replies curtly, not even trying to hide her impatience.
"What about the nice swimsuit I bought you? The one with the flowers? I never see you-"
"Mom! C'mon!" Traci nearly hisses, under her breath, embarrassed and exasperated.
"Okay, okay," her mother responds, backing away. She is obviously accustomed to being dismissed by her daughter, "I'll leave you two alone. Would you like me to make you some sandwiches?"
Traci's tone changes quickly. "Oh, uh, I already made a couple. Tuna. Tuna salad sandwiches. They're inside, on the counter..."
"Well, come help me bring them out, honey. Rich, why don't you make yourself comfortable - get yourself a towel, over by the shed - and we'll be right back with lunch. Is lemonade okay?"
"Sure, Mrs. Graham," he replies as the ladies turn and head back inside. Grabbing a towel and removing his shirt, he chooses a lounge chair by the pool's edge and sits back to enjoy the midday sun, strong for September. Feeling the rays wash warmly over his face, he can't believe his luck. He is, he hopes, about to see the body of this girl - a body to whose mental image he's been jerking off almost nonstop since Thursday night - in her bikini. He silently kicks himself for not bringing his digital camera. He could have, he thinks, found the excuse for a few snapshots somewhere. Nah - he figures he wouldn't have found the courage to actually try to take a picture of her, and the image of her mother grabbing the camera from his hand and tossing it in the pool made him chuckle.
Before long he feels a shadow fall over him, blocking his sun. Raisng his hand against the glare, he opens his eyes and sees Traci's hourglass silhouette, standing over him with a tray of food. "Sorry about my mom," she apologizes as she bends into a crouch to place the tray on a low side table, allowing him to admire the voluptuousness of her hips and fine bottom as she set up the plates. Her rear, because of the contrasting thinness of her waist, might be seen by some as a bit on the big side. To him, it’s perfect. A round, bubble-butt, firmly muscled. "She can be a pain."
"No, no, that's okay," he reassures her. She’s just being protective, he knows. "So, what do we have here?"
"I hope you like tuna salad," she says, as she sits on the edge of the adjacent chaise, facing him, "here's your drink, and some chips..."
"Wow, thanks," he says appreciatively, as he pulls his plate towards him, "You didn't have to do all this."
"No big deal," she replies, as she gingerly picks up her half-sandwich and takes a small bite. She swallows purposefully as he, in turn, takes hold of his own. She watches him carefully as he takes one bite, then another.
"Mmm..." he remarks, swallowing, feeling her eyes on him. "This is...good. Kinda...smoky. What's in it?" While living in the city he had prided himself on eating all sorts of foods, being a creative cook himself. He had never thought of doing...this...to tuna.
"Oh, some seasoning. Barbecue, I think? Cajun?" She takes another bite herself. He can't help but notice she seems a bit nervous.
"Hm. Spicy, too...almost tingly."
"Do you like it?" she asks, still watching him.
"Oh, sure..." he responds, trying to ignore the hint of burnt hair, "it's great."
As lunch goes on she becomes less apprehensive, more confident - relieved, likely, that he enjoyed her sandwich enough to finish it. She titters at his jokes, bats her long eyelashes at him as she finishes her half-sandwich but leaves most of her chips untouched. "You didn't finish your plate," he quips as he lay his head back again to enjoy they sun, beginning to shut his eyes, "and there's no ice cream. You're watching your figure a little more than Thursday night, huh?"
"Actually," she says, as he notices, through lidded eyes, her shifting position, off to his side, “I think it's your turn to watch my figure."
Yikes. What did she say? A strong man, a smart man, he thinks, would shut up, keep his eyes closed and ignore her very forward comment. She must be joking around. But he is neither a strong nor smart man. Ever so slightly he tilts his head towards her, allows his eyes to remain open a fraction, and watches her unzip her sweater. If he could see her face he would see her trying not to smile as she looks off to the distance, across the pool, seemingly unconcerned with the task at hand. Go ahead, she seems to be saying, look all you want, I won't notice.
