The quotidian fuckfest that was the Suzie Bowen Experience continued apace. Unfortunately, the time we spent together that didn't involve sex seemed more pointless than ever. Not that there was a lot of it. Her affinity for orgasms at someone's hand other than her own was probably equal to mine.
Often we had to limit ourselves to quick blowjobs, handjobs, and finger fucks. One night, while her mother sat in the living room watching a "Hawaii Five-O" rerun, Suzie made us grilled cheese sandwiches in the tiny Bowen kitchen. Sitting at the square Formica kitchen table, she scooted her chair up close to the corner and said "Take it out." I unzipped and pulled out my cock under the table. She took it in her hand and started jerking it, eating her half of grilled cheese sandwich with the other hand, looking past me over my shoulder toward the kitchen doorway.
"You need to give me your load. I'm really horny," she said. "Feed it to me."
"Then get ready," I breathed.
She put down her sandwich, ducked her head under the table, took my cockhead between her lips, and sucked me. I pressed the heels of both hands onto the seat of my kitchen chair, raised my hips, and started pumping cum into her mouth.
After she swallowed it down and I repacked my half-hard dick in my pants, she sat on my lap so I could put my hand inside the leg of her shorts and slide two fingers inside her.
"What if she comes in?" I whispered.
"Just take your fingers out." She was already panting lightly. "But she won't."
I finger-fucked her through the leg of her shorts until she hunched forward, grabbed the edge of the table, and came.
When I removed my hand, my fingers painted a glistening red trail along the skin of her thigh.
"Oh, damn," she said. She grabbed a paper towel to wipe her leg, then jammed it down the front of her shorts and hurried off to the bathroom. I washed up at the kitchen sink and sat back down to finish my sandwich. Soon I heard the voices of Suzie Bowen and her mother in the other room, but I couldn't understand what they were saying, their words swept up in the murky wash of music and noise from the TV.
I was pressing my pinky finger into the few sharp sandwich crumbs on my plate, one by one, when Suzie Bowen came back into the kitchen wearing a different pair of shorts. She sat down and took a bite of her cold sandwich.
"Guess the pool is closed for a few days," she said.
.:.
The next Wednesday was the hottest day of the summer by far. The sun was a milky smear beneath the morning's humid pall. The haze burned off by the time I finished my first yard. I spent long time at the Cameron's garden hose, and then again at the Jankewicz's, both drinking from it and letting it run over my bowed head. By the time I got to Mrs. Fulton's yard I was feeling overmatched by the heat, but fortunately she had a stately, sprawling crimson maple dominating her yard that kept the sun off my head for a while.
Ed and Eleanor Kaminski's yard was a different story, treeless and hot as a parking lot beneath the fierceness of the afternoon. Eleanor Kaminski greeted me briefly before ducking back inside to get out of the heat. She was wearing a bright pink ribbed tube top, the integrity of the fabric stretched nearly to the point of compromise, and a pair of denim cut-offs.
I pulled off my sweat-soaked t-shirt and tied it around my head. I worked fast, as much to get out of the heat as quickly as anything else. We were in the midst of such a rainless stretch that their grass barely needed mowing, and large patches of it were already turning brown. Ed Kaminski couldn't be bothered to run a sprinkler now and then.
I finished and rolled the mower back into the shed. I wondered if I should stay in there a while, if she expected me to, and if she would come out and look for me there, try to catch me at what I was sure she knew I'd done in there the previous two weeks. I waited a bit, but not too long, not wanting to be too obvious. When I finally came out, she was standing on their tiny back porch, waving me over.
"You should have a glass of iced tea," she said.
"That would be great," I said. I unwound my t-shirt from my head, wiped my face, and slung it over my shoulder.
"Come on into the kitchen. It's too hot out here."
A rattling panel fan in the kitchen window pushed around a lot of warm, soupy air. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, cooking oil, and a faint undertone of bananas rotting somewhere. I stood there uneasily, hands jammed in the pockets of my painter's pants—one of which held the rubbers I bought last week—my heart beating fast, while Eleanor Kaminski dumped a scoop of powder into a tall glass, added tap water, and stirred it all up into a murky, swirling brown. She went to the freezer and took out an aluminum tray of ice, yanked the handle to free the cubes, then dropped a couple into the glass.
She leaned against her kitchen counter while I drank my iced tea, asking me the usual inane questions: yes, I was excited about going to college; no, I didn't have a serious girlfriend; right, it was better not to be tied down to anyone just now.
Then, Eleanor Kaminski took one of the ice cubes from the tray gleaming wetly on the counter and began rubbing it lightly over her throat and around to the back of her neck while she talked. She closed her eyes and smiled as she ran that ice cube back and forth across her chest.
"So hot today," she said. "This feels so good."
The chill of it made her nipples light up. A pulse of lust surged through me. This was the moment. I could lean in and lick the cool water that was trickling down her neck and chest. I could pull down that tank top and release those rich tits.
And yet, I couldn't bring myself to do it. The blood was beating in my temples and I felt that damnable trembling start rattling me. I set my glass of brown sugar water on the counter.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but can I use your bathroom."
