Georgia Heat [m/f] [Long] | 2016

This is my first story. Listen, before you start: it’s long, and it doesn’t have a crazy amount of action. I don’t have many stories, unfortunately, but this one sticks out in my memory unlike any other. It’s about a Southern American girl named Charlotte, and our few days together one Summer in Georgia, with an introductory part that I think is important background. It’s not enough to stand on it’s own. Let me know what you think.

Now, Charlotte was the younger sister of one of my best friends in college, Graham. Graham and I dormed together, and we were very close friends, close enough that he felt like a brother. He was from Georgia – spent nearly his whole life there – and a “good Southern boy” as he was quick to say. We studied together in Anonymous U, way up in New York State, as his father had moved to the state just the year before (after he graduated high school down south). I’d met his lovely family only during their Northern displacement – his parents charming and loving, his older sister quirky and deeply in love with life.

Charlotte, though, to be honest, I never felt much for. She was coy, shy, reserved, a little mousey. She wore bad glasses. She was a late-bloomer, they said, at times anxious and distracted. I chalked this up to her moving in the middle of high school – she was three years younger than Graham and I – from the comforts of her home to a new life in New York. She hated it, I could tell, but she was trying. I was emphatically not attracted to her at first; no, she was like a sad little sister. Her only love was ballet, so far as I could tell.

My own family lived further away in New York, so I spent many weekends with Graham’s family. One stands out. This was my final year of college, and so Char had just finished her first year as a freshman.

It was late May, classes are all over and I’m spending the night at Graham’s before I head out east to see my own family. I had driven him back from Anonymous U for maybe the last time, so it felt somewhat heavy. As we came in the door, Graham shouted out, “Hey, we’re here!” and slowly turned to me when no one answered. “I’ll throw these upstairs,” he said, looking around for any sign of his sisters or parents. “Sure,” I said, “I’ll be out on the deck.”

Graham’s parents had an amazing deck, wide and spacious, shady and sunny in the right proportions, bright green plants drinking in the luxurious weather from their clay pots. I remember breathing in deeply as I passed through the glass sliding door, pushed open so that the light breeze ruffled the beige curtain that hung down half of the door. I half-closed my eyes and enjoyed the first truly beautiful day in too long. The sun was lower now, but still bright and clear, unhindered by clouds. I was flush with that unequalled nerdly youthful joy of finishing a final semester successfully, which, when coupled with the promise of such beautiful weather in the sum—

“Hey, you!” I heard, snapped from that reverie. It was Charlotte, and she was… different.

She was standing next to the waist-high railing of the deck, her hand on a large glass pitcher resting on that railing. She was going to college back down in Georgia, her dream, and it looked like it had brought her back to life.

Charlotte was taller, that was for sure, leaner as well. She was always tall, but now she was barely an inch shorter than I at nearly 6 feet. Her long, elegant dancer’s legs were golden and smooth, one planted straight down, holding her slender but powerful frame so gracefully, the other bent at the knee and twisting her toe into the bare wood of the deck.

Her hair was pulled back into a long pony tail that bounced when she turned to me, her light brown hair cut with the blonde bronzing of time spent in the sun. Her eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm, her cheeks and longish nose dusted with faint brown freckles. She was turned to me, her long neck widening into her beautiful, strong shoulders, all bronze with sun. She wore a short, airy sundress, a bright yellow with small blue flowers and vines. Her small breasts were upturned and proud. Caught in the breeze, the ruffles fluttering around her taut thighs and with the sun behind her shining through the thin fabric, she could have been wearing nothing. I could clearly see her panties, a thick band around her wide hips, a scalloped edge on the top – black lace. They hugged her impossibly round ass, which bounced daintily as she shifted her weight to turn to me.

I told you it was memorable.

“I’m making sun tea,” she said, with her smile continuing through what must have seemed my interminable stare. “It’s done but we need ice.” The soft, honey-sweet Georgia accent was back, easy and confident.

“Ice,” I remember stumbling out, fighting against hearing it as ‘ass’, “right. I’ll go get some.” I was shocked. She was gorgeous, and this was as much life as I’d seen out of her. She was glowing. “Don’t forget glasses!”

