Amy
by Simon (Simon@jazzandjava.com)

A lot of this story, you already know.  It played out in 
your head a million times, in the back corner of your 
mind during math class, or behind squinched eyelids in 
the middle of the night, maybe even right in the middle 
of the act with a woman other than the one you were 
thinking of.  You know those stories you tell yourself, 
your "what if this happened" stories, your "and then she 
took off her blouse" stories, your personal Penthouse 
Forum.

I've got em in my head too, have since before I really 
knew why, so the thing is, if what I tell you comes off 
a little "and then she took off her blouse," if some of 
it doesn't quite ring true -- forgive me.  Memory's a 
funny thing, and it's easy to read it a little better 
than we lived it.

I was 17.  She was 36.  Either you're nodding and going, 
"OH yeah, I remember that one," or you're about to move 
on.

She was the next-door neighbor, and had moved in with 
her husband and two little kids a few years earlier, one 
of the many families to move to the area when Digital 
opened its new plant.  I was definitely old enough to 
notice her, and started spending more time shooting 
hoops in the driveway, where I had a perfect view of her 
working in her garden, just across the cobblestone path 
that separated the lots from back when the place was all 
horse ranches.

I remember it startled me how cool she seemed for an 
"adult."  She brought a radio out to the garden with her 
and listened to the adult contemporary station, a mix of 
classic rock and the less-poppy mainstream stuff -- a 
station I listened to, when there was too much Paula 
Abdul or New Kids on the Block on the other stations.  
My parents?  They listened to Bing Crosby at Christmas, 
and Sinatra the rest of the year.  This was a woman who 
knew who Aerosmith was.

Mrs. Cramer -- "just call me Amy" -- wasn't the kind of 
woman I would call my "type" these days, but as a 
teenager, let's face it, I didn't have a type.  She was 
petite, a good five or six inches shorter than me, with 
short black hair, dark blue eyes, and a figure still 
good enough for her to tie her shirt up over her stomach 
when it was hot out.  I know she must have owned other 
clothes, but I can only picture her in one outfit: a 
pair of denim shorts, much shorter in memory than they 
possibly could have been in real life, short enough to 
show off those long, smooth, tanned legs; and a pink 
rugby shirt, the shade of pink they only made in the 
80s.  You know the color I mean.

The Cramer kids got along great with my little brother, 
who was a few years older than them, so I never ended up 
babysitting -- no tales here of going through her 
dresser and stealing a pair of panties, or rummaging 
through the video collection hoping to find dirty home 
movies.  For three years, nothing but watching her in 
the garden, and polite "how's school going?" small talk 
when the gourmet club she and my mother were part of met 
at our house.

Ahh, but then there was -- tell me you didn't see this 
part coming -- "that summer."  That summer my brother 
spent at overnight camp because he'd suddenly become 
interested in archery.  The summer the Cramers rented a 
timeshare at a lakehouse up north, for three weeks.  The 
summer they asked me to feed their two cats for them, 
change the litter, water the plants -- for the princely 
sum of twenty dollars a week.  Not chump change.

The first day was exciting.  I'd never been upstairs in 
the Cramer house.  I hadn't fully realized just how 
attracted I was to this woman -- how much I liked, even 
while I felt guilty about it, looking around the bedroom 
(where there were plants needing to be watered, after 
all), seeing where she slept, where she undressed, the 
large bathroom where she showered.  That pink rugby 
shirt hanging in the closet.

But the novelty wore off quick.  I didn't jerk off on 
her pillows or anything like that.  There was no 
homemade porn in evidence.  I just wandered around, 
watered the plants, fed the cats, and realized that the 
whole nature of taking care of her house while she was 
gone pretty much meant I was just being deprived of 
seeing her in the garden for those three weeks.

"Feel free to watch television if you want," Mr Cramer 
had told me.  The Cramers had cable -- my parents didn't 
see the point of it.  It was summer, so there was 
nothing on MY television ... and I ended up hanging out 
there a lot, playing with the cats, enjoying the air 
conditioning (our house was built before central air 
existed, so it's always been an almost fetishized luxury 
for me), and bringing over six-packs of Cherry Coke my 
health-fanatic mother would never let me drink at home.  
Teenage decadence.

