introducing marcia
by
jane
(c) 1999
*...when in her early twenties ...marcia would blush and
confide to me that it had been her "horny" summer ...and
yet, except for one delicious escapade, not a lot actually
happened in that july and august before her last high school
year ...not that much of note ...if she left out all the
times she arched her back against pale cotton sheets and used
her own sensitive, long fingers to build and ease the tension
that burned within her ...if she didn't count the dreams and
fantasies ...her real time sexual adventures counted up to
only one ...just one ...one day so vivid in her memory that
it had, she felt, defined her ...but the whole summer had
been erotic, she said ...and when she reconstructed it for
me, she wondered why ...why she'd found it so intense...*
In her diary for that date she wrote nothing of events,
just a simple, "Hi! I'm Marcia," to mark it as an end and new
beginning, an introduction to herself. Hormones, she
speculated mentally. That was a natural first possibility.
Her soft, thin pubic curl had bronzed that spring, a mature
patina that cast dark contrasts against white thighs and hips
when she studied her anatomy reflected in a mirror. Artist's
eyes. She won the Junior Sculpture Award in June, and her gaze
was more analytical than narcissistic. She pictured forms and
lines atop a marble base beside a park bench or in a gallery
where young children and old men could run their fingers on
the cool metallic calves. And, too, her clitoris was suddenly
longer and thicker than it was before. It had acquired a
deeper "voice," one that called to her with urgency and
frequently, regardless of how inopportune the moment. A math
exam. An interlude with mother's friends. Waiting in a line
at Wendy's. And her morning runs, once done for the highs of
feeling fit, had changed their focus. Now they centred on the
constant rubbing of the mesh jersey against bare nipples.
Small breasts, no bra, her nipples sometimes hung against the
sweat drenched cloth concealing nothing, seemed huge to her,
disproportionate, an ecstasy of nerve endings, an advertisement
of her inner hunger. Hormones?
Quinn? She considered him a suspect in the mystery of what
had somehow turned a shy artist into a secret sexual addict,
at least in fantasy. Quinn asked her out five times that
summer. He was the nicest boy she'd dated, but "nice," she
had discovered, carried with it certain penalties. She was at
times dumbstruck by the depth of his friendship and the pouting
of his lower lip. They constructed castles of romance that
summer. They sat on the roof of an abandoned tree house near
his Etobicoke home, near a shallows of the Humber River
discussing the Tao of Pooh and the dew of little things. They
jogged and swam and walked and biked and wrote poetry together.
She sketched his portrait a half dozen times. But when she
gathered the crinolines of her courage up around her hips and
waded into the uncertain waters of giving him a first kiss,
his mouth was cold and hard, forbidding. Was it her? Or him?
Was he gay or harbouring some tortured secret? In the end,
since she never could attach a reason, the bottom line was all
the same: they were good friends, he turned her on, and they
were only friends.
Her father's sudden death two year's earlier, did that have
some connection? Her recent brief encounters with the
internet and the novelty of cyber sex, had that fostered an
obsession? Her passion for drawing and sculpture, had it
overflowed from Life Class and stained her lap like dark
sweet chocolate or an over ripe raspberry? Did it matter
what it was? "It" or "they" had fuelled her lust that "horny
summer," but Marcia mostly wondered at its depth and gloried
in its memory.
============================================================
Late August. A heat wave gripped Toronto. Shade shimmered out
across the patio from giant cottonwoods in the neighbour's yard.
Marcia closed her eyes and settled deeper in the cushioned
lounge. She had just received "the dream-gift" from her
mother, and she turned it over in her mind, admiring it,
considering all its possibilities. An hour earlier her mom had
called from work downtown. "New York City!" she had sung. Her
advertising firm was sending her for client meetings. Would
Marcia like to come along? Or could she, at seventeen,
manage by herself alone two days, one night? Thursday. The
possibilities. Either prospect might be more than simply
interesting. She fleshed in contours and shaded details
mentally. Beneath her unzipped shorts, her fingers felt their
way along a flat tight stomach to her groin. Possibilities.
Crept through the brown soft savannah like a lioness savouring
the moments before the kill, the power her fingers held, making
her clitoris wait, asking it to whimper for relief. The
possibilities of being home alone? Or New York afternoons
without a parent? The pads of her fingers, slithered the
length of her slit without opening it, bathing in the hints
of cream that seeped from deep within. She sketched more
details in her mind. A breeze touched beads of sweat formed
on the upper lip of her smile.
Eyes three-quarters closed, she watched the curtains of her
neighbour's second story window. By now Barbara Winter's
husband would be safely tucked away somewhere behind a
downtown desk, and Marcia wondered if the pretty newly-wed
might feel a little bored or lonely now. Barb's smile was
tantalizing. Marcia shut her eyes and pictured it, dreamed
an eye pressed to the long, black opening where the drapes
almost met. She pretended that other fingers ached like hers
to tease between damp thighs. Then Marcia slipped her shorts
a little lower on her hips and let the upper half of her damp
curls dry in the humid air. She allowed her clit, the thrill
of a caress, and felt a jolt of ecstasy churn down her legs.