I walked into the kitchen in a trance, somehow finding two glasses and filling them with ice. My mind was racing. This was no good. I was definitely drinking her in, and I think she noticed. I’ve thought about it since then. She noticed. I was aroused by Graham’s little sister. Little Char.

I brought out the glasses and she was sat at the small glass topped table, in a wide metal chair, legs crossed and foot bouncing. She was chewing her lip, and when I got to the table she popped up with the easy grace of a dancer and cooed, “It’s so good to see you again, Georgiaway," and she threw her arms around my neck. This was much more affection than she typically showed me. I’d gotten hugs from her before, sure, but this felt more… purposeful. Her small breasts pressed full against me and I fought the urge to lean into her neck. I playfully pressed the freezing glasses against her back, which brought a little yelp from her. Sure, I was a little dopey, but I couldn’t miss that opportunity. She laughed and swatted my chest.

We sat down again and made small talk. She crossed her legs fully underneath her, the sundress covering her entirely. “Dad bought this table, but Mom hates it. She says with a glass-topped table us ladies have to be on our best behavior,” she said with a laugh. She said this, I was convinced, because she saw me straining for another glimpse of her panties beneath the dress.

The sun caught her along her right side, a golden streak down her long neck and shoulders, and she squinted ever so slightly against it. I noticed now she had made up her eyes, and so they gleamed even more against the deep black of her lashes. Wisps of her soft brown hair, blown free from her ponytail, blazed yellow in the sun.

As we finished our drinks, I realized I had never had such a charming conversation with her. But I can tell you, my mind was thick with lust. I wanted to lift her up, lay her on the table, and fuck her, and let her fuck me. Most of us can relate to this – I felt like my body was raging and it was everything I could do to hold it together.

She fished an ice cube from the glass and idly lifted it to her chest, running it along the strong cords of her neck and along her collarbone. The streak of water left behind mixed with her light sweat and I caught myself staring. She looked way off to her left, so her ponytail bounced against that unforgettable light.

“He’s right here,” she said, with a little pouty sing-song to it. Huh? Graham was at the sliding door, peeking out with something of a confused look. I don’t remember this nearly as well, but he exhorted me to bring in my PC and set it up – we had made plans to play Civ IV for as many hours as humanly possible, I remembered. Of course. Yeah, about 20 minutes ago that was all I ever wanted. Now? Now, well not so much. I excused myself and joined Graham, that perverse blend of relief and profound disappointment that only the promise of probably-a-bad-idea-sex can produce.

So we played Civ. Graham’s parents came home. We had dinner. I tried not to look at Char while Graham explained our Civ game in laborious, unbearable detail. History majors, I thought. I remember still thinking in that way at that time, dividing the world into majors. I answered lots of questions about school, and I thought it would be a little teasing fun to ask about Char. She reddened when her mother cooed, “Oh, you don’t know she has a little boyfriend?” I forget his name. Fuck that little punk, I thought, and immediately stopped myself. That was a weird impulse.

“They’re going on a date tomorrow, seeing Some Shitty Early Summer Movie.”

“Oh yeah,” I replied, “I’ve heard about Some Shitty Early Summer Movie,” and I eyed Charlotte hard.

“I heard it kinda sucks,” I said: no reaction. Her father and Graham loudly protested and the conversation took a left turn. But, at least now I had figured it out. She was just all horny over this date and this guy from school. She had fucking on the brain and I was nearby. Or was I reading into things? Not that it mattered, I was leaving tomorrow.

Later that night Graham, Graham’s father, and I had cigars on the deck. I smoked slow, and it stretched on for a while. I was alone on the deck for a while as they gave in to that slumbery light-headedness of nicotine over a big meal, before I noticed Char slip out from the sliding glass door.

“Do you want some company?” She asked. I agreed and she coiled into the spot next to me on the bench. “Graham’s talking about Gandhi nuking things, and my parents are going to bed, I don’t know what’s going on in there,” she smiled tiredly and stretched, her arms high above her head. When they returned, she rubbed them, goosebumbs gently lifted against her skin. She looked at me, deeply, I thought, searching. Perhaps to see if I laughed, perhaps looking for something else. Even without the sun, she just spoke sex to me with every movement – I wasn’t crazy, she was acting very differently with me.