And then everything got kicked up a notch.

A week into the three, I unlocked the door, closed it 
behind me, and went about the usual routine: emptied the 
litter box into a trash bag, put it by the door, cleaned 
out the water dish and refilled the food, and started 
going around, watering each of the plants.  The shower 
must have turned off just before I went upstairs, or I 
would have heard the water running -- and it must have 
been on when I closed the door, or she would have heard 
me.

For about five seconds that felt like forever, I was 
standing in the doorway of the Cramers' bedroom, water 
pitcher in hand, staring straight at a completely naked 
Amy Cramer.  Her breasts were the size of peaches, small 
enough that gravity and age had caused very little sag; 
her nipples, the color of the darkest blush on 
peachskin, stood up hard from the air conditioning; her 
legs shone with shower-water, little beads clinging to 
the smooth skin, and Christ, she was shaved.  Freshly, 
recently, smooth-as-you-can-imagine, every detail laid 
out for me, shaved.  It was the first time I'd seen a 
woman's sex completely shorn like that.

Her towel was in her hand, like she'd been about to dry 
her legs off.  Neither of us said anything for a long 
time -- I'm sure it could have been only an instant, but 
I saw so much, and so clearly, that when it finally 
occurred to me to open my mouth, it felt like hours had 
gone by.  So what did I say?  How did I turn this 
situation around and to my erotic advantage?

"Shit, sorry!"

And I backed right back out of the bedroom, standing in 
the hallway because I couldn't bring myself to just 
leave.  What's the etiquette for walking in on your 
next-door neighbor?  Do you send a card?

I stood there for a long time, saying God knows what, 
along the lines of "I didn't know you were here, I was 
just watering the plants, sorry about that," at a mile a 
minute, not once mentioning "Goddamn, you look hot" but 
not thinking of anything except exactly that.

"You can come in," she called finally, cutting me off.  
Back in the doorway, I realized I'd dropped the water 
pitcher, and she was on her knees, blotting the carpet 
with a towel.  Fully dressed now, of course: blue jeans 
and a white Digital T-shirt, the ones with the blue trim 
on the collar and sleeves.  And she didn't seem nearly 
as embarrassed as I was -- but then, she was the older 
woman, I was the teenage boy.

"I should have left a message for you or something," she 
said, while I tried not to look like I was staring at 
her.  "I didn't realize you came over so early!"

"Oh, you know," I said.  "Yeah, sorry about the water -- 
I could have cleaned that up --"

And she smirked at me.  "You were a bit distracted, 
Simon."  And her eyes wavered down, just briefly -- not 
something I was meant to see.

I hadn't even stopped to think about the sweat shorts I 
was wearing or the fact that I was as hard as granite.

"I didn't see your car in the driveway or anything, or, 
you know, I would've rung the doorbell..."

"It's in the shop -- I took a cab.  That's why I'm home, 
it's still under warranty, but only if we bring it to 
the dealership."

"Ahhh."  I was profound back then.  "That's a shame, 
having to miss your vacation."

Amy shook her head.  "It wasn't really my thing.  A lot 
of laying around in the sun, playing Othello, antiquing, 
hanging around with Jim's parents ... I don't mind.  
Besides, I missed working in the garden."

She was still sitting on the floor, eye-level with my 
crotch, which wasn't getting any less visible.  I bent 
down to pick up the pitcher, wobbled a little, and did 
my best to nonchalantly hold it in front of my shorts.  
"Hey," she said, and she had that look like she was 
trying not to smile.  "It's okay.  It happens.  Nothing 
you can do about it.  No ... hard feelings."

"Yeah ... anyway, uh, I fed the cats and all.  So, I'll 
see you another --"

"No, it's all right."  She stood up, finally, but I was 
standing so close to her now she almost brushed against 
me.  Almost.  Her hair was still wet from the shower, 
and I could smell her shampoo.  "You can watch some TV 
if you want.  And I'll pay you for the whole three 
weeks, it's only fair.  You want some lunch or 
something?"

"You don't have to, it's okay."

And it went like that for awhile, until I grudgingly 
agreed to stay for lunch and help myself to the cable 
and the remote -- all the while just wanting to go home 
and jerk off.  The fact that she didn't seem offended by 
my seeing her -- or my reaction -- just made me harder.  
Stupid, but true.

