Almost every college freshman I knew or heard of was
cooler than me — not to mention that they all had lost
their cherries. Except me. Hell, I hadn’t even gotten a
good case of stink finger, unless you can count
scratching your own ass.

Instead of spending that first year getting out there
and copping some actual pussy like the rest of the known
world, I continued doing what had occupied my last year
and a half of high school: shooting up at the dark
ceiling at night, aiming between the legs of the
hovering mental image of a writhing, moaning, very
erotic Monica.

My dad had hooked a fantasy in the flesh when he’d made
Monica his second Wife, and my step mom. The image of
her stayed with me that first Year of college like a
well visited old friend.

My roommate Darrell never gave up. Every couple weeks
he would try to get me to go out with a friend of a
friend. `Guaranteed squat’ or `Best head in Lambda Chi’
he’d tout with enthusiasm. But I always found a reason
to go to the library or stay in the dorm. Yeah, I know
how crazy that sounds. Go figure. ‘Course, I didn’t end
my freshman year screaming and trying to tear the urinal
out of the wall when I took a piss like Darrell did. I
guess it’s true that God takes care of angels and
idiots, and I know that I’m no angel.

I had no idea what had happened at home since I had
left for school, but the atmosphere between Dad and
Monica when I came back for the summer was, for the
first time in my awareness, uncomfortable. After the
first few days, Dad seemed to always have to work late,
and Monica and I just sort of had to look after each
other in his extended absences.

I didn’t mind. I continued to worship the heavenly body
my father had somehow hooked into marriage during my
junior year in high school.

*

I remember that Tuesday with perfect clarity — like it
was this morning. Monica lay on a deck lounger in my
favorite peach bikini, baking to a gorgeous bronze while
hiding behind sunglasses and a magazine. I spent an hour
hiding my boner while keeping my face turned toward her,
staring from the tiny slits of my squinting eyes. `God,
you’re wonderful,’ I kept zapping her with ESP. I
couldn’t see her eyes, but pretended that she was
watching me with a matching hunger. And receiving my
messages.

“Warren’s going to Cleveland this afternoon,” she said
suddenly, wetting a finger on her pink tongue to turn a
page of her mag. “For a two-day seminar. Did he tell
you?”

“Nah,” I mumbled. I turned and sat up, then slid into
the chill water of the pool in a single motion. When I
came sputtering up near her chaise, I grinned at her.
“Course, it won’t be like I’ll miss him — no more’n
he’s home these days, anyway.” It wasn’t a kind thing to
say, but Monica didn’t comment.

I made a few laps and got fairly presentable before
climbing back up on the deck. Then I sat there beside
Monica, kicking the water with my feet.

“You’re going to burn, Danny,” she said quietly.

“Nah,” I grinned over my shoulder. “I’ll mend my ways
before it’s too late.”

She smiled back, but I still couldn’t see her eyes.
“Silly! Better let me put some sun block on your back,”
she offered, holding up the brown bottle.

“Thanks,” I said, and moved closer. Monica sat up and
made good on her offer. I hunched over to hide my
resurgent embarrassment as the firm strokes of her hands
mesmerized me.

Now, of course, I know better; but at the time, just
the thought of having someone see me with an erection
was enormously humiliating. I guess my attitude had been
built in the gym showers after football practice in high
school, when the guys all made fun of me. Tall and
terribly skinny, I would go to most any lengths to hide
myself from their taunts, but, let’s face it, when you
actually step into the communal shower, there’s really
no way to keep a towel wrapped around your waist,
without receiving even more scoffs and jeers.

I was a pretty fair pass receiver in those days, but
even now, whenever I run into one of the guys I played
with, the main topic of conversation is the way I looked
in the shower, with my cock slapping my legs nearly down
to the knees.

“There,” she said with dreadful finality. She dropped
the bottle over my shoulder. “You better do the rest of
you, too.”

I obeyed my stepmother, slathering lotion all over me.
“What about you?” I said. “You’re getting to be a nice
shade of red, yourself.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, looking herself over nearly as
thoroughly as I was doing at the same moment. “I think
I’ll go in, though. How about something decadent for
lunch? Like cheeseburgers …”

“Sure,” I agreed. “Extra grease on mine and hold the
veggies.”

She turned with a laugh, stood up and took my breath
away as she made her way slowly to the steps at the
shallow end. I watched her enter the water until it
lapped at those marvelous, skimpily covered globes, then
stand there applying handfuls of water to her shoulders
and arms, and, God help me, her cleavage.