She asked me gently if I was cold. No, of course not. Ooh, she was. I hesitated, then I gently moved an arm back around her and she basically purred and buried herself into my chest. Yeah, this was something.

We chatted, she told me about school. She was excited and I could tell that she was a lot like me in my first year. Eager to try things, nervous to fail, knowing that there was something there that she could find if she just searched hard enough, but not realizing that it was that search that was the final value.

Even though my nose was probably deadened somewhat by the cigar, now idling away in the tray, her smell was womanly and deep. Sweet tangled with a spicy, musky heat. Her hair was now free of the ponytail, and long, multihued strands flowed out down her breast. She reached her right arm back behind her neck and wound it back along her right shoulder, down over my arm, revealing her long neck, a stretch of porch light racing up it. And, interestingly, a tiny heart-shaped tattoo behind her left ear, which itself was strung with as many earrings as I could imagine might fit.

I turned to look at the tattoo, my lips mere inches from her warm neck, and she faced forward, though her eyes were tilted as far as possible towards me. She wanted me to notice, to watch my reaction.

“That’s new,” I said, “It’s lovely”.

“Yeah, it’s for Lame Boyfriend.”

I remember the name, of course, and that I registered a little too much audible surprise. She recoiled and replied, with a measure of overearnestness that she would later realize was bluff, “We’re serious. I love him.” Obviously she had rehearsed this to deploy against her parents, as well. “We’re serious.”

“I’m glad for you,” I said, or something like it. “Love is a powerful thing.”

We sat in silence as she counted her fingers, her face a slight pout, downturned.

She leaned into my ear.

“We fucked, before I came back I mean. We had sex.” I was, I now can freely admit, feeling equal measures of surprise and that cold sense of false uncaring that lives in jealousy. I made some noise, I’m sure. I wanted to leave her there. She was playing with me. Maybe she regretted it and wanted to talk about it. She was young, so I can forgive her now, knowing what I know. I don’t necessarily forgive myself. She just wanted to talk to someone like she could talk to her friends, and she couldn’t talk to her somewhat conservative family.

“As long as you came,” I whispered into her ear, as breathy as I could without sounding like I was trying to do so. “When you fuck him.”

I watched her close her eyes, an ever so slight shudder racing down her back, as much from the cold as my whisper. I took a chance. I wanted to hurt her, a flash of malice in my heart I regret: “And when you fuck him,” I continued, those seconds hot with anticipation, “don’t think about me.” I got up, and went inside.

I left the next day. I still didn’t know what had come over me. Truth be told, I jacked off in the bathroom like I was trying to exorcise a demon out of my cock that night, but I left the next day either way. I didn’t talk much to Char at all. I regretted it.

So, after college I was able to get a job writing about my expertise down in – where else – Georgia. Georgia had always seemed to me a magical place, tall tales spilling off of Graham’s family's table with ease: their parent’s easy, practiced love, the sun and sweet tea, the history, the coast, the war of Northern Aggression, the peaches, whiskey, the deep red clay.

I stayed close with Graham, and it turned out that the family was moving back down south, to – where else – Georgia. A few hours from where I lived. The house, Graham said, was bought, and they were all coming down in the coming weeks to help out. Char was down there already, now graduating as a senior, and they’d all be there for her graduation and for the housewarming. Would I want to help move them in? In the Georgia Summer heat, moving a whole damn house, hours from where I lived? How could I refuse?

The way it turned out was surprising. They had sent their stuff down in a tractor trailer just ahead of them, and they’d be down soon thereafter. As it turned out, their old SUV died in the middle of Virginia, and so they called to ask if I’d help Char greet the moving company and show them where to unload everything.

“Just Char and I?” I remember asking, hardly having thought of her for years. We hadn't left on excellent terms, but I had kept up a bit on Facebook and the like. Of course, what’s the matter? She was just waiting for graduation, she’d be in the house for a few days. Of course, I agreed, yeah, no problem.

I was not looking forward to it.

So, I pulled up to the house and expected to find the key in the mailbox. It was not there. There’s no car in the driveway, so I wonder if I have the right place. Yeah, the pictures on my phone check out; I walk up to the front door and ring the bell. I’m greeted by a vision.