She'd already eaten, so after fixing me a sandwich, went 
about her business in the garden.  I ate, watched 
television, got comfortable on the couch I'd taken a 
liking to, and was starting to think that maybe we'd be 
able to put the whole thing behind us and it wouldn't be 
awkward every time I saw her, when in she came: hot and 
sweaty from working outdoors, her shirt clinging to her 
back and breasts.  It was like one of those Diet Coke 
commercials: she washed her hands, got a drink from the 
fridge, and stood in the doorway, taking long sips until 
she'd cooled off.

"Anything good on?"

I shrugged.  I had it on MTV, which still played videos 
at the time.  "Videos.  No big deal, though, I can head 
home.  Thanks for lunch."

She sat down on the arm of the couch and put her hands 
on her shins, stretching her legs out.  "Well, you don't 
have to go.  I thought I'd take a break from the garden, 
watch some TV with you.  You can tell me about these 
bands I don't recognize.  As long as you don't mind 
hanging out with an old fogey."

I grinned.  Was I going to argue with this? "Geez.  You 
may be older than me, but you're not old -- and I've 
heard your radio, you listen to good music."

She sighed a little as she nodded at the television.  I 
don't remember what was on, the B-52s or something.  
"It's strange for me, that's all, not being up on 
everything.  I don't take the time to keep up with music 
and movies, the way I did before the kids.  Not that I 
mind them, but it does make me feel my age."

"You certainly don't look it."  I said it before 
thinking of how it would sound, considering I'd just 
seen her naked, but she just smiled at me.

I told her what I thought of the various bands for 
awhile, and an Aerosmith video she hadn't seen came on, 
the one for "Angel."  She got more comfortable after a 
bit, sitting on the floor between my feet so I didn't 
have to keep turning to my side to talk to her, just 
pointed over her shoulder -- and that short black hair 
would brush against my arm when I did, or her head would 
come >thisclose< to leaning against my bare leg.

She started touching me, innocently.  Putting a hand on 
my foot or lower leg to get my attention or emphasize a 
question.  Shifting her position to accidentally press 
the side of her head into my thigh.  We kept talking 
about music, and in a lull, out of nowhere she said, 
"It's nice to know I'm still attractive to someone your 
age."

If she only knew.  I was hard again, from being so close 
to her, still thinking about having seen her, wondering 
why she was talking to me as though we were friends 
instead of casual neighbors.  The back of her head had 
almost touched my erection, more than once.  "You're 
attractive to people of any age," I said.  "I mean, come 
on."

She shook her head.  "You say it like it's obvious, but 
-- maybe you're not old enough to understand, no 
offense.  You start to realize boys are looking at you 
the way they look at teachers, and doctors, and -- I 
don't know, parents.  You're not a woman anymore, not 
the same way.  Or you are, but you're not a girl."

I was leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, mostly 
to put that distance between her head and my hard-on, 
and she took my hand in hers, squeezing it, and looked 
up -- nervously.  "I like being married.  I like having 
kids.  But I don't want to think about either right now.  
I just want to feel young."

The next thing I knew, she had squeezed my hand against 
her breast, her T-shirt still damp, no bra underneath.  
I could feel the warmth of her skin, the bump of her 
nipple, the beat of her heart in both her chest and her 
grasp, and she groaned, watching me closely as if afraid 
I'd pull away.  I didn't.  I turned her towards me, so 
that she was kneeling in front of me, and kept stroking 
that firm, soft breast through her shirt as I guided her 
hand to my cock, wrapping her fingers around the 
outline.

Her eyes widened -- don't get me wrong, it's not that I 
was huge or anything like that.  I think she was 
honestly surprised that I was hard already.  It had 
probably been awhile since she'd been with a 17 year 
old.  But she knew what to do with one.  My shorts were 
pulled down over my cock as fast as I'd ever pulled 
them, and her hand slid into my boxers, her fingers 
circling the base of my cock and rubbing it against the 
tented fabric.  Not stroking me yet, just feeling me.