Please, be watching, Barbara. Please, pull back your
curtains. Stand there in the window; watch me openly, she
pleaded mentally. As if it were a sable watercolour brush,
laying down a careful weak vermilion wash, she slowly stroked
her finger on her clit. She wanted to be naked, wanted
someone to share this moment with her. Eyes pressed tightly
now, her hips raised to ease her shorts down all the way, her
imagination heard the quiet gasp from the smiling Mrs. Winter.
The phone. It screamed across the lawn at her. It screamed
twice more before she struggled from the chair and to the
kitchen door
"What's happening?" It was Rebecca. They had been friends
since public school, especially close now that they both
excelled in art. Rebecca's voice was like a chime, pure,
mellow with a laugh in every syllable. Sometimes it was hard
to hear the words, Marcia found the music so seductive.
"Mmmmm. Just dreaming." Marcia licked her finger, and set
her back against the kitchen door jamb, cradling the phone
with her shoulder. "How are you? Mom is taking off for New
York. Some business trip." She pulled the zipper up on her
shorts awkwardly with one hand still cradling the phone.
"It's so hot today, already, I can't stand it. When is she
going?"
"On Thursday."
"Hey! That's perfect! It's a picnic that afternoon. Sandy
just called me. O please! You have to come."
"Sandy, eh? I guess that means Trevor will be there." There
was no enthusiasm in Marcia's voice.
"Yes, Trevor. Tarzan. I know. He sucks. And the rest of the
guest list isn't any better. Krystal and Danny."
"Duh. O this is so hard to choose. Times Square or Krystal
and Danny." Marcia's laugh was thin and almost hard.
"Wait! I'm desperate. School is next Tuesday. The long
weekend is all family. This is the last blast of the summer."
"Some blast. Danny?"
"But Sandy's solid. She asked me. I said, 'Yes,' without
thinking. The Islands. I was thinking about this heat, I
guess. And its so boring here. The Islands might be nice,
eh? Please, Marci."
"Hmmm."
"I'll owe you my life. You have to rescue me. And we don't
have to hang with them all the time. We can bike or sketch a
ship in the harbour. Anything. Please."
"Well, I hadn't really made up my mind. The idea of owning you
has its appeal," Marcia teased.
"Own me. Just say you'll go."
"What about dates? Should I ask Quinn?
"Yeah, sure." Rebecca's voice fell almost imperceptibly,
just enough to alert her friend that something didn't fit.
"Then who will you ask?" Dumb, Marcia thought immediately.
Becca had just broken up. It had been unpleasant and with
some anger pointed in the direction of men in general. This
wasn't going to work.
"Suggestions?" Rebecca's voice was back to normal.
"Lot's. But I think we'd have more fun, just you and me.
Quinn would get eaten alive by Danny and Trevor."
"Maybe he'd like that," Becca giggled.
"Hey! Just remember that I own you. Show a little respect."
"Thank you, Marcia. Really. You're the best."
"Get off. I think my mom will have more fun without me
anyway. It's time she got back in the market. I'd just be a
chaperone."
"I think you're right. She's cool."
"Okay. I'll stay and do the picnic thing. I should go now
though. I left someone waiting for me on the patio. The
neighbour lady was looking for something." Maybe a tablespoon
of honey. Marcia pressed her thighs together.
"Thanks." Marcia let the phone dangle by the cord for a few
more seconds before hanging up, treating herself to the
luxury of a dream. Perhaps. If she could think of something
that needed borrowing from next door. How could she find out,
somehow, if she was really being watched? Just at the thought,
just at the word "watched" she felt her nipples start to swell.
Yes. The intermission must be over. The curtain for the
second act was about to rise.
=============================================================
Monday's thermal inversion spread like a film of
multicoloured oil across the week. By Thursday morning when
Marcia's mother left for Pearson International, the haze that
sucked the oxygen from the air had leaked out from the city's
core into the suburbs. Haliburton or Algonquin, Marcia
thought. That's where they should be heading, not downtown.
Their target ought to be a cottage on a loon-filled lake, not
a crowded subway ride and a boat that would barely take them
past the shadows of the big bank towers. But she'd made
her choice, and New York City would be just as bad today.
She'd almost let Rebecca talk her into biking all the way
downtown. They did that often, and on a weekday she could
bring her ten speed with her on the ferry. But what if they
came back late. For certain, not in all this heat today.
Past High Park, even in the morning, the asphalt radiation
along Bloor or Dundas Streets would bake them. She'd rather
face the crowded underground than the simmering poison fumes
along the city centre corridors.
It was at the Old Mill subway station that a young couple got
on the train, and Marcia's summer took a sudden turn. The car
was far from full, less than two dozen riders sat in the pre-
lunch calm before the rush. For Marcia and Rebecca it was
their second stop since getting on at Islington. The couple
took a seat across from them and to the left. They both seemed
to be of university age. Both wore shorts and sandals. He was
blonde and bronze; he wore an earring, and a stud in his left
nostril. She was stunning. Waist length chestnut hair that
would have seized and held the attention of everyone in the
car, would have if she hadn't worn a white lace blouse that
barely cast a film across her chest. A newspaper slid onto
the floor. The car doors slammed. A whistle blew. No one
noticed anything except the brown sweet breasts that hung
like pears beneath the see-through shirt, areola small, long
nipples erect. She studied advertisements above the
seats across from her, the long brown mane tucked down her
back so that nothing would obstruct the line of view. She
smiled, as if the ads were all encoded in way that only she
could see the humour in them.