It was Char – and if she was leagues beyond how I remembered her when I met her last, that memory was so distant now as to seem a myth. She was long, lean, as I remembered. She was wearing a loose shirt with a large boat collar, striped white and black. She was paler that I remembered, still so finely brushed with freckles along the bridge of her nose and under her eyes. Those long lashes I remembered fluttered for a moment as she pursed her lips, failing to completely cover a smile that I knew was mirrored on my dumb mug. Her arms were wide, one on the huge knob, the other on the frame, which lifted her shirt just enough to reveal a thread of her flat belly, curving into her white jean shorts. A thin gold chain ran along her neck and down into her shirt, and as I followed it's line back upward I remembered the smell of her neck, that small tattoo behind her ear and a flood of sex and regret churned in my belly. Her long hair tumbled down her right shoulder, lighter than I remembered, looking impossibly soft. Her beautiful long legs held that strength and grace I remembered, lancing down from her elegant, curved, full ass.

She greeted me with an easy friendliness, though we’d hardly spoken for years, not with the practiced nonchalance or iciness that I expected. She offered me a drink – sweet tea – and I graciously accepted it. Somehow, sweet tea seems undrinkable north of the Mason-Dixon and yet immensely satisfying in the South. I had cut sodas from my diet, but I couldn’t turn it down.

She bounced around the kitchen a bit as she explained how happy she was that the family was returning down from New York back to Georgia, and I said she might have to teach them a thing or two about Southern manners again. She was crouched down, fixing something in a low cabinet. She laughed, and turned to look at me again.

“So, what’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Yeah, here you are. You know…” she started, and pursed her sweet lips, covering what thought was coquettish little smile. She untwisted upwards, every move polished into elegant ease. I wish I could explain her movements more clearly, but she seemed like a perfect machine, slow deliberateness cut with the lithe steeliness of a predator. She felt like she filled the room.

“Forget it.” She fills my glass again, hardly looking at it. We chat. There’s little to say beyond the move, how bad she feels about their car and being stuck (I’d forgotten).

I’m uncomfortable, and clearly my head was locked back into that day so many years ago. I feel myself asking, “Any more tattoos?” She grinned and cocked her head, “You know, as an aspiring dancer, we really stick out in Swan Lake with a full Grim Reaper sleeve,” I laugh, she’s funny and confident. She’d grown a lot.

When she turns, I see the darker hair of the nape of her neck, nestled beneath the lighter blond above, trail down and fade into the fine down of her neck. It catches the sunlight through the bay window opening to the backyard, and shines as bright as that gold chain. My sweet tea is empty again. I try to drink out of the empty glass, feeling my arousal again.

“You were something, you fucking idiot.” Her back is to me, opening the refrigerator. As the cold air wafts across my body, I vainly wished it would kill my erection.

Wow, that was unexpected. I had to respond then, but I’m caught in her body as she leans into the fridge, full round ass swallowing my attention.

“What?” Great response.

“Do you even remember what you said to me that night?” That night. She called it ‘that night’, so it meant something to her as well, perhaps more than it meant to me.

“I do remember, and I wanted to say that I was –”

“I do too. And it was fucking cruel. Do you know that I did?” She turned to me, mouth slightly parted, ready to let me know.

“What,” I said. I knew what.

“When I came, for the first time, I thought about your dumb ass. When I masturbated, you. I stopped looking at him after a while.” She had her hands on her hips, jutted out just so.

“Hey,” I started. This was too much. “I’m sorry. I was stupid, please just forget it, I –“

“Oh, I forgot it. I’m not mad anymore, I’m past that. But you were something to me and I couldn’t figure you out.” She sauntered over to me, hands resting on her swaying hips.

“You couldn’t figure me out?” I stood up straight. I felt that familiar surge of emotion when you find a foothold in an argument. “When I saw you on that day I felt like you were playing with me, then your parents talk about this lame boyfriend of yours? The way you acted… it wasn’t my imagination. You were into me. But you're Graham’s sister—” the mention of his name didn’t even phase her, as I thought it might – “and you never gave a fuck about me before. I felt like I was being made into a fool. Too many girls did that to me in college, forget it. I wanted to—to – ”. She was in front of me now, so close, and I could see feel breathing, looking slightly up to me with those long, coal-black lashes.