Never before or since have I seen another female body
like Monica’s — not in the flesh. From her dark blond
head with its steady blue eyes, pouting full lips and
sensuous overbite, to her pretty little feet, Monica was
the well-stacked, curvaceous stuff of little boys’
fantasies. Hell, grown men’s fantasies, too. Five-nine
and a hundred-forty pounds packed full, round and tight,
with a softness about her, like a layer of wondrous
padding, that I find impossible to describe.

I could see Dad falling for her, I could see him
throwing his wealth and charm at her to win her and
marry her… What I couldn’t see was anything that could
possibly be important enough at the office, or in
Cleveland, for that matter, to keep him away from her so
much of the time.

The only change in her attire for lunch was an
unbuttoned shirt over her damp suit. I had trouble
keeping my eyes in neutral as I wolfed down the first of
two burgers while Monica picked daintily at her patty
and cottage cheese.

She kept her eyes down most of the time, and there was
a deafening silence between us. I finally found the
courage to say, “Can I ask you something … it’s pretty
personal, I guess.”

She smiled with her eyes, and I about choked. “Sure,”
she murmured.

“Are you and Dad… okay? I mean…”

Monica sat with fork poised over her plate, and
something like pain clouded her doubtful, searching
eyes. She sighed finally and dropped her fork on her
plate, then sat back in her chair with her hands in her
lap. She kept looking at my face, into my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, then hid behind a double
mouthful of cheeseburger.

“No, don’t be,” Monica said quietly. “You have a right
to ask…” Clearly, talking was going to be a struggle
for her. A lone tear breached the levee and tracked her
downy smooth cheek.

“I really don’t know what it is, Danny,” she said at
last, and then her face lost the battle and went into
the pinched, pre-weeping mode. “But something’s
dreadfully wrong…” She snorted and sobbed, then
dropped her face into her hands. “… and I have no idea
what to do about it!”

Oh, shit. I have consumed my share of foot in my time,
but that had to be the most uncomfortable I’d ever been,
up to that point.

“God, Monica,” I managed in a damnably trembling voice,
“I’m sorry. I mean…”

She raised her face and smiled at me through the tears,
then shook her head. “It’s okay, Danny,” she said. “It’s
nice to be able to talk to somebody about it, you know?”
She snorted and wiped at her cheeks. “I mean, I can’t
talk to just anybody about stuff like that.”

I think I may have been trying to hide from her, but it
took the form of moving behind Monica’s chair and
massaging her shoulders and neck, lightly and
tentatively at first, then with more strength as I
became certain it was welcome. After a time of groans
and whimpers, as I slowly loosened the taut cords of
muscle, her gorgeous head fell back against my
convulsing belly. “Oh, Danny,” she sighed. “I’ll give
you ’til dark to stop that!”

I laughed, and so did she. The stormy mood seemed to
have fled and she began to talk, softly and hesitantly
at first, then breathlessly and with obvious pain. And
anger — a hell of a lot of anger. I couldn’t believe my
ears. My old man was a real shit. Not only that, but he
must have lost half his brain in the war. I mean, we’re
not talking Kenl-Ration breath. The most gorgeous thing
in the world, languishing in his house, starved for
affection and he treated her like a trophy on the wall.
And it was clear that Monica had a right to her
suspicions that he was out looking to bag more trophies.

I bent and kissed her scalp and Monica’s hand reached
back automatically and caressed my neck. “You’re sweet,”
she murmured. “Letting me go on like this…”

I shook my head and murmured, “No, Monica. I’m not
sweet. It’s just that I — I love you, you know?” I was
struggling. “I mean, you mean an awful lot to me and I
hate to see you hurting so…”

I was hard as a branding iron, and the gentle caress on
my neck did nothing to ease the situation. But I’d have
remained bent in half like that for days before I would
have voluntarily asked her to stop.

But she did stop, and I straightened, hoping with
flaming cheeks that she wouldn’t turn and see my
embarrassing condition. I mean, the sucker was sticking
straight out over my left pelvic bone… a wrap-around,
so to speak.

Oh, God! She did stand, with a small sigh, and she did
turn. While I slowly died, she moved to me and reached
up to draw me into a breathlessly tight hug.