Marcia, frozen, let her bare leg lean against Rebecca, asking
for a confirmation that she wasn't dreaming. The pressure
back assured her, assured her, too, that Rebecca was just as
engrossed as she, front row centre in the audience. The car
lurched forward. The breasts jiggled from the motion. Then
another movement. This time the woman placed her hand lightly
on her partner's thigh, letting the momentum of the train carry
it up, away from his knee toward the growing bulge within his
shorts. The hand and bulge slowly merged like images coming
into focus. But they more than only merged. Careful fingers
pressed the cotton shorts to give more definition to the
lump, forming it into a beige cloth-covered rod, its length
and thickness on display now clearly for the other passengers.
Careful fingers traced the cylinder firmly, drawing it to its
full extent. Pinched it lightly. Marcia was sure she saw it
move, spasm against its prison. The woman pressed the swollen
head that capped his straining prick. She stroked it like it
was the soft fur place behind a puppy's ear. And then a
whistle, and the audience exhaled. The train slowed for a stop.
Three passengers got on at Runnymede; none departed. Marcia
wondered if anyone would leave until play was ended. The
second scene began. A shrill signal and the motion of the car
pressed them forward. The couples' eyes stayed frozen to the
ads, their faces, calm, two Mona Lisa smiles. This time it was
the rougher hand, the man's that roamed across the blouse. It
searched and found the cornflower woven hem and slipped beneath
it. Caressed her midriff, groping higher until it reached her
perfect breasts, basking in their spotlight. A thumb and
forefinger lightly grasped a nipple. Rolled it left. The shirt
was sheer enough that Marcia saw the wrinkles of the twist
spread out across the darker halo swelling out around the
stiffening nub of flesh. Agony. He held it, until drops of
perspiration formed along the girl's immobile brow. Then
twisted right. Lips twitched among the audience. A man
covered his lap with a paperback book. Marcia pressed her
thighs, massaging. Then slowly left again until the motion of
the car slowed for another stop. The hand withdrew. Both
nipples strained against the fabric. This time the couple rose
and straighten clothing and disappeared behind the sliding
doors.
Marcia and Rebecca breathed. The scream of the wheels leaving
the station filled the car, and Marcia leaned closer to her
friend? "Wow."
"Why?" Rebecca was quietly incredulous. "What was going on,
do you think?"
Marcia considered her reply for long seconds, pretending it
was herself sitting across from them, feeling the plaintive
mewling of her clit. Then she answered simply, "Dares."
They rode the rest in silence lost in separate fantasies,
oblivious as the car filled up, each wondering if there might
have been one more, if there might have been a next delicious
challenge played out upon the grassy knolls that spread along
the park to Grenadier Pond. And what it might have been.
They were absorbed completely in the pleasure of the drama,
as they ambled past thinning sidewalk crowds down Yonge
Street toward the ferry terminal. Without her help, Marcia
would have missed the change of trains at St. George, Rebecca
teased. And laughter nearly swept them off the walkway when
Marcia hissed, "It fucking moved!" But it was only minutes
to the docks, and the others were already waiting in the
entrance plaza: Sandy and Trevor, Krystal and Danny.
"O my god!" chimed Becca. "Sandy, it's incredible!"
Forgotten in an instant was the cameo subway ride. Unnoticed
stood the two young men in shorts, one tossing a football to
himself, the short ticket lines, the persistent seagulls and
the vast cobalt opening in the glass and concrete walls
behind them. Sandy had shaved her head, and its bold, stark
nakedness consumed both of the new arrivals.
"You're a new person," said Marcia. "So totally gorgeous."
Sandy had been pretty. Now suddenly she looked like she
belonged on floodlit runways, a fashion model. Marcia was
moist again. "Very sexy."
"I'm almost grounded," Sandy groaned, a former blonde, her
green eyes round and somehow greener than they had ever
seemed before. She reached Rebecca's height, as tall almost
as Trevor but well short of Marcia or Danny's towering frame.
"My mom is still in shock. My dad gets home tomorrow. But I
love it. I never realized how... confining hair can be. It's
like I'm free. Wow."
"Your whole face," came the calmer voice of Rebecca, her
painterly voice, "I'm seeing your face for the first time.
Like... the bones, your skin..."
"It's so radical. It makes you look like twenty-five. And
hungry, like you could be a refugee or an alien," Marcia's
tone showed her envy.
"Yeah, like an alien," said Trevor. Hands plunged into his
shorts, his sweatshirt with the sleeves torn out revealed
tanned, rippled abs. He was sulking. His short black fuzz
of hair tilted down toward the concrete walk. A running
shoe, sockless, kicked at a khaki packsack, betraying his
impatience to get things underway.
"Thinks it was partly his, " Sandy confided to her girlfriends.
"I could never do that," said Krystal. "Not without
discussing it." She'd pulled her jet black hair into a pony
tail. She was a waif. Short and very thin. Lean in every
way except her breasts, contoured now by a push-up bra that
neatly imprinted her white T-shirt. They were large. They
looked huge attached to such a tiny body. "I guess I'm just
not very daring."