As she is leaned over, slightly, towards him, he first sees the shadow of her cleavage appear as the zipper parts across her chest. God, that is beautiful. The shadows so dark, the swell of her breasts so full.
She pauses for a moment before undoing the fastener. I feel kinda weird, she realizes, taking off my sweatshirt, showing off my chest. He's been fantsizing about these breasts, she thinks, not without a touch of pride, Jerking off to them. My breasts. My really, really big breasts. But, she is interested in his reaction.
He allows his eyes to open a bit wider, thinking that her attention is turned away from him. As she peels the thin cotton material away from the curve of her chest, she begins to arch her back to remove her sweater, revealing the matching top of her blue string bikini, which struggles to cover her plentiful charms. How cute, she thinks, he actually thinks that I don't know he's watching.
As she presses her shoulders back to pull the sweater first off one arm, then the other, her heavy breasts stand out firmly from her chest and seem to swell before his eyes. She smiles, noticing him clamp his eyes tight and flush as she turns back towards him, dropping her sweater onto the back of the chaise.
As the moment passes in silence, he can feel her gaze on him, watching him. He opens one eye, squinting up at her seated form. She has leaned back in towards him, breasts gathered between her arms, cleavage spilling over the cups of her top copiously. A devilish smile is on her lips. He quickly looks up into her eyes, which are twinkling with merriment.
"Very nice," he admits curtly, as she begins to laugh teasingly and sit back. He hopes she can’t see the erection building in his trunks; he props his knees up just in case. He'll try to make a joke of this, too, he decides. "You're quite pleased with yourself, huh?"
"Oh, no," she giggles as she reclines, settling into the lounge chair and turning her head to look over at him, "it's just that I find it funny that guys can't help but stare, sometimes."
"I was not staring." He can feel himself redden, again, and turns away from her, pretending to be intent on his sunbathing.
"Oh, yeah, okay," she says, "you didn't see a thing." Is she actually mocking him? Well, he feels all of about two inches tall, caught ogling a girl, a situation which in most circumstances would cause him to just sit and stew in quiet embarrassment. For better or for worse, he instead tries to defend himself. This girl is just a kid!
"Well, with a suit like that...I, uh...I think I may agree with your mother. Doesn't leave much to the imagination, huh?"
"Oh really? You agree with my mother?" Her tone is skeptical, as she closes her own eyes and turns towards the sun, "So you think I should cover up a little more? Maybe a wetsuit would be more appropriate?"
"Sure. As long as it's not too tight."
"Right. Can't be showing off too much, can I?" She continues, joking with him, "So, now, what would I wear to school?"
"Hmm, I don't know, a parka maybe? And snow pants?" He likes this, having lightened the mood, his embarrassment eased.
"Oh, but it would be so hot...okay for the winter. How about a mumu for the rest of the year?"
"Sure, you can get them in several fashionable styles and patterns."
"Perfect. You and my mom can sleep easy, then. The world will be safe from my giant breasts." She giggles in amusement. "But, now, what if I just need a little something extra one day, like...I have to give speech next week, to the whole school, for the class election. Can I dress up for that?"
"What do you mean, something extra?"
"Well, who's going to want to listen to me talk in my mumu? If there's nothing to look at? If I wear a tight sweater, all I'll have to do is stand up there in front of everybody and smile pretty. No doubt I'll win, then."
He tries to sound appalled. "You mean, you think you'll win for class vice-president because you're, what? Prettier than the other kids that are running?" He knows her plan, of course, is flawless.
"Definitely! The two girls I'm running against are both field hockey jocks - nice, but kinda plain. And the guy is some chess club fatty. I could just, like, recite the lyrics from 'Circles' from the podium and still win. As long as I'm sure to take nice, long, deep breaths and stand up straight." Her confidence is bordering on arrogance. But that, kind reader, is the cruel reality of high school life. She learns quick.
