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2008 All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
Mortified. If Ron had thought of the word he might have used it to describe how he felt at the moment -- so embarrassed and so angry at himself that he wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. He had been so freakin' stupid!
She said she was going to the grocery store!
He usually locked his door when he did it, but he had been in such a freakin' rush to get to his room to gawk at Mrs. Gregerson sunning at her pool, her freakin' bikini top undone, her half way decent ass barely covered. He ran up the stairs, praying, hoping that he'd get to his bedroom window and not miss it, if and when she propped herself up with her elbows to reach for her ice tea or whatever the hell she drank. Last week when she did that she had twisted her torso and he had seen her naked tits for at least five seconds.
Even without the bare tit or tits, he'd still have a good time beating off, watching her, thinking about how good it would be to fuck her, then shoot his jiz all over her face, her tits, her ass. He'd look at her nearly naked body and think about ramming his cock into her, just like in the porn vids his friend Josh would let him rent when the manager wasn't in the store. Ron had made copies of ten of them with his two VCRs.
Watching Mrs. Gregerson sunning was almost better than beating off to the porn vids, actually each made the other better. Without the porn vids he would never have thought of ramming his cock into her hot asshole, or rough fucking her mouth, or having his cock between her big tits, her hands holding those big fleshy orbs together making a tit-cunt for his sliding prick then shooting his wad all over them. And when he watched the porn vids on the days Mrs. G sunned, he'd imagine the chicks in them to be Mrs. Gregerson, begging for it in her ass, or it would be her screaming, "Harder! Harder! Ron! Fuck me harder!"
He would watch her from his bedroom window, usually naked himself, his palm all slicked up with hand lotion, yanking his crank seeing her nearly naked on that cushioned redwood chaise, but also seeing her in his mind, fucking her, fucking her so good, so hard, her mouth, her cunt, her asshole, and the combo of that would make him cum so freakin' hard he'd shoot jiz onto the window sometimes, and it felt so damn good while his prick pumped, but then fifteen minutes later he'd feel so damn ashamed, not only for being a perv, but for his nearly complete failure with girls.
He wasn't a virgin, he had hooked up twice, fucked both chicks, not total dogs, but he wouldn't have been interested in either of them if he had been sober. He had a few "Clinton" hookups too when he had been drunk but he now no longer counted those as anything. When he liked some hot, pretty chick, he was so freakin' nervous, that whenever he had a chance to talk to the girl his brain would go blank, switch off. Most girls thought he was an asshole, thought he was stuck up, or a hard-ass loner, or god knew what.
There had been two girls during the past couple years he had really liked, wanted to go out with, not only wanted to thoroughly fuck them, but actually wanted to get to know them, and he had blown it with both girls. Each had approached him at parties or at school, smiled at him, tried to get him to talk, and he'd mumble something about how he needed to get another beer, or if it was at school he'd say he had to see the coach or something. Excuses to walk away so they wouldn't see how much he liked them and how damn stupid and nervous he was. His brain just shut down around girls he liked!
She was supposed to be at the grocery store!
He wasn't thirteen anymore! He wasn't sad about his mother dying unless he really thought about her, and he hated to admit it, but he really didn't think about her very often anymore. He was eighteen now! When his father went around the country for three months every summer to supervise road or freakin' bridge construction or whatever that damn company built around the country, he didn't need Aunt Jean to freakin' baby-sit him anymore! He would be in college in a few months! He would have been okay being alone for the summer since he was freakin' fifteen!
And she was so freakin' weird! She had never gone swimming in the freakin' pool, not once, not one freakin' time during any of the fucking summers she had been here. And she always wore those dumb-shit, dorkwad clothes! Who the fuck wore long, blue jean shorts that were hemmed?! And she must have five fucking pairs, and those damn stupid tee shirts that are always too freakin' big on her! The only freakin' parts of her he had seen were her oddball fat calves and piano ankles, her arms basically from her elbows down, and her head!