Danny dropped his football, and then swept it off the
concrete like he was about to sprint toward a touchdown. He
took charge. Tall and lean, crowned with a Bulls baseball
cap, he was a quarterback, marking time until his season
would begin. His quiet voice was used to issuing commands.
"Let's get this road on the show, guys. We can bullshit on the
ferry." And almost without comment, his team broke huddle
and found their places in the ticket line.
Only the seagulls passed their awkward judgement on the
quarterback's selected play, the seagulls and a faint whisper
from the fair-haired Marcia to her laughing friend, "It did.
It fucking moved!"
============================================================
The unfairness stung a little. Choosing sides and rules had
been disappointingly transparent for Marcia. It soured some
of the sweetness of the ferry ride and tarnished the endless
green of the island park around them. The boys elected
themselves as captains. Marcia forgave them that. Their
girlfriends had been gerrymandered onto opposing teams, and
when the rule was established "soft" tackle, it wasn't
difficult to figure why. Marcia and Rebecca immediately
became extraneous. The ball carriers would be Sandy and
Krystal, "softly" brought down with less than subtle touches
and gropes by their boyfriends. A hand would accidentally
find its way beneath a blouse or hook onto a pair of shorts.
Bodies would gently roll together onto the thick grass. A
kiss. A pat on the behind just like the pros. Left out of
the central "conflict," Marcia did still find it stimulating.
Watching. Sandy's shorts were very short, and now and then a
flash of pink satin would appear at the crotch as she tumbled
on the grass. And once Danny got so erect he couldn't hide
it, could barely hobble back to a huddle. Rebecca seemed
less enthusiastic, maybe felt more keenly being sidelined by
default from the real game.
It was Krystal that provided them a brief respite. Her
sprained finger and enough tears that Danny had to offer
tender consolation or risk a premature ending to his game,
gave Rebecca and Marcia a chance to confer over a Pepsi. A
single word from Becca, "Dare."
"Dare what?"
"Help Sandy score a touchdown against us."
"And how do I do that?"
"Take out Trevor."
"How?" Marcia was a runner, but Trevor lifted weights and
played football for real.
Rebecca smiled broadly. Then repeated, "Dare."
"What's all the whispering?" Sandy queried reaching for a
soda.
Marcia's eyes met Becca's briefly before she gave her answer.
"You're about to score a touchdown, hon." Marcia gave a
wicked grin.
"Let's go," Danny commanded.
Krystal's eyes puffed slightly as they lined up on the ball.
Sandy bent over, ready to deliver the rubber pigskin onto her
ass the way Danny had so patiently modelled for her. The
back of his hand moved lightly against her denim shorts.
Sandy looked ahead into the eyes of Rebecca, wondering.
Trevor shuffled his feet a few steps in the backfield, secure
in knowing almost exactly what would happen. After the snap,
Sandy would accept a short easy pass or a hand off and try
half-heartedly to elude him, just hard enough to maintain the
fiction this was football. Rebecca and Krystal would make a
futile try at sacking Dan. Marcia might try to block for
Sandy. The thrill of this game was not in predicting
correctly the next play. It was in anticipating the feel of
Sandy's tits as she made contact with him.
It almost went that way. Sandy caught the awkward lob just
beyond the defenders' out stretched arms, but hesitated for a
second, falling in a stride or two behind the charging
Marcia. Trevor grinned. Moving Marcia out of the path would
be a nice warm up to Sandy... as long as he was careful
not to seem too interested. Perhaps an arm around her waist,
an accidental hand tucked briefly down inside the back of her
shorts or up inside her little shirt. She fooled him though.
Her brake was sudden and just short of his soft grasp. Her
polyester tank top was short and open at the hem, a wide bare
midriff giving Trevor easy access to her flesh. But then she
raised her arms completely, and the top rode high across her
torso, high enough to show she wasn't wearing any bra, high
enough to give a glimpse of how her small ripe tits rose
sweetly off her chest, high enough to showcase most of her
brown areola. It was a fake that Trevor hadn't ever seen
before, and Marcia ducked back down immediately. Beneath his
empty grab she reached out a hand to keep him from falling over
her, a hand that came firm against his thigh. Then slid a
little higher until it found his groin. She left it firmly
there steadying him, as his swelling started in her hand.
Her fingers found the outline of his prick and pressed.
Trevor's arms hung helpless. Marcia caressed the shaft
again.
"Touchdown!" sang Sandy from fifteen yards away.
"Nice block," muttered Trevor.
"My pleasure."
"Hey!" Sandy had come back to them, now breathless. "Just
like you said."
"Nice run, Sandy. You should come jog with me sometime."
Marcia allowed herself another smile.
The game ended shortly after that. Trevor said it was
starting to suck. He'd lost his concentration. Krystal
conceded her defeat to the thermometer. The next short break
was littered with deserters and dragged into a conversation
about what to do next. Rebecca suggested she and Marcia take
a walk, maybe rent a bike. And she celebrated to herself
when no one else was interested in coming with them.
"You slut!" she laughed just out of earshot. "You really
did it!"
"O god. I did," clapping her hands over her eyes and
doubling over in laughter.
"You should have seen the look on his face."
"Get real! He must have touched me a dozen times out there.
Why should he be off limits?" Marcia squeezed the hand of
her co-conspirator. "And why did I have to do the dare? I
own you today, remember."