“You wanted to what,” she half-asked. The words came out, clipped, like she knew the answer. Her eyes flitted back and forth between my eyes as if she was gently tugging it out of me.

I turned my own head, not giving an inch.

“I wanted to fuck you.”

She smiled as if she had won. I’ll never forget what she said, slowly bringing up her hand to press a finger against my bottom lip.

“Lotsa boys wanna fuck me, sweetheart.” She purred it out, never looking away, and keeping her mouth open just so as the words engraved themselves into my memory. Her lip gloss glistened, inches from my own mouth, my breath feathery. She turned and walked out to the garage.

So that’s what that feels like, I remembering thinking, laughing inwardly. I remember that line from a show or movie, but I don’t remember which one it was now, but it was funny to me then. My cock, meanwhile, felt like it was going to burst.

She had gone outside because the movers had arrived. We helped out as best we could, it took hours. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Every move, every easy laugh, every time she cutely tucked loose strands of her hair behind ear and brushed her forehead, every time she plopped her hands on her hips to decide where something might go, I thought, we’re fucking, right now. She and I knew it. Hot glances traded back and forth, slight touches and brushes. I stood behind her at one point to help her get something down and she pushed her ass against my crotch and lingered. She felt me hard.

The moving fellas definitely noticed. The lead guy made a crack about getting out of our hair, letting us newlyweds get to business. Charlotte said, looking at me, “We’re not married, he’s just some boy I know.” The way she emphasized boy, my heart felt like it had been tugged on, and was two feet in front of my chest, waiting for me to catch up.

So, believe me, I want to tell you that we closed the door and we ripped each other’s clothes off. I do. But we were so tired and hungry, we got a pizza.

Later that night, I was sitting on the floor in their giant new living room, next to a huge window looking out onto the backyard, similar to the one in the kitchen. We had both showered, separately, of course, and since I finished first I spent a second setting up my laptop to watch a show, settling down with my back against the bottom of the couch, upon which we hadn’t yet put the cushions. I was going to sleep down here, with her upstairs. When she came down, she was in an oversize man’s shirt, the kind that I now know Southern girls find irresistible after a long day. I hate them, I think they’re ridiculous.

She swayed over, brushing her golden-brown hair and coiled down next to me, tight cotton shorts and socks. I remember thinking the socks were funny.

“What are we watching?”

Well, I remember thinking, it was going to be Deep Space 9, but now there’s no fucking way I’m gonna watch that. Sorry, Sisko.

“Whatever you like.”

“I don’t really feel like watching anything, to be honest,” she said. She turned to face me, after a long minute of silence. “Did you ever think about me when you fucked someone else?”

“Yes, I did,” I lied. I looked at her straight on.

“You fuckin liar,” she breathed, emphasizing the last two words by slowly creeping into a smile. She set the brush aside and curled her hair around her hand, collecting on the right side of her face. “You fucked all your dumb girlfriends, and you didn’t even think of me once.” I had thought of her, just not during sex so much. I strained for an example.

“You remember that night, after I left the deck? I went upstairs and jerked off in the bathroom. I came a fuckin river and it was over you.” It was a gamble, maybe she would be disgusted. She laughed and punched my arm, revulsion losing out to mirth. “You did?”

“You better believe it. I wanted you so bad.”

“Yeah?” she purred. “What about now?” She was sitting cross-legged in front of me, and shifted her weight forward on her arms, leaning towards me. My nostrils filled with citrus and spice. “Charlotte,” I started, thinking I would try and get out of this. You have to understand, even if you think I’m an idiot, this was my best friend’s little sister. He was protective. And then I realized – hey, she can make her own damn choices. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Right?

If you’ve been waiting patiently for actual action, well, here we go. I hope it’s worth it.

I reached up with my left hand and grazed her cheek, under the wet, fragrant tangle of her hair. Her lips parted, her soft-lidded eyes heavy with desire. I kissed her, soft at first, rising with fervor. I pulled my hand behind her neck, feeling my fingers reach up into her hair. She pushed against my lips now, hard, and crawled up to straddle my waist. My cock was straining against my jeans, and she grinded down into it with a rattling breath. Now, her body was a coiled spring, she was kissing me with long, luxurious movements. She pulled off my glasses and threw them aside. My arms were exploring her long, taut back, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her fragrant skin. The deep curve of her back into her spine was tight, inviting of touch. I scratched down her back, she mine. I yanked her head back, a firm grasp on her thick hair to expose her neck and chest. I nearly bit into that neck that shone like gold. She shivered and moaned as my lips moved upwards, the soft spot beneath her jaw, up her cheek, the soft fur of her hair, and breathed into her ear: “Yes, I want you.”