“Thanks, Danny,” she murmured finally, her head against
my chest. “I guess I really needed to spout off.” She
tilted her head back and peered up into my stupid grin.
“You know, you’re even nicer than I always suspected.”
That got a laugh, and then a moan when her arms squeezed
around my middle, pressing against me the softest mounds
of actual flesh I had ever felt.

She peered up at me again, this time for several counts
and without a trace of a smile. “You know what would be
nice?” she murmured finally. There was something new and
unfamiliar in her wide blue eyes, something I was
certain I was reading wrong.

I didn’t trust my voice, so just shook my head. But
believe me, I truly did know what would be nice.

“A wine cooler on ice, I think,” she mused, still
resting her breasts heavily against willing old me. “And
some more of your excellent massages — you have
remarkable hands, Danny. Big and strong, but nice and
gentle. I like that. Do you mind?”

Somehow the gagging fear inside me permitted me to
answer, “Oh, no. I don’t mind at all. I got no plans
this afternoon…” What a dweeb!

She smiled up at me, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
She released her arms from the hug, and I took a welcome
breath, but couldn’t catch her hands before they slid
down my ribs to my hips. It was an eminently innocent
move, preparatory to parting, but her right hand came to
rest briefly on the embarrassingly large and very
painful bulge across my pelvis. Her eyes widened
momentarily, then Monica smiled again, a sweet friendly
smile, in no apparent hurry to remove her hand. She
pressed against me again, reaching up for a quick,
friendly kiss, and I nearly fell down when she
retreated.

“You want one?” she called from the open fridge.

I hesitated only a moment before nodding, and Monica
hummed quietly as she fixed our tall icy glasses. There
was something in her eyes, in her smile — her very
being — that I had never seen before, and I liked the
hell out of it.

She led the way through the den, down the narrow
corridor to the spa. “This okay?” she asked, dimming the
overhead light.

“Yeah. Fine,” I stuttered.

“You want to find us some music? I’ll start the heater
in case we feel like a dip later, okay?”

“Sure.” I retreated to the den and found an oldies
station, then switched the output to the jacuzzi
speakers. When I returned Monica was stretched out on
the padded rubdown table, face down, sans shirt. The
jacuzzi jets were roaring, and slivers of steam rose
from the roiling water.

I took a deep slug before setting the glass down and
standing over Monica. I was in a panic over where to
start and how to proceed without getting into really
deep shit.

Since she said nothing, I started on her arms and
shoulders, and let her grunts and groans of pleasure
lead the way down her back. The string of her bikini top
was in the way, but I maneuvered around it. Through no
stretch of imagination could I have pulled the bow and
moved it out of the way. Occasionally, Monica rose to
her elbows to drink from her glass, then dropped back
down with a sighing sound that I interpreted as “more”.

At length, she turned to look over her marvelous
shoulder. “You getting tired?” she whimpered, the glazed
look in her eyes giving me the answer of choice.

“No, Monica, not at all,” I replied, and was rewarded
by an enormous languid smile. She turned and drained her
glass and dropped again.

I wanted to do those fabulous legs — God, how I wanted
to. “You wanna do my legs?” she asked without looking.

“Er, sure,” I said, wondering briefly and uncomfortably
if she could read my mind.

“There’s a bottle of oil in that second drawer over
there,” she said in a voice muffled in the crook of her
arm. “You could oil my skin while you work, if you don’t
mind.”

“No-of-course-not.”

Monica laughed prettily. “You know, I could get used to
having a geisha boy as nice as you.”

I laughed, too. I could get used to being one, I
thought but did not say.

Funny how the subject of my dad hadn’t come up since
we’d left the kitchen. Funny how it didn’t come up while
I worked the slick scented oil into those extraordinary
gams.

In the midst of a series of moans and whimpers, Monica
turned on the table and lay looking up at me for a very
long count. “What?!” I finally muttered, wondering if I
had gone too far.

She didn’t smile, didn’t blink for several moments. I
stared at the strawberry blond hair fanned on the table
beneath her head, at the breasts bulging in overmatched
bikini cups, at the narrow waist moving as she breathed
heavily. Heavily, I said.

“I was just wondering…” she whispered at last.

Whatever it was, the answer was not going to be maybe!
“What?” I asked again, as quietly as she had spoken. I
guess my red face and staring eyes had already given her
the answer.

“Whether you’re a confidential kind of guy,” she mused,
a lazy hand now stroking my arm, mussing its hair. “You
know,” she continued, “the kind of friend a girl could
let her hair down with, and not have to worry whether
anyone would find out.”