Rebecca laughed, then contemplated briefly. She spoke gently
and with caution, "Because you wanted to?"
Marcia thought long before she answered with a question, "Did
you want to, too?"
A breeze blew off the lake. They'd run out of ambiguities.
There was nothing left for her to do but stare directly into
Marcia's eye and weakly concede a, "Yes."
The rest of the walk was all school memories and movie scenes
and clothes that one could die for. But when they'd paid
their bike deposits and picked out ones that were as close to
something comfortable as they could find, Marcia turned the
conversation back to what she'd thought of all along the way.
"Bec, I dare you to do this ride without your bra."
"I'm not a board like you, Marc," Becca laughed. "We're in
'C' country here. I'll bounce all over the place."
"Hey. I own you, remember."
Rebecca sighed. And smiled. But her knees trembled as she
entered the cool dim change room to remove it. She used a
stall for privacy. This was getting just a little bit
unreal. Something crazy was going on. The bra was satin,
and printed with flowers. It matched her brief. It might
have passed for somewhat boring swimwear if it didn't get all
wet, her reason for choosing it that day. To have something
extra, just in case. "In case of what, you idiot," she
shrugged at herself. She folded it and pushed it deep into
her pack. Then she slipped back into the sleeveless blouse.
And as she buttoned it, she pressed a finger on her nipple,
pressed it up against the polished cloth. A spark. This was
crazy alright.
Emerging in brilliant sunlight, she bounced back toward the
waiting Marcia, leaning on two bikes. The slightest spring
in any step set off an obvious swing. "I'm glad this wasn't
a jogging dare."
"Come here," Marcia held out her arms. "Let me fix you."
"I'm fixed. Can't you tell?" Rebecca giggled.
"Trust me. I hate to keep reminding you, but I get to call
the shots today. Here." Marcia pulled her friend close to
her, undoing the three bottom buttons. "I think you need a
little more support and a little less coverage. Maybe I
should have made you take this off and keep the bra." Marcia
bunched the cloth and tied a knot as high under Rebecca's
ribcage as she could force it. Then undid another button at
the top. "Trust me. You look stunning."
"As long as we don't run into my mother's bridge club."
"Fat chance."
And they rode off along the blacktop path, heading west
toward Hanlan's Point, Canada geese scattering off the road
in front of them. Side by side they peddled, stealing
glances at each other's tops. Rebecca's arm opening was
large enough, with her arms extended on the handle bars, to
show large patches of her milk white breast. But Marcia's
short tank top was not designed for cycling in any position
except sitting upright. "Lean forward like it's your ten
speed," Rebecca commanded.
The blouse rode up. Marcia's breasts hung free below it. "O
god!"
"Dare. Wait 'till we catch up to those guys just up ahead.
Then do that."
"Never. Never in a million years."
Four young men, paired by coolers slung between them, clogged
the lane ahead. The talk was Blue Jays. The argument,
punctuated with shoves and shouting, wrapped them in its
passion and hid the cyclists coming up behind them. They
staggered slightly, all of them, when silent bicycles
suddenly appeared on either side. And startle turned to
shock when, on the left, a blonde-haired teen leaned forward,
raised her right elbow purposefully, and flashed her fresh
young tits at them. Flashed them so completely, that she
left them speechless, until the girls were almost out of
earshot. Then whistles and flagrant propositions. "Some
people just don't know how to accept a gift, do they,"
Rebecca laughed out loud. "You amaze me, girl!"
Within minutes they stood near the Hanlan docks in the shade
of a gigantic willow taking long pulls from Marcia's water
bottle as they plotted the trip back. "We might have to pass
them again going back."
"I can guess what your dare is going to be."
"They really bite actually. It turned me on completely when
I did it, but after they started yelling. I don't know. It
made the whole thing seem weird."
"You need a better audience," Rebecca said seductively.
"Maybe we need a change of pace. You want to sketch for
awhile?"
"You know that's what I always want to do."
"Where shall we set up?"
Rebecca chose a place between the path and tennis courts,
where she could put together a bit of skyline and the dock,
some trees, a family group or two at picnics, a game of
Frisbee to the left. Normally they loved to jockey for
positions at a still life or a model. Sometimes it took them
hours to find a place that both agreed was worthy. Today,
however, Marcia left the site completely up to Rebecca. And
then she settled herself onto the grass opposite her friend
about two yards away.
"What are you doing?"
"You."
"I can't be your model. I'm trying to draw."
"How is that going to bother you? Did you know that if we
were at Central Tech next year, we'd have nude models in our
Life classes?"
"I know. It's so Victorian. I'm so tired of doing costumes."
"Can you imagine trying to learn math without getting to see
the numbers?" And then restrained herself. She didn't want
to start one of her harangues. Marcia drew two quick light
lines that caught the angles of Rebecca's head and trunk.
"Would you mind taking off that blouse?"
"No way, Jose." She laughed.
"Ok. Just unbutton it." Then, "Dare."
Rebecca looked at her friend. Marcia nodded toward the
blouse. "I'm going insane," she said as she pulled apart the
knot and slipped the last remaining button loose. The side
panels of the blouse still covered her, but fresh warm air
now bathed her breasts completely. The touch of fabric was
no longer a confinement, just a whisper against her flesh
with every puff of breeze. She loved it, but that was hard
to admit out loud. "You are going to get me into lots of
trouble."