Oxygen burst from her lungs in a long sigh as she took my face in her hands, cupping my jaw and drawing my gaze to hers. “I want you, too.”

That was enough for me.

I bit the collar of her stupid shirt and move my hands down to tear it off, and she lifted her arms to help.

There she was, and I leaned back to take her in. Her muscular body fairly slithered, her breasts peaked with hard, firm nipples. Her gold chain ended in a small cross. She breathed for a moment, chest heaving in anticipation before she leaned down to unbutton my shirt with slow, deliberate, care. With each inch she bared, she kissed my chest and stomach, right down to my belt. She pushed my shirt apart and me down, her wet hair trailing where she kissed paths along my body. She reached my neck, kissing through my three-day scruff, and bit my earlobe, hot breath filling my ear. Her hand trailed back along my stomach, feeling my aching cock strain against the fabric. She purred again, appraising her handiwork. I quickly turned her on her side, laying her down on the soft carpeting and she gasped. I did my best to imitate her, kissing up and down her beautiful ribs, playing with her nipples, as she ran her hands through my hair, moaning sex. I traced down her middle and kissed down her soft cotton shorts, right over her pussy, pressing my mouth deep into her, pulling those deep moans out of her. I teased her and she squirmed, pushing her breasts together with her hands. She lifted her ass, expecting me to tear her shorts off, but I wasn’t ready for that yet. I pulled her left leg up and over my head, pushing her legs to the side, coyly kissing down past her pussy and up her beautiful ass, still outside her shorts and kissed up her outer thigh. Now on her side, I licked and kissed up her ribs, gently turning her over on her stomach. I tarried above her a moment, taking in this glorious sight. I remember her scent so well – difficult to replicate in text – sweet citrus and cinnamon mixed with the hot scent of musky sex, loud in my nostrils, the scent of her pussy, the wet of her anticipation soaking through the light fabric. She arched, and I bent down to nose her sweet hair off her back. I kissed up her back, mounting her, and nibbled the furry down where her neck met her hair, biting the skin and grinding my cock into her soft ass.

She pushed back against me, lifting her head and looking back with those deep blue eyes. She stretched her arms out ahead of her and arched her back again, then pressed her rump upwards into me enough to shift my weight. She was now on her knees, head down and arms outstretched, ass proudly up, presenting her pussy to me. I slowly, carefully, inched those shorts off her, first revealing the mounds of her ass, then down to her sweet pink asshole, and achingly slowly the red-pink lips of her heavenly cunt. Glistening long lines of her labia, swollen with lust, parted in expectancy, ringed with finely trimmed hair. She slipped out of the shorts as I kissed her.

I ate her with fucking abandon, I licked her up and down. I didn’t start slow, I just entered her slit, my nose pressed deep into her ass, my chin wet on her clit. I pulled her ass apart, taking long strokes up and down her sex. She was tugging on her brown mound, trying to slip fingers in to rub her clit, cooing and rocking. I slid up and under her, to directly hit her clit and I pulled her upright. She was sitting on my face now, grinding her soaking slit against my mouth, eager to come, tense with that goal and I could feel it. After some time she bucked, curled up, and stuttered, her orgasm approaching. When she came, she let me know, breathing heavy ‘fucks’ as my tongue searched for the tensing of her wet cunt.

When the glow of her orgasm started to fade, but only just, I got up and stood in front of her. She fumbled with my belt, jeans, and shorts, eagerness building as she knelt in front of me. She reached into my shorts and pulled out my cock, now throbbing but not fully erect, and gently took my tip into her mouth, her eyes closing softly as she drew herself up to me, hands firmly on my ass and cock. She gradually took more and more of me into her mouth, stopping to lick up and down my shaft. She took me in her right hand and went low, taking my balls into her mouth gently, nuzzling her face now beneath them to my taint. She licked upwards smoothly, past my balls and to the, by now, very erect tip.