"Why not just run for president, then, if you're so sure of yourself?"
"Who wants that? That job has actual responsibilities,” she retorts, "and, anyway, Emily's running for president."
"Emily, huh?" He sounds surprised. Emily, though doubtless a smart girl, is not the most socially active of teenagers and certainly doesn't possess the...qualifications...of her friend Traci. "How does she plan on winning?"
"Oh," Traci muses, "she has her ways." She obviously does not want to expand on this any further, and instead works for a slight change of subject. "So, Rich," she asks, "Why is it, why do you think that guys like boobs so much?"
"What? Why? What do mean?" He is a bit taken aback by her bluntness.
"I mean, why is it that, like - the bigger I get, the more I...fill out - the easier things get for me?" He looks over at her to see if she is joking. With eyes closed, her expression is flat.
"Uh, what do you mean 'easier'? Easier in what way?"
"Oh, you know. Like, just the other day, I didn't do so great on a history quiz. So I went in to see my teacher, Mr. Stevens, because I need to keep a higher grade if I still want to move up to the AP class."
"Yeah...and...?"
"Well, I just told him how I really wanted to get into his AP class 'cause I know what a great teacher he is. And I sat up nice and straight in my tight little t-shirt and giggled at all his stupid little jokes. And he said that he'd look over my essay questions and see if he'd reconsider the grade. Next day, he gave it back. I got an A-."
"How do you know that it's-"
"Oh, c'mon...I didn't know what I was talking about in those essays! And he's constantly looking down my shirt in class, everyone knows that. So, now, I sit up front on purpose...betcha I'll be in the AP class by next month."
"That's...kinda creepy. He's an adult, and - your teacher...how old is he?"
"Oh, I dunno, forty-five? But, hey, it happens all the time," she says with a smile, "the only way I even passed Trig last year was because I stayed after school to help Mr. Phillips correct tests. He likes legs, too, so I always wore shorts or a skirt." Through slit eyes again, he looks over at her fine legs, imagining them crossed under a classroom desk, muscular calves shadowed and firm. "And I don't even remember that last time I wrote a lab report."
"Are you one of those girls that-"
"Oh yeah! Choose a smart lab partner in the beginning of the year. A boy. The dorkier the better. They're easy!"
"Hey...I think I was one of those lab partners, once..."
She giggles, and looks over at him to catch his eye. "Yeah, I can see that..."
"Hey! Be nice!" Though joking around easily with her, he is becoming aware of a subtle shift in the balance of power in their relationship, and isn't sure he likes it. She is supposed to be the kid, the little sister's friend, the girl that had a crush on him when she was ten. But he is realizing how confident she’s become in her abilities with boys. And not only boys; she seems to be coming full into the realization that the entire male race could be putty in her hands if she puts her mind to it. He doesn't want her thinking that he’s just Play-Doh himself.
"So, whatever. I mean, it happens all over the place. I've even seen the way my mom always gets my dad to do things. She still does it."
"Yeah, your mom’s hot stuff." She looks over at him quizzically as he says this, gauging whether or not he’s joking. "I mean, for a...lady. She looks like she keeps herself in good shape, for someone her age, I mean."
"Were you checking out my mom?!" she exclaims, incredulous.
"No, I just...well, y'know, I couldn't help but notice, 'cuz she was wearing her bathing suit, her, uh..."
"Her boobs? You couldn't help but look at my mom's boobs?"
"Well, uh, I guess-"
"God! Do you see what I mean? Guys are SO obsessed with breasts!" She sounds more than slightly annoyed. "Why is that, huh? Is it that...I dunno...bigger breasts mean more milk for a baby, would make a woman a better mother? Or is it that guys all just want to be babies again themselves? And big breasts remind them of mommy? They'd be a nice place to curl up? What do you think?"