"Hey, this is hardly asking for the life you promised me.
Now, please move that side just a little. Just a bit. Just
enough to show me the little tips. That's perfect."
"O Marcia." She'd had no idea how extremely arousing this
would be.
"Just don't move. It's totally perfect." Marcia's pencil
started making tentative sweeps that picked out the strong
shadows on the blouse and at the base of each round breast.
Then she caressed them on the paper with her pencil,
contoured the swell and roll of flesh, fought not to over-
emphasise the darker oval and the yearning nipple. For
Marcia it was sensual, but not erotic. Her mind focussed on
the sketch. "Could you move your right leg down a little?"
Rebecca watched a drifting cloud, no longer any thought of
starting on her own carefully constructed composition.
"Those shorts are horrid. They spoil it, Bec. Any chance
you'd consider another dare."
"You're getting pycho, Marc. No. There is a limit."
"It's for the picture. Then here." Putting down the
notebook, Marcia crawled to her friend. "They're so long, "
she complained. "But at least they're baggy. Don't lose
your pose. Keep your eyes on whatever you were looking at."
She folded the loose hem of first one leg and then the other,
then refolded, and rolled until the shorts had disappeared
under the hanging shirt tails. Rebecca fought to keep her
composure, her friend's clinical fingers creeping higher on
her thigh, and at the end just brushing her floral panty.
"Don't move your head."
"You didn't even ask! Marcia. How much of me can people
see?"
"You're alright. Your panty covers you. No one is even close
right now. They're all busy. Now just hold still a minute.
This is totally kewl. It almost looks like all you have on is
just an open shirt. How do you feel?"
"O god. I feel naked."
Marcia's pencil mapped the large muscle masses of each leg,
crossing through the flesh without outlining, building forms
with shade and highlight, looking for depth at every stroke.
She held the sketch at arms length and looked at the
proportions critically. Then Marcia planned how she would
shade the details. Suddenly she paused. "Becca." She
glanced behind her. The nearest people were almost thirty
yards away, a family gathered around a smoking hibachi. They
seemed to have no interest at all in what the two artists
might be up to. There were others closer, but they were to
the side or back of Rebecca; their view was blocked. "Becca.
Dare."
"Dare? My god, what else do you want?"
"No one can see at all. I just need two minutes. Please.
Just for the sketch, and no one will ever see it. You can
have it if you want. If it turns out."
"I'm not taking off this shirt."
Marcia didn't waver. "Dare." Putting down the sketch, she
crawled back to her friend. "Two minutes. Just for me."
She reached her hand. "Don't move a muscle. You're
perfect." A hand that radiated heat but no sensation swept
along Rebecca's thigh. She jumped when fingers touched her
brief, jumped again, inside, when she felt her panty tighten
as it pulled across her slit. Artist's fingers combed her
soft brown bush. "Relax. I'm just moving it a bit." Fresh
air gushed across her pussy. Rebecca winced in pleasure.
"Marcia."
"Two minutes."
"I can't take this." She was trembling.
"It's so beautiful. I wish we were some place where I could
spend all day on you."
"Marcia!" But Rebecca knew she wouldn't trade these minutes
for anything she'd ever done. If someone kissed her now, if
someone only touched her clit, if some one even stroked her
thigh, she'd come. It didn't matter where she was, or who
could see right then, she felt truly free. And she was high on
it. She was dizzy knowing how intently Marcia studied her
exposed pubis. If there really was an earth or sky or beating
heart, she no longer knew it. Everything that was, was in her
lap. And then it suddenly was over. Marcia was straightening
her panty. This time, it seemed, the hand was less
dispassionate. The fingers lay for just an extra second on
the crevice where her thigh joined to her pussy. There was
an extra touch to smooth a wrinkle and check that no hair was
pulling after she was covered once again.
The sketch went faster now. Both girls admired the result.
"You want it? You looked like you were having fun?" Rebecca
was re-buttoning her blouse, her eyes avoiding Marcia's.
"I liked it."
"It's yours, Bec."
Rebecca was slow to respond. "I did like it. A lot. Does
that make me a slut?" The sketch tore easily from the book,
a hangnail of pre-punched paper hanging from the edge.
"Did you think I was?" Marcia wondered aloud.
"No. I know you, Marc."
"I know you, too. It's just something about ourselves. I
don't want to make it good or bad. I liked it. It made me
feel good when I showed those guys my tits."
=====================================================
Krystal was poking uncertainly at sizzling hot dogs with a
salad fork as Marcia and Rebecca joined the group once more. A
half-dozen beer cans gracelessly accented the picnic table,
and music from an fm station softly droned. Damp swim trunks
and bikinis advertised a dip in Lake Ontario. "You're just
in time," said Sandy. "Where did you go?"
"We had a swim without you." Trevor seemed to direct it more
at Marcia.
"Have a beer." Krystal's voice was thick. She dropped her
fork onto the grass.
"We biked over to Hanlan's Point. It was nice there."
Rebecca came up behind Sandy and put her hand tentatively on
the bald head. "That feels so neat."
"To both of us," Sandy giggled. "Keep doing that."