“I want you to fuck me.” She said.

She leaned back, never breaking eye contact, and spread her legs. I knelt down between them and gave her pussy, now visible in its glory, a deep lick. She groaned, and pulled me towards her. I placed the tip at her opening, and she parted her lips as slowly parted her sex. I was locked in to her, all my senses engulfed, fully overloaded, as I think, were hers. Our eyes drank each other in, our mouths locked and parted, I felt like I was a deep part of her and I could feel her insides. My cock pressed forward, her warm folds offering pleasant resistance. “Slow,” she bit. I wanted to fuck her until our hips broke, I wanted anything but slow. I was patient.

As inches slipped into her, she bit her lip in the way I’d seen so many times, her softness climbing further up my hard cock. She was perfect, welcoming but tight. I looked down. A few inches remained, and we watched them disappear into her together, as a moan rattled down her ribs. I curled her legs upward and got up further on my knees, reaching the full depth of her, her wetness spilling over and perfuming the room. We fucked like that for a long time, our sense linked, our bodies taut and sweating, slow, forceful thrusts of my full length. We were going to come, we didn’t say anything at all – I erupted, long, electric spasms of orgasm, loosing ropes of cum into her pussy, aching and pulsing around me. She gasped, or I did.

We slept in a knot, long forgetting everything but our heartbeats. When I awoke, she was stroking my cock up and down, tonguing my balls and searching for my awakening eyes. I groaned and yawned, stretched out and down, putting my hands into her golden-brown hair. I pulled her up and down on my cock, a little forcefully now, playful, and she went along with me. She bobbed up and down, reaching a hand between her thighs. I enjoyed that. Now I wanted to fuck her, hard.

I lifted her head up to meet my eyes and started to get up. She came with me, my cock popping out of her mouth. I led her over to the couch and leaned her over it, overenthusiastically. Her ripe pink pussy jutting up for me, I picked her legs up and placed them on the wide arm, so her pussy hung down over the edge, floating there for me. I lined up behind her, anticipating the long strokes I’d soon be hammering into that soft pussy. I leaned down to prepare her with my mouth and found her slick already, and I guided my cockhead up along her slit. When I reached her opening, I slid in – slow, yes, but firm, unyielding. I luxuriated in watching my cock disappear into her beautiful pussy. I stroked in and out a few times, hard but even, and looked up at the vaulted ceiling. It was her. I was fucking Charlotte, and fucking like I’d never fucked anyone before.

When I looked back down I was shocked to see her rubbing her tiny, tight asshole. The little pink bud was clenching against her middle finger, which she had slid in, moaning and sighing. I squared up behind her, put my hands into the perfect creases of her bent hips, and pistoned into her. That she was pleasuring her clit and asshole while I fucked her made me as hard as I have ever been, my cock felt positively hot, slamming into her at full depth. I think she came, my head was nowhere to be found. She turned and those damned half-lidded eyes called out to me, her eyebrows knitted upwards in what would normally indicate concern, but here, only endless lust. I reached my hand back and placed my thumb over her asshole, and she moaned into the couch. I licked my thumb and replaced it, sliding slowly into her ass. I wish I could describe more, but I was wild for fucking this girl.

She gasped out, “I want to watch you come, come for me.”

I didn’t say no. When I got close, I pulled out and she turned quickly to me, sitting on the edge of the couch. I came, jets of cum, more than ever before, slapping into her body. I was astonished as each rope climbed higher, was heavier, than the last. She gleamed, her eyes closed. She was covered, pussy to neck, in my cum. It dripped long strands down her beautiful body, and she smiled. I felt light-headed.

She joked that I might be dehydrated now. It was funny, but I didn’t laugh. I fell asleep again.

We fucked again, and again. Each time something precious, but I’m sorry to tell you that they blur together and when I write them it feels like a crass ticking off of boxes. She was more to me than that, then and now. I write a lot in a journal, which is one reason why I remember it so vividly, but even those fail me here.

The family arrived. We set up the house. Charlotte and I didn’t end up together or anything, nor did we speak any more than before. I drifted away from Graham and the family, but I won’t ever forget her. I have a few more entries on her, if there's interest. I'll be more economical in the future, hopefully.