"Uh, I don't know," he stammers. She could see that she’s making him uncomfortable, "I haven't, uh, really thought about-"
"Yeah, well, tell me: Are you, like, a boob man, a leg man, a butt man...what?"
"Oh...uh, I, uh-"
"You're a boob man, right?"
"Y-yeah, I guess..."
"So, then, what do you think about," she asks as she sits up and stretches her arms over her head, thrusting her chest out provocatively, "when I do this?" His mouth dries up, his eyebrows lift, as he stares at her display. "Or this?" He tries to keep his eyes in his skull as she leans in toward him. Striking a cheesecake pose, she presses her breasts between her arms and coos playfully, seductively. Forming what she knows must be a mind-numbing valley of lush cleavage, she purrs and mews softly, watching him gawk. A young girl playing with a woman's deadly weapons, she finds great pleasure in making him squirm.
To finish proving her point, she slowly pushes back her shoulders, causing her large breasts to blossom, burgeoning forward towards him, flowing through her arms. She turns her head away, pivoting it on her swanlike neck to allow him to stare unabashedly. Smiling devilishly, she hears him emit a low, stifled croak.
"I think," he replies, miraculously finding use of his tongue, "that, ah, I better close my eyes before my head explodes."
Meeting his eyes, she laughs mirthfully, lightening the mood. She had surprised even herself with the boldness of her display. He shakes his head in jest, as if to clear his vision, and notices that she hasn't moved. Her chest still hovers gravidly below the line of their gaze. Her smile becomes crooked, noticing that he hasn't closed his eyes, a smile daring him to look down again. Unblinking, she holds his eyes with hers for a pregnant moment until chuckling again and laying back into her chaise. Satisfied that he seems to have the proper respect for her body, she lets him off the hook and falls silent.
They sunbathe quietly for a bit, until Traci's mother appears with dessert. He is determined not to look anywhere near the vicinity of the woman’s chest, at least not while Traci could catch him. "Two bowls of ice cream," she chirps, "one for each of you. Rich, I gave you two scoops."
"Thanks, Mrs. Graham."
"Enjoy the sun," she quips, laying the bowls on the table and taking away lunch’s' detritus. As he turns to take his, Traci has already started eating. He looks at his bowl - one scoop of ice cream. He looks over at her. Sliding a heaping spoonful into her mouth, she grins broadly, her eyes glittering mischievously over her bowl - with two scoops. He shakes his head, smiling, and chuckles as he digs into his own dessert. She giggles herself, and takes another full spoonful. "What am I going to do with you?" he asks, making her laugh more freely.
He is at the pool several hours, chatting pleasantly with her, watching her get up every once in a while to cool off with a dip in the pool. What a vision it is, watching her dip under the water and then arise, water flowing over her flawless, lightly bronzed skin. Heaven is the few seconds between her breaking the surface, head back to straighten her hair, and the moment she opens her eyes. And watching her climb the steps out of the pool is like (forgive the hyperbole; our hero is not accustomed to such visions) watching the birth of a young goddess.
Eventually the day wears on, the sun a bit low in the September afternoon sky, and he decides it is time to make his exit. She seems honestly disappointed, telling him how much she enjoyed having him over. He explains his plans for the evening, that he has to get back home, straighten up the house and get ready for a night out with Mark and an old buddy who's passing through town with his new girlfriend. "But hey," he chirps as he's packing up, pretending as if the idea just crossed his mind, "I'm having a party next weekend. Should be a good crowd. Why don't you and Emily come on over?" She agrees noncommittally as she stands, donning her sweatshirt once again, zipping it up the front. They walk together out front to his car, waving goodbye as he pulls away.
His evening out at the few local bars around town with his friends is fun, though he spends much of the time trying to figure out if Mark has any idea that he's been spending time with Traci. Nothing is said, but Rich gets the feeling that Mark is being a little more quiet than usual around him, trying to avoid an uncomfortable topic. They do, however, discuss plans for next Saturday's party for quite a while before Rich tires out and heads home around midnight, a little earlier than usual.