I bunched her shirt up over her breasts, feeling her 
skin under my palms, the transition from smooth to 
crinkled where my fingertips found her nipples waiting 
for me, the shivery goosepebbling as the air 
conditioning hit her.  She rubbed her thighs together 
and leaned forward, pressing her breasts into my hands, 
nuzzling my cock through my boxers.  I could feel her 
breath, warm and moist through the cotton, spread out 
over my shaft as she rubbed her cheek against its 
silhouette, pressed her lips against the base where her 
fingers were clutching, and then she was tugging them 
off, I was lifting my hips, and before I could sit back 
down again her mouth was surrounding me, the slick 
muscle of her tongue gliding over me as my cockhead 
pushed against the inside of her cheek.

I'd never had a blowjob before.  It was all I could do 
to keep from coming in her mouth right then and there, 
but I kept it under control, leaning back to make it 
easier for her and get a better, fascinated look at what 
she was doing -- the swift disappearance of my cock 
between her lips, the way her tongue would flick out 
against the underside, the movement of her fingers over 
my balls -- while I squeezed her tits together, 
spreading my fingers out to gather up as much of the 
warm flesh as possible.

Amy started humming, or maybe it was more of a moan, and 
she lifted herself up on her knees in order to bob her 
head down, until her lips were pressed tight around my 
base, her nose buried in my pubic hair, and I gasped -- 
by the time she was halfway up her withdrawal, those 
delicious lips stroking along me, I couldn't take it, 
and I came, the pent-up load taking her by surprise and 
filling her mouth.  She recovered quickly, swallowing 
around my cockhead and sucking unbearably hard to 
squeeze out those last drops.

As blood began to seep back into my brain, I realized I 
was sitting in Mrs Cramer's living room and had just 
come in her mouth, that the tits I had fantasized about 
were in my hands and she was lovingly lapping at my cock 
to collect every bit of come she'd missed.

"Oh my God," I groaned.

She grinned at me, pulled back, and pulled her shirt off 
over her head.  "Let's go upstairs, Simon.  It's okay 
... I think you'll be ready again soon enough."  She led 
me back to the bedroom, her breasts bouncing subtly as 
she walked up the stairs, and peeled off her jeans when 
we reached the doorway, bending down to give me a close 
view of her pert, heart-shaped ass.  She wasn't wearing 
any panties, and I found my hands on her hips, pulling 
her backwards to caress my limp cock between those 
smooth, biteable cheeks.

We'd both lost all our hesitations, and she stayed bent 
over for a moment, as she stepped out of her jeans, 
sliding her ass from left to right against my cock, 
playfully stroking me with it before standing back up 
and flopping onto the bed.

"Tell me what you like about me," she breathed, as I 
finished taking my clothes off and crawled across the 
bedcovers towards her.  Her hands locked together around 
the back of my neck, pulling me in for a hungry, 
tonguey, messy kiss, and by the time she let go, by the 
time I could gasp for a breath and wonder that it was 
possible to be kissed so hard your lips hurt and you 
still liked it, I'd forgotten the question.

I started to kiss her neck, experimentally moving my 
tongue and teeth across her skin to see what she liked, 
when she tugged at my hair and asked again.  "What do 
you like about me?  What makes you so hard for me?  Do 
you think about me when you jerk off?"

I nodded against her shoulder, scraping my teeth against 
her collarbone in a way that made her shiver again and 
clutch at my hair.  "All the time.  I'm always watching 
you -- in that garden.  Crouched over, so I have a 
perfect view of your ass ..."

She took my hand and moved it around her, pushing her 
ass back into it.  "Mmm, so you like my ass?  What 
else?"  She buried her face in the crook of my neck, 
licking it wet before biting down hard enough that -- 
because I was 17 -- at first I thought she was fighting 
with me.

"God," I half-whimpered, my hand exploring her ass, 
tracing the curve, moving down between the cheeks.  
"Your long legs.  Your neck.  Your tits.  The way you 
look in that pink shirt.  And now that I've seen it, 
your cu-- your pussy."

