One
Michael Burke stood in the outdoor summer heat of Quincy Market, in the midst of a large crowd, as a burly street performer balanced a wooden chair on his big caveman chin. Balancing a chair was one thing. The fact that a small blonde-haired boy, randomly selected from the crowd, was sitting in the chair, made the act all the more impressive. The fact that the performer was juggling several bowling pins while balancing the boy and the chair, brought the whole thing to another level.
Still, Michael wasn’t interested in the juggler, or daredevil, or circus freak, or whatever the man considered himself. Instead, he scanned the people coming and going, looking for a face he knew. He didn’t know what to expect. The few pictures he had seen online of her were associated with her job at a university, and didn’t do justice to the 18-year-old girl he once knew. She was 38 now.
In college, she had been the most beautiful, and sexiest, girl at the university. By a lot. Now, despite the maddening crowd of Boston tourists, and the stifling heat, and the sun beating down on his head, he found himself once again imagining her as she was then.
The first thing anybody noticed was the hair. It was long and brown, and curly. It hung down her back nearly to her butt. She wore funny hats a lot. Top hats, cowboy hats, jester hats. She got away with it. The hair helped. The face also helped. Devastating. Not vapid all-American, magazine pretty. A dark Mediterranean beauty, with olive skin, high cheekbones, and pouty lips. A real person.
But who was he really kidding, after all? The thing about her was her body. Firm, with full breasts, a perfect size, not too large, not too small. And that was fine, but everything really happened below her waist. She had a round apple bottom, an oh-so-spankable ass, the kind of ass that he couldn’t stop obsessing over in those young, horny days. Her legs were long, too long for her body, and strong. There was an inch of space between her thighs. He thought of how she used to wear skin tight black leggings and big cowboy boots. He nearly groaned out loud at the thought of it.
He remembered a summer day on Martha’s Vineyard, so long ago. Her family had money and they had a house on the island. To Michael, this kind of money was a new thing. He had never experienced it before.
The house was secluded, and there was a desolate beach nearby, a gorgeous open stretch of sand and surf that sat at the bottom of tall bluffs. One day, they were on that beach. She wore a tiny yellow bikini. He had taken a dip in the ocean. The water was cold, brisk early summer water. He came back to the blanket dripping wet and shivering. He found her lying in the sun on her stomach, her top undone, her breasts pressed against the blanket.
Her butt faced him, her legs spread the tiniest amount. That inch! That wonderful inch of space gave him a view of her pussy and ass just barely covered in the thin, stretchy fabric of the bikini.
Was she sleeping?
The sight of her like this heightened him instantly. He was young, after all. He kneeled down behind her. Slowly, he sank onto his chest. Inside his wet shorts, his erection pushed hard against the hot sand. He lowered his face toward that yellow strip of fabric between her legs. This close, he could see the sweat on her tanned thighs.
His tongue flicked out, almost of its own accord. It ran along the inside of her left thigh, licking there, tasting the salt of her sweat, moving slowly up the line.
“Mmmm, Michael,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “This is a public beach.”
“There’s nobody here,” he said. “I checked. Anyway, there’s no way I can stop. You’re too damn sexy.”
His tongue had a mind of its own. It reached the hem of her
Michael Burke stood in the outdoor summer heat of Quincy Market, in the midst of a large crowd, as a burly street performer balanced a wooden chair on his big caveman chin. Balancing a chair was one thing. The fact that a small blonde-haired boy, randomly selected from the crowd, was sitting in the chair, made the act all the more impressive. The fact that the performer was juggling several bowling pins while balancing the boy and the chair, brought the whole thing to another level.
Still, Michael wasn’t interested in the juggler, or daredevil, or circus freak, or whatever the man considered himself. Instead, he scanned the people coming and going, looking for a face he knew. He didn’t know what to expect. The few pictures he had seen online of her were associated with her job at a university, and didn’t do justice to the 18-year-old girl he once knew. She was 38 now.
In college, she had been the most beautiful, and sexiest, girl at the university. By a lot. Now, despite the maddening crowd of Boston tourists, and the stifling heat, and the sun beating down on his head, he found himself once again imagining her as she was then.
The first thing anybody noticed was the hair. It was long and brown, and curly. It hung down her back nearly to her butt. She wore funny hats a lot. Top hats, cowboy hats, jester hats. She got away with it. The hair helped. The face also helped. Devastating. Not vapid all-American, magazine pretty. A dark Mediterranean beauty, with olive skin, high cheekbones, and pouty lips. A real person.
But who was he really kidding, after all? The thing about her was her body. Firm, with full breasts, a perfect size, not too large, not too small. And that was fine, but everything really happened below her waist. She had a round apple bottom, an oh-so-spankable ass, the kind of ass that he couldn’t stop obsessing over in those young, horny days. Her legs were long, too long for her body, and strong. There was an inch of space between her thighs. He thought of how she used to wear skin tight black leggings and big cowboy boots. He nearly groaned out loud at the thought of it.
He remembered a summer day on Martha’s Vineyard, so long ago. Her family had money and they had a house on the island. To Michael, this kind of money was a new thing. He had never experienced it before.
The house was secluded, and there was a desolate beach nearby, a gorgeous open stretch of sand and surf that sat at the bottom of tall bluffs. One day, they were on that beach. She wore a tiny yellow bikini. He had taken a dip in the ocean. The water was cold, brisk early summer water. He came back to the blanket dripping wet and shivering. He found her lying in the sun on her stomach, her top undone, her breasts pressed against the blanket.
Her butt faced him, her legs spread the tiniest amount. That inch! That wonderful inch of space gave him a view of her pussy and ass just barely covered in the thin, stretchy fabric of the bikini.
Was she sleeping?
The sight of her like this heightened him instantly. He was young, after all. He kneeled down behind her. Slowly, he sank onto his chest. Inside his wet shorts, his erection pushed hard against the hot sand. He lowered his face toward that yellow strip of fabric between her legs. This close, he could see the sweat on her tanned thighs.
His tongue flicked out, almost of its own accord. It ran along the inside of her left thigh, licking there, tasting the salt of her sweat, moving slowly up the line.
“Mmmm, Michael,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “This is a public beach.”
“There’s nobody here,” he said. “I checked. Anyway, there’s no way I can stop. You’re too damn sexy.”
His tongue had a mind of its own. It reached the hem of her
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