All that first summer she had stayed, he thought she was real fat under those clothes just like her fat-ass ankles, but then at the end of summer, on a windy day, her stupid baggy tee shirt had been plastered against her side and she wasn't fat at all, which just proved what a freakin' dork she was! She couldn't even buy clothes that fit right! And that fuckin' freak eye of hers she was always hiding with her hand, and those stupid large plastic frame glasses! It was like she was a freakin' cyclops, or... or always taking a freakin' eye test looking at a fuckin' chart on the wall!
His self-loathing skyrocketed with that last thought. He was an asshole. She wasn't a cyclops, she could see out of the always squinting eye. That odd shape to her eyesocket and cheekbone, and that drooping scar around the socket forming a backwards "J" on her face was from a car crash when she was about his age. It hadn't even been her fault. According to Dad, she had almost died, and that freaky eye and freaky part of her face had gone through six operations, plastic surgery and other shit, and it was the best it was ever going to look. He said she had other operations too but he hadn't gone into much detail about those.
Ron knew he definitely was an asshole. He was trying to put her down in his mind and all she had ever been was nice to him. She had never been some dictator during the summers she stayed with him, although she wouldn't let him walk all over her either, but he had never really tried that. She had never attempted to be a replacement mom either. If he thought about it, she had been nice, had even tried to be his friend, and he had never responded in kind. He did what she said he had to do, and when he tried to pull something she pointed out that Dad had told her the rules. He had done some shit a few times, coming home drunk, or drunk and stoned, actually more than a few times, but she had only realized he was high three or four times. She had told Dad, but had spoken with him first, saying she wasn't a tattletale, spy, or informant on him, she was just following his dad's instructions, and his dad trusted her to tell him when Ron broke the rules.
Those times had made him mad as hell because he never told on her. He hadn't really noticed when he was thirteen that first summer, actually it wasn't until near the end of the next summer that he figured out Aunt Jean got drunk at least once a week. He could sort of tell from the way she walked, and sometimes she would forget to angle her face away when she spoke to him, and she'd forget to used her hand to hide the scars and disfigurement especially when she watched TV. Once she wasn't even wearing her thick framed glasses when he first walked into the family area, but she had quickly put them on. Mostly it was her slurring of words that let him catch on to it.
Those nights would always end the same way. She'd go to the guest room early, saying she was sleepy. She'd take a bath, or shower in the guest bathroom, and then on and off for the next couple hours she'd be in the bedroom, he guessed on the bed, crying on and off, fits of sobbing really. He had noticed other signs too. She always used one of the dark blue glasses they had when she drank alcohol, not the clear glasses. He never mentioned it to Dad. He didn't want to get her in trouble, and she hadn't told on him a few, well, more than a few times, when he had broken some rule --
I won't tell your Dad this time, but you have to promise me you won't do that again
. He'd always promise.
She was supposed to be at the freakin' grocery store!
He got off the bed and started pacing. He'd have to leave his room sooner or later. When he realized Aunt Jean was getting drunk and crying, he had felt sorry for her, but even with the pity, he never was very nice to her. He should have been. Maybe it was that she was such a dork, or the way she acted so weird about her eye that first summer she stayed, even though he had seen her at least a couple times every year all his life.
Her eye had creeped him out as a boy when Mom had told him to give Aunt Jean a hello or good-bye hug. That was when he was a little older, but when he was he was really young her weird eye didn't bother him much. She'd always play with him quite a bit when she'd visit for a week or so during summers and a week during Christmastime. Maybe she knew how to relate to kids better. She taught first grade. That was why she had the summers free to be here. He could recall snippets of those early times, and he couldn't remember her covering her eye up or turning her face away to the side when she talked with him. Ron couldn't even remember noticing the eye when they played and laughed together. Maybe she had been baby-sitting him then too, just for an evening or day when Mom and Dad went out.
He recalled telling her when he must have been about nine that she'd be really pretty if she didn't have the ugly eye. In his boy's way, he had thought it was a compliment. The comment had made her cry. He wasn't sure, but he sort of recalled that after that, she had started angling her face slightly away from him whenever she was around him. Just like she did now. It was after that the hugs started creeping him out.
Yeah, he had been an asshole to her.
But she said she was going grocery shopping!
