The summer wound down swiftly, though there wasn't much left to savor between the termination of my work-study term and the beginning of a new semester. Late August burned on stubbornly nonetheless, and I found myself infuriatingly plagued by a rare summer cold. It might have been a flu. I don't know, in truth; I was 20 at the time, and the natural invincibility that comes with that meant I was entirely unwilling to go to the doctor. Instead, I lay in bed at Mel's place, surrounded by a growing pile of used tissues and generic antihistamine packaging. I was consumed by rage at not being able to spend those last summer weeks outside in parks and on patios, but my body was letting me know in the strictest sense that I needed the rest, and I would simply run fevers and hack up a lung until it was satisfied I'd gotten it.
I'd largely moved in with her by then. My apartment, visible from the window of her own attic tenement down the street, sat as a bit of a time capsule for the lonely, unkept workaholic I had been three and a half months previous. No longer though! I had just the most amazing woman to keep company with, a reason to shave regularly, and was genuinely unable to get any work done due to the cold that had sidelined me.
She was a delightful caretaker, though her own work demands kept her out of the house most of that week and I wasn't much company when she did get home regardless. Still, her affectionate sympathy, little pats on my head, and constant unnecessary readjustment of my pillows and blankets was incredibly heartwarming. In truth, I was far from gravely ill, but it felt nice to be cared for all the same. She even had a go at chicken soup, despite not being much of a cook. That's not criticism either; we ate fast and cheap more often than not, and never really had much occasion to do more than warm something quick and easy up. It was the worst soup I've ever tasted, and I ate every bite gladly. I think she loved me.
I'm actually sure that she loved me, but not in the carnal way that we'd grown used to in the preceding months. Not that week, anyway. She had a lot on her plate, so she spent most of her time out in the living room, curled up on the daybed that I had first watched her fuck herself on, which served as her couch. I stayed in the room, not wanting to pass my plague on to her. Days passed like this, and I grew listless - I wanted her, badly. She had become an obsession and every minute spent in isolation was the purest agony, especially given that she was quite literally just around the corner from me. I told her as much, often, to which she would feign a pouty expression to tell me that she missed me too, and that I'd be fit for fucking again in no time, but that I'd have to content myself with Netflix and a good book in bed until then.
I don't mind repeating myself when I tell you that she was simply stunning. Broad, strong shoulders and thick, firm thighs with ample tits that hung heavily to each side of her chest. Freckles, long mousy hair, a generous smile, and a low laugh that I delighted in hearing at every chance. Her tummy was soft in a way that made her an excellent pillow for my head, and the bands of stretch marks across her hips and little love handles were prime kissing targets. I adored that body, and that such an openly caring and confident woman came with it.
It was Friday night of that week. I awoke with a startle at hearing the door close behind her; I'd fallen asleep with the TV on. I must have been mouth breathing - my tongue felt cottony, and my nose was raw from blowing. Watery eyes were no less delighted to see her as I did from the doorless bedroom though, and I perked up as she came in.
She grinned at the sight of my pathetic ass laying there like I had any real reason to be feeling so sorry for myself, and asked how I felt. I had turned a corner I thought, the worst was surely behind me now. She laughed. I looked like a warm bowl of Death's leftovers. I asked if she wanted a bite. "You're stupid," she laughed. I wheezed a sad little laugh, telling her how right she was. She messed up my hair and dropped her bag on the floor, expressing her need for a shower, and I reminded her of our promise to never lock the door on the other, as we were frequent enjoyers of the timeless shower quickie. She told me to keep my contagious ass out of there, at least for a few more days and I couldn't argue. I was still a little gross.
She peeled out of her tee and wiggled her way out of her jeans in the corner of the room, saying that the least she could do was remind me of what I was missing. I told her she was mean, to which she came over in her underwear to kiss my clammy forehead. She knew it, and hoped I'd forgive her. She turned and presented her delightfully fat ass, inviting me to have a squeeze to make up for it, so I smacked her hard and took a hearty handful. I loved the way she rippled, and her shocked little yelp made me giggle. I was a bad man, according to her. She grabbed a towel and flashed a smile over her shoulder as she padded off to the shower. I was suffering from a severe case of hating to see her go but loving to watch her leave; the slight dimply cellulite of her ass was just so gorgeous.
I heard the shower turn on, and the rasping slide of the curtain being drawn; I was so tempted to join, but knew I shouldn't. Still, the thought of her in there, soapy and soft and wet, was all the reminder that I didn't need of just what I was missing. We seldom went more than a whole day without having each other, so 6 days without her was beginning to feel rather taxing. I could practically feel her body in my hands, and her lips on my neck. It was all a little too much; I started to feel a rush of excitement stirring me beneath the sheets. Surely, I could stroke one out before she finished up. I reached down and began to rub myself; given that it had been several days since I'd enjoyed any relief, I was shockingly hard, and a fat bead of precum dribbled from my head, only to be worked over and down my shaft in a slick, wet coating. It felt incredible. I closed my eyes and let myself drift into pleasant memory.
I thought of the nights we'd spent furiously entangled until we fell back, breathless and giddy into each others' arms.
I recalled waking on a Saturday morning weeks before with a hand tugging firmly and insistently on my morning wood while hazel eyes watched me rouse sleepily from the next pillow. I thought fondly of another time where I'd been resolutely commanded to drop to my knees and kiss her furry mound while she sipped her morning coffee, bare ass rested against the counter and a hand in my hair. I thought of all the times I'd come home to find her repeating our first encounter, unashamedly spread open on her couch with a rubbery shaft plunging in and out of herself, or fingers deeply crooking themselves in a pussy so wet I could hear it squelching from the door. She seriously masturbated far more than any woman I'd ever known to admit to. She liked what she liked, and I had no choice but to admit that no one would ever know a body as well as they knew their own. It was a wonder she didn't walk around with pruney looking fingers every day, for all the time they spent inside her. I did enjoy when she'd force feed them to me while we rubbed away together.