"I think they're burning," interrupted Krystal helplessly.
There were rescuers, of course. And then without much help
from either member of the backfield, they organized the
contents of the packsacks into the kind of meal that quickly
drowned itself in conversation and laughter. A splash of
mustard muffled Sandy's shrieks, while Rebecca nibbled chips
and searched for something she considered edible. Marcia
wondered just how badly did she want to close the distances
between the others and herself.
"Hey, Marcia!" Trevor challenged. "Ever skinny dip?"
"Not me. You?"
"Sandy says she has."
"True?"
"Yes. One time at our pool. One afternoon when I came home
early, I caught my sister swimming nude. She dared me. I
was really shy at first. But wow. What a turn on!"
Marcia's and Rebecca's eyes collided at the word 'dare,' but
neither of them spoke. Instead, Marcia turned a corner in
the maze of dialogue. "Hey, Krystal. You? You ever do
anything like that?" She hoped she had erased the barbed
edges of her voice enough to pass for curiosity.
"Not really."
"But you'd like to, right?" teased Marcia.
"I never really thought about it." Krystal hid behind her
hotdog bun.
"I bet Danny has." Marcia was enjoying this.
"Yeah," offered Danny, wary of the tone. "Once when I was
eight. Me and my cousins. At the lake."
"Oo, eight!" Marcia tottered on the edge. "That must have
been an exciting flock of little shrunken cocks." And then
she laughed. Too quickly, too alone.
It was Trevor that saved her from herself, "We should, you
know. Later on at Ward's beach there won't be anyone. Not
after sundown. We should."
"Sounds like a plan," Danny offered.
It was almost dusk before they finished off their meal and
walked the kilometre and a half along the boardwalk.
Krystal was the sticking point. When the others seemed like
they might really let it happen, she started dancing on the
edges, trying out excuses, drinking with less caution. But
Danny was persistent. He kept plying her with compliments
until he got a maybe. The beach was nearly empty. Almost
everyone had packed their towels and coolers and headed for
the city before they got there. The stifling heat lay dying
on the sand. A chill gust blew off the lake, but they all knew
the water would be warmer than the evening air.
A fire was necessary, decided Trevor. While Dan and Krystal
conferred in private, the rest searched through the grass and
weeds for scraps of driftwood and garbage dry enough to burn.
Sandy seemed to grow more hesitant, hanging on the outcome of
the whispered parley taking place, fearful of a change in
plans, but willing just to end things with a bonfire on the
beach if that was all the group would risk. Trevor finally
turned the cloud of smoke into a blaze. Then, just as it
roared to certainty, Danny came back to them, bare feet
shuffling in the cooling sand. He said that Krystal wasn't
feeling well. She didn't want to spoil their fun. She
wanted to participate but couldn't, shouldn't anyway, and
Danny planned to take her home right then. So with
appropriate condolences the six turned into four, an awkward
four. They tended the fire silently, prodding it,
bargaining within themselves how this had changed the mix.
"Well I'm doing it," Trevor announced suddenly, then dropped
his sweatshirt near the fire and walked stiffly toward the
lake. Once outside the ring of light he blurred into a
darker blob that seemed to stop at water's edge and bend and
hop on one leg once before wading to the safety of the inky
lake.
"That's fine with me." Sandy slipped off her top and shorts
beside to the fire, then trembled at a breeze. Her yellow
string bikini was an archipelago along her rich cocoa tan.
It almost distracted them from staring at her face and head.
She waited for her friends.
Rebecca didn't have to voice the word this time. She only
closed her hand too tightly on the backpack that held the art
supplies and both their suits, then formed a soundless "d"
and left the rest unsaid. Marcia read the message easily.
"You know what, Sandy. I forgot to bring a suit," said
Marcia coyly.
"That limits your choices, then, doesn't it." Sandy pulled
the tie behind her neck and walked into the growing dark.
The blackened figure hesitated once as she reached behind
herself to undo the final cord of her top, but not, the two
girls by the fire noted, a second time to step out of her
thong. And then the quiet splashes as she greeted Trevor in
the water.
"Was that an invitation, or do they want to be alone?" Marcia
asked.
"I'm not sure. Are you turned on by Trevor?"
"Not really. Not at all. Are you?"
Rebecca winced. "No. Then any prob is in her mind, not
ours, right? It's up to you."
Marcia grinned. "Let's do the thing I know you want to do.
I'll take the dare."
The two stood side by side, this time the fire's glow spewed
out between themselves and the splashing lovers in the lake.
Their bodies warmed yellow in the blaze as they began the show.
Marcia started. She reached out to Rebecca's blouse and
carefully unbuttoned it. Then releasing the drawstring of
her shorts let the loose folds of cotton fall quickly to the
sand. Their motions were unhurried, but it took only a
minute before both girls were standing in their panties
floodlit by the dancing flames. It took a soft, "Go for it,"
from Marcia before they, together, hooked their thumbs inside
of waistbands and leaned forward, letting their uncovered
breasts swing down, sliding the satin briefs down a long slow
trip across their knees and calves until they dropped of
their own weight, crashing to the beach like steel plates.
An echo, loud across the lake. Then both figures, holding
hands for their support, heads high the way the subway actors
had instructed, walked without hurry into the safety of the
growing dusk. They found the sand already cool, and each
privately welcomed the warmth of the gently rocking lake.