“Monica!” I moaned. It was a harsh sound, from a pained
breast. “Don’t wonder! God, I-” I couldn’t express what
I was feeling.

“I know,” she soothed, without needing further
assurance. “Do you like me, Danny?” It was a whisper of
sound barely audible over the roaring jets behind me.

“God, yes, Monica!” I moaned, unable to hold her
intense gaze. “You’re wonderful! You’re beautiful! I-
I’m afraid I’ll make a fool out of myself, I like you so
much!” I was nearly crying now.

“Yes. I like you, too, Danny,” she murmured, letting
her hand move up my arm, making me bend a bit as she
caressed my shoulder. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Didn’t you hear me?!” I bawled with a harsh grunt of
laughter. “You’re beautiful!”

She savored that with a small smile before saying, “You
are, too, Danny. Did you know that?”

I shook my bowed head, aching to touch her but afraid.
“No, I didn’t think so,” she added. “You never act like
guys who know they’re beautiful. I find that awfully
attractive in a man.”

I lifted my eyes in hope, in anticipation. Her eyes
joined her lips in a smile and she nodded reassuringly.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could be the kind of
friends who can trust each other with anything? I mean,
anything?”

I nodded eagerly. “We can be, Monica,” I said
fervently.

After a pause, during which her eyes moved all about my
face, she said, “So, do you think you’d like to be my
geisha boy for a little while?” She wet the tip of her
tapered finger between her lips, then pressed it to my
erect nipple.

I nodded emotionally. “Oh, yes — a long while!” I
whined, then cleared my throat. It wasn’t manly to
whine. Monica laughed.

“I warn you, though,” she said, “I can be pretty
demanding.”

I shook my head. “I don’t care!”

“Then,” she said with a steady gaze into my enraptured
eyes, “the first thing I want is for you to finish
oiling my skin — okay? And no more being bashful,
Danny. Your hands are driving me crazy, and I want to
feel them all over my body. Do you understand? My whole
body!” She laughed at her own words, turning them into a
pun, and I laughed, too, although, my laugh trembled a
lot more than hers.

She reached for me with open hand and I bent to her
kiss, surprised at first by its intensity, then
responding openly. Our moans co-mingled, and my heart
raced until I feared it would pound its way free. When
we broke, with small parting smacks of our wet lips,
Monica murmured, “Nice… very nice, Danny.”

I smiled down at her lighted eyes. Then she pouted
prettily. “You know, I’m afraid the oil will ruin my
suit. Can you think how we might prevent that?”

“Only one way I can think of,” I managed to quip back.
Monica laughed at the
answer in my saucer-wide eyes.

“Goody!” she giggled, and turned back over on the pad
to wait impatiently. With trembling fingers I untied the
bow at her back, then let her lift from the tabletop
before I tried to pull it free. Next came the bottoms,
with equal success.

Monica stretched like a cat, then lay limp with her
feet dangling over the sides of the table as I resumed
oiling her skin. I no longer felt bashful, just ready to
burst with need and desire. I stroked and probed
gleefully and with abandon, relishing the squeals and
harsh moans of my beloved Monica.

“Oh, Danny!” she whimpered at last, and turned toward
me. I stared unabashedly at her heavenly naked breasts.
“You’ve got me turned just about all the way on!”

“Yeah,” I agreed with no small degree of passion. “I
know how that feels!”

“I said just about, Danny,” she said. “Taste my breasts
before you oil them,” she simpered in a little girl
voice. Her hand slid between my trembling legs as I bent
eagerly to obey.

She held my head and neck with her free hand and let me
feel for a long time, as she continued to stoke the fire
in my loins. “God, you’re so big and strong!” she gasped
into my ear, then bit the lobe hard, bringing a hard
squeal from my busy mouth. “I’m afraid you’ll get oil on
your nice suit, too,” she whispered with a throaty
chuckle.

I conveyed an eagerly affirmative answer without
lifting my mouth from its work at her enormous nipple,
and Monica began a tedious process of pushing the trunks
over my hips. “Oh, my,” she whimpered when she grasped
my naked hardness. “I believe I’m really in love!”

I couldn’t help laughing, and the embarrassed laugh
wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried. Monica
laughed, too, but had presence of mind enough to say,
“Now you can oil my breasts, Danny.”