The coming week finds Rich excited about the party less and less. Since Saturday night he's been feeling drained, unmotivated for most everything. It’s his group of friends, all of whom still seemed to live with their parents, who convinced him to have the party in the first place anyway. The only thing he's really looking forward to, he's embarrassed to admit, is seeing Traci there. He hopes she'll come, hopes that it'll be a big enough party to impress her.
On that front, he isn't disappointed. Saturday night brings a bigger crowd than he'd expected; the house fills quickly. It's amazing, he thinks, how many people will come out of the woodwork in a little town when word gets out on a few kegs. He's so busy, in fact, playing host, greeting old friends and acquaintances, meeting new people, that he doesn't get to do much serious drinking himself. He is, however, as the night wears on, more and more aware of his growing disappointment that the girls haven't yet shown up.
Finally, around eleven-thirty, he spots Emily across the room, amongst a group of high school kids he doesn't recognize. Must be friends she brought along...whatever. I just hope they don't do anything stupid, he thinks, not wanting to be caught feeding beer to a bunch of underage drinkers. He strains his neck, peering over the crowd, to look more closely. Nope. Traci is not with them. He is caught by surprise, then, when he turns around and finds himself almost bumping right into her; she has found him herself.
She's giggly, overly talkative, and openly flirty. Obviously she's been drinking before showing up at the party. Her breath smells of peppermint schnapps. Her hand on his arm, she stands a little too close to him. He's nervous, concerned that others will notice their rapport. She wants a tour of the house, she says, asks specifically to see his bedroom when they approach the hallway. He balks, pointing to his room down the hall, and steers her back to the crowd. He doesn't want to be seen spending too much time with her, but on the other hand finds himself getting protective when he notices other guys watching her walk by, feeling jealous when asked "wow...who's that?"
She does look good tonight, he admits. She is dressed a bit more conservatively than he’s seen her recently, in another pair of low-rider jeans and a tight red t-shirt with maroon, mid-length sleeves. Kind of styled like those old concert shirts. Hard to hide the body beneath, however. Her hair is straight, her make-up subtle. Once again he finds himself checking out the hips poured into those tight, faded jeans, wishing he was maybe five years younger, or she five years older, so he wouldn't feel so apprehensive about lusting after her. She catches him looking at her several times throughout the party; he notices her watching him also. Their eyes meet frequently across the crowd; they each smile and go back to their conversations.
Obviously enjoying herself, she's drinking quite a bit, he notices. Every time he turns around it seems there's a different guy handing her a new wine cooler or plastic cup or bottle of something-or-other. She and Emily are still around, in fact, into the early morning, hanging around with the night-owls and friends of his planning to crash for the night at the house. The high school crowd, thankfully, has gone. He realizes, finally, that most of these remaining people may be up all night, huddled around their drinking games. He, however, can't seem to keep his eyes open and asks Mark - finishing up a game of quarters - to keep a watch on things so he can go to bed. Mark agrees, though he plans on taking off soon himself. "That's fine," Rich says, "I'm beat...goodnight."
He is aware of Traci's eyes on him as he leaves the room and heads off down the hall to his room. Closing the door, shutting off the light, he is quickly out of his jeans and under the covers. With a deep breath, he closes his eyes and waits. As he half expects, there is soon a knock on his door. His heartbeat quickens.
"Hello?" her voice calls in quietly as the door cracks open, "Rich?"
"Yeah?" he answers, "Traci?" He acts surprised, feigning half-sleep.
"I just came to say goodbye. Can I come in?"
"Sure," he answers, as she's already slipped through the doorway, "come on in."
She walks into the moonlit room, closing the door behind her. His heart flutters, he moves to sit up on the bed. "No," she insists, putting two fingers on his chest, "don't get up." She gently pushes him back down onto the bed and sits next to him on the mattress, to his right. His heartbeat quickens. "So," she says, peering down at him over the swells of her chest, "that was a really great party. I had a lot of fun."