"O, it's so nice and warm in here, " Rebecca crooned to the
couple standing joined to one another in a loose embrace in
shoulder deep black water.
"And getting hotter by the minute." Trevor's voice was a leer.
"You two made it sound so inviting," said Marcia. The lake
felt like a warm wet hand sliding up her leg as she walked
each stride into the deepening water. There was starlight
now. The moon had yet to rise. An eerie city luminescence
rose from the north on the other side of the island. It was
almost dark. But when she got within a few yards of the
couple she could see quite clearly faces bobbing modestly
above the chop.
Sandy moved a step away from Trevor as the four converged.
Marcia being taller and closer to the shore stood more
awkwardly positioned. Lake water slapped her breasts in
little waves that covered them for only seconds, then left
them suspended in the cool night air. She could have bent
her legs or moved to greater depths, but it seemed too
falsely modest. She wanted them displayed, didn't mind the
goose bumps that formed and spread right down onto her small
hard nipples.
It was Trevor who called, "Tag," and touched Sandy's starlit
glistening head, then drifted backward out of her reach.
The game was short, and quiet, more serious, as the touches
grew more bold. Sandy's tag on Marcia was awkward but no
where close to accidental. A whispered, "You've got guts,
sis," as she cupped a trembling breast with one hand and
outlined Marcia's nipple with the baby finger from her other
hand. Rebecca tagged Marcia underwater, surfacing with a
hand still resting on her throbbing slit. But Trevor taunted
them, and then he made little effort to try to get away.
Then once too often his prey was Marcia. And Marcia was a
swimmer. She stayed submerged for almost 50 seconds, time
enough to find his leg and follow it to his withered cock,
time enough to cup his balls and roll the swelling cylinder
along her cheek, time enough to stroke its head and bring him
close to full erection before twisting her body from his
clawing hands and sweeping herself a respectful distance to
his left. That ended the game. Sandy saw nothing
underwater, but read his face, and suddenly it was time to
go, go quickly with her would be quarterback in tow.
Rebecca and Marcia lingered. They cleaned the fire pit and
watch the moon rise haunting over Lake Ontario. Wrapped in
towels an hour later they stumbled down dog trails to use the
change room before going to the docks. The light inside was
painful. They dabbed sand and dampness before starting to
sort out clothing thrown in the pack in darkness.
It happened suddenly. Only Rebecca would ever know how long,
or if at all, she'd pondered it, dreamed it, or plotted how
she'd move each muscle, will each limb to find precise
positions on the stage. It might have been spontaneous. Or
there might have been a script, an unseen director in his
canvas chair barking, "A little closer now. Now slowly.
Smoothly. Keep it moving." Rebecca kissed her, kissed her
on the lips with Marcia caught one leg still inside her panty.
Rebecca held her hands on Marcia's neck and damp blonde hair
and almost stumbled. Almost, but Marcia caught them.
Straightened. Let the panty drop. Her eyes at first
reflected her surprise, then terror, then quickly came to
rest on Becca's face, on warm brown pools of hunger. Marcia
let her mind absorb the sensation in her lips. She placed
her hands on Becca's shoulders. Who's tongue first touched
whose lips? Neither one recorded that. Nor how long that
first kiss lasted. But Marcia knew without articulating it that
this was to be a long, long kiss, one that a full grown woman
might someday close her eyes and taste again, and feel her
heart pound faster.
There was the thrill, of course, that someone might walk in,
but this time it was other risks that drove them forward.
Locked in their embrace there was no dare or darer, no
seducer or seduced. Two friends who'd loved each other for
some time, who'd shared each other's secrets and their pain.
When fingers touched a breast or thigh, there was no asking
or answering, only moving to a music that they both had
shared for months. When fingers touched, they were no longer
indifferent artist's fingers examining the cheekbones of
each others faces or measuring the depths and widths that
held together shapes. The kiss continued. Fingers found the
secrets of each others clit, while straining nipples pressed
against each other for relief. When Marcia's middle finger
curled up deep inside Rebecca's pussy, the kiss was
punctuated with a gasp. A gasp that shook their lips ajar
and started a parade of other short quick jerks by both of
them, spasms that ended in their hair spilled onto one
another's shoulders, pleasures that welled up in tears and
washed a salty line down one another's back.
And then they dressed without a word. Found the sidewalk and
the ferry in the dark. And watched the IMAX-sized postcard
of Toronto fill their sky, drowned by the throb of the huge
marine engines and the gagging smell of diesel fuel.
Standing close along the railing, starring forward. The
chill of water and the park was gradually erased by the hot
breathing of the city. And then just minutes before they
docked, Marcia's little finger moved, moved just an inch or
two along the metal rail, moved just enough to come in
contact, to slide across and hold Rebecca's. Moved just
enough to signal that something really had occurred, that it
really had meant something special. Moved just enough to say
that everything from that time on would have a different hue,
that nothing that was important between them would ever
change. Their fingers locked in darkness on the deck. The
ferry's foghorn blast erased the world.
It had been an almost uneventful season. Just one day that
Marcia would remember always. Just one day that introduced
her to herself, one day that climaxed Marcia's "horny" summer.