Amy pulled away from my neck and grinned at me 
mischievously, wriggling against my cock as it started 
to stiffen again.  "Pussy isn't the word you were going 
to use.  You were going to say cunt."  I just nodded, 
apologetically, still playing with her ass, and she 
nipped my lower lip.  "You can say it.  It's just a 
word.  You like that it's shaved?"  She pushed against 
me, her bare sex touching my balls.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her towards my face, 
kissing her hotly, stroking the edges of her tongue with 
my teeth when I heard her whimper, and sucked it into my 
mouth before releasing it with a wet slurp.  "I love 
your shaved cunt.  You can feel how hard it makes me."  
I pushed back against her, grinding into her.

She pushed me onto my back and straddled me, her legs 
around my midsection, ass almost touching my cock.  
"Tell me again.  Tell me you want my cunt."  It was 
right in front of me, and she leaned back, arching her 
back to show off her perfectly-shaped tits as she slid a 
finger down into herself, bringing it back up wet and 
rubbing her clit.

I gripped her hips and pushed her down along my body, 
letting my cock slide over her ass and spring up in 
front of that gorgeous sight.  "I want your cunt, Amy.  
Look at how hard you're making me.  I want to be inside 
you.  Look at how much I want to fuck that beautiful 
bare cunt."

And she did that thing, that thing women do so 
gracefully when they know what they're doing, a lifting 
roll of her hips that looked effortless but had been 
subject to so much fumbling in my previous sexual 
experiences, and brought her cunt down over me, sliding 
around my cock as though the fit were memorized by flesh 
and muscle.

She groaned, lifted herself up, and slammed down again, 
her thighs and jaw clenching as she rode me hard, the 
sheets bunching up under me and the headboard bumping 
against the wall.  I held on tight to her hips until I 
found the rhythm, and then changed it, pulling her into 
my upward thrusts, making her hiss through her teeth as 
she arched her back, displaying her tits proudly in 
front of her.  I pushed my heels against the mattress, 
leaning up on the pillows and burying my face between 
her breasts, kissing and biting the sides, coating her 
nipples with my tongue and pulling at them with my lips, 
sucking one deep into my mouth and pressing its hard 
firmness against the roof.

She reached between us, her fingers slicking over her 
clit, rubbing it with a practiced gesture, periodically 
shifting down to stroke the sides of my sliding shaft 
before it sank back into her.  She leaned down, hair 
against my face, sweat on my skin, and whispered in my 
ear, "You wanted my ass, why don't you touch it?  Spank 
it.  Smack it.  Take me."

My hands left her hips, one of them pushing at the small 
of her back and the other smacking down hard on her ass, 
making her grunt and grind down over my thighs, bouncing 
on her knees, her breasts rubbing over my face as her 
cunt began to slowly and enticingly bob up and down on 
my cock.  Amy wrapped her free arm around my neck, 
stroking my hair and shoulders, holding me against her 
as I slapped her ass again, feeling the whimper in her 
throat temptingly close, and leaving her tits to scrape 
my teeth against the lines of her neck, feeling the 
shudder beneath the skin as I spanked her, harder and 
faster.

Each spank sent her fingers working faster on her clit, 
made the whimper rise up out of her throat and against 
my lips and teeth, clenched her tight around my cock, 
made her fingernails rake down the back of my neck, and 
she started to groan against the side of my head, voice 
thick and almost incoherent, "Come for me, come for me, 
come inside me!"

My hand came down on the hot skin of her ass and gripped 
her tight against me, pushing my hips into hers hard and 
moaning as her voice in my ear, her nails on my back, 
her tits in my face, made me come, not as strong as when 
I'd come in her mouth but more prolonged, a drawn-out, 
rolling release.  I felt her contract around me as I 
throbbed my last, and her wet fingers pulled away, 
thrusting into my mouth so quickly and surprisingly that 
her nail caught on my lip, cutting it.  I sucked the 
taste and the salt from her fingertips as I fell back on 
the pillows, and she collapsed against me, tits slick 
against the sweat of my chest, her orgasm hitting in 
purring spasms and shaky whimpers.

I'd tell you that it was only the start, that this was 
the beginning of my summer of lust, that I had her every 
way I ever dreamed of and some I didn't know were 
possible, that she taught me everything I know, that we 
reveled in the addiction to each other -- but that part 
would be a lie.  It was just the one afternoon, and if 
we smiled a little differently when we saw each other, 
if we were sometimes awkward at neighborhood gatherings 
-- so it went, but the sexual tension remained simple 
tension, unbroken.