Though his view is incredible, gazing up at her pretty face, her wide eyes, the curves of her hips and waist so close, he finds himself embarrassed to be staring up at the undersides of her plump, round breasts. Stop it, he thinks, she's just a kid. "Good," he replies, half turning modestly away, onto his left side, "I'm glad you liked it. Emily still here?"
"Yeah," she responds, reclining her weight on the mattress next to him, coming in close, "Mark is going to drive us home." He can feel her approach behind him, propped up on her left elbow, watching him.
"He's been drinking...is he okay to drive?" He asks.
""Yeah, I think he's fine," she replies, as she brushes a lock of his hair away from his right ear and leans in closer. His loins tighten in response as her voice appears, so close to his ear. He knows he should stop her, send her away, but he cannot. It all feels so good. "Thank you for being so concerned," she whispers, her voice now a breathy seduction, "you're always so nice." She hears him moan, almost inaudibly, and feels his hips shift next to her. In his boxers, his erection springs to life. God, man, this is bad.
She knows she's struck a nerve, that this feels good to him. Tipsy, her inhibitions relaxed, she breathes, exhaling into his ear a few times, feeling him try not to squirm. She's turning him on, she knows. "But, y'know," she continues softly, "I'd rather stay here." Her lips are closer now, almost kissing his ear. He can feel her breath, hear her lips parting moistly around her words. It takes all his strength not to roll onto his back, meet her lips.
"Uh, nobody's using my parents' room," he croaks, his voice strained, "You guys...can crash there."
He can feel her smile. "Mmmm..." she purrs, watching him shiver, "Oh...Rich..." She's playing him like a toy, she realizes with satisfaction; she has him absolutely quivering. "That's not," she breathes, hand coming to rest on the elastic of his boxers, "what I meant."
Suddenly there is a knock on the door. "Traci?" Damn it! Mark's voice, calling in, half-annoyed. "C'mon, we're taking off." Rich's heart sinks, he freezes. Oh god, he thinks, now he knows we're in here together.
Traci pauses, unmoving, and kisses the air between them with gentle portent. She sits up slowly, next to him, as he turns again to face her. "Looks like I gotta go," she says with a baby-doll frown, tenderly pushing a wisp of hair away from his forehead, "I'll see you later?"
His heart is heavy, he realizes, with disapointment. He knows that, deep inside, this illicit seduction was what he was looking forward to all week. Anyhow, it's probably for the better, he figures. Definitely for the better. "Yeah, okay," he says, as she rises to leave, "I'll give you a call."
She smiles over her shoulder as she turns to leave, giving her hips an extra sway as she walks out the door.
The next day he awakes late in the morning, feeling all sorts of lousy - hung over, sick, ashamed. How is he supposed to explain Traci's late night visit to his friends, those that are still there? He's sure at least some of them noticed her brief absence last night. What should he say? "Nothing happened? Nothing's going on?" He wouldn't believe that himself, even though it technically is the truth. Should he tell them she made a pass at him...but if that got back to her, she might be mad...and might not do it again. Jeez! He feels like an idiot ...why is he being reduced to playing these games?
Depressed, he stays in bed until well after noon, until the house is silent and he's sure everyone is gone. Dragging himself, finally, to the bathroom for a shower, he looks long at hard at himself in the mirror. Always thin, he looks downright skinny, out of shape. Stepping on the scale reveals...160. Yeah, he's lost weight. He should, he figures, start working out again. He looks drawn, pale already despite the past summer of leisure in the sun.
His shower reinvigorates him somewhat, but he is still nagged by the lingering embarrassment of being caught in his bedroom with a high school kid. He is able to forget his discomfort, if only for a short while, by allowing his hand to drift down between his legs as he stands in the hot water with his shame and thoughts of Traci. That voice, her breath in his ear. The round, plump undersides of those big breasts. Oh...god.