Just because Bay Regional's star senior quarterback, Reid Collins, is going steady with Lissa Brewer doesn't mean he isn't hooking up with me every Tuesday after team workouts. You'd think with all the money her folks have from owning half the real estate on the peninsula that they would've gifted Princess Lissa with a boob job for her eighteenth. She's cute enough--unofficial law for a head cheerleader--but flat as a pier plank. And as far as I know, even though they've been an item since Winter Ball, she hasn't gotten around to letting Reid anywhere near her pom-pom panties.

Huge mistake, Lissa. She doesn't know that her perfect boyfriend's stiff dick was like a lollipop in my mouth the night before they promenaded at BR's spring formal or that it spouted between my tits three days after he squired her to the senior prom. Or that he still comes back to me for more, every chance he gets. Nine times so far, soon to be ten.

I'm waiting for him near Stillers Wharf, just outside the village, having given my friends the slip. Some of them are also friends of Lissa Brewer's and I don't need the bullshit drama of told tales. I'm ripping the sawtoothed silver wrapper from my last stick of gum but what I really want is a cigarette. I'm freezing because the wind has shifted and it's blowing off the cold-ass water straight through my jacket again. I hope to fuck he's not late this time.

The growl of Reid's 1989 Vette uncoils me from the curb and I hustle into its locker-room and leather-clad warmth. He smells of Irish Spring and Axe and says hi but doesn't wait for me to click the seat belt before he guns the Vette back onto Quonnicut Harbor Road.

Once there's nothing but blurred pines on either side of our speeding bullet, he puts his hand on my thigh with a jock's self-assured grip and squeezes his way upward to where the inseam is pressing tightly into my own. I haven't bothered to wear panties today and the slight roughness, assisted by his fingers, is getting me hot.

"How're you doin', Hotcakes? Missed you." It's part of the ritual. He calls me that whenever we're alone. Lissa Brewer is 'Sweetcakes', in public at least.

I've barely passed my finals and my mom has just gotten over a bout of strep throat, but that's not what he's asking. I tell him what he wants to hear. "Missed you too, sexy. Got somethin' big for me?" Good thing his sarcasm detector isn't nearly as developed as his deltoids.

Don't get me wrong. Reid is sexy, in a good-looking athletic sort of way. I like his body. And he does have a big cock to tease.

And he's taken, so he won't be a pain in the ass.

"Since right after I dropped you off last week. Don't you know it!"

I reach under the steering wheel and feel the stiffening proof poking up from his lap.

He turns onto a blacktop driveway and flicks the garage-door opener clipped to a battered sun visor. Before he jumps out of the car he can't resist stealing a grope under my jacket. I open my own door while he plucks the house key from under a planter and promptly drops it into the plant.

Not too bright either, but he doesn't have to be.

It's the only time of the week he can be sure of having the place to himself. There's something about sneaking through Mrs. Collins' deserted, immaculately kept kitchen that boosts my level of horniness, which is already kind of off-the-charts as it is. I get off on the feeling I'm not supposed to be there, not supposed to be alone with Lissa Brewer's boyfriend, not supposed to spread my legs for his otherwise-denied hard-on. I've always hated supposed-tos.

Once we're inside his bedroom, his big hands seize and squeeze my boobs through the tight sweater. His kisses begin at my lips, quick but nice.

"Tastes good, Hotcakes, but lose the gum, huh?"

It's bland by now anyway. I turn and spit into the trash can. "Tryin' to quit smoking. Gimme a break."

"Good girl. That's better." He kisses me more deeply and gropes my tits, this time under the sweater but over the bra. He's so predictable.

I've left the jacket in his car so he can tug off my spring-knit pullover in a hurry. He gapes at the voluminous contents of my pale-lilac pushup bra. "Fuck, Dawn, you have the most amazing tits ever." He reaches in and lifts them from their snug cups, yanks aside the shoulder straps, then fumbles with the back hook. And fumbles. And fumbles.

Sheesh, you'd think a guy who can catch a snap and hurl a hail-Mary like the next Doug Flutie would find a hook-and-eye a cinch. I reach behind and it pops loose in an instant, ricocheting off his forearms and onto the floor. He pushes us onto the bed and mouths my nipples like a demented seal pup while his hand shoves inside the front of my jeans.

"Take these off," he demands roughly. He's hard as a winch and jamming against my thigh through our combined layers. Rather than risk breaking a button if I let him do it, I unfasten my own pants, gather in the waistband and wriggle them down to just under my butt. He can take it from there.

Reid grins his approval at seeing I've gone commando today. He tears himself away from my tits long enough to stand and strip off until the impatiently wagging hard-on rebounds against his stomach. It's almost as thick as two of Lissa Brewer's twirling batons placed side by side.

He wrenches my pants as far as my knees but stops. I kick as if to say, 'Hey, finish the job,' but my legs are ineffective as a mermaid's tail at budging the tightly bundled mass.

"I think I like you this way," he smirks. Then he grabs the mermaid bundle and twists, flipping me over onto my front.

"The fuck are you doing?" I faux-protest, mostly because I think he expects it.

I can feel him climbing onto the bed and hot hairy knees bookending my hips. His knuckles bump between my thighs, guiding the tip of his cock and then setting it free against my tight hole. It prods, retreats, prods again, then frots my pussy lips up and down.

"Fuck, feel how wet you are," he mutters. "Let me in, you tease."

I rest my chin on folded arms and lift my ass a little until his fat cock head is nuzzling my clit with its rigid ridge.

"Keep doing that; it feels really nice." Dream on, Dawn; Reid is all about Reid and don't you forget it.

"Oh, yeah?" he pants. The teasing head draws away and pokes the back of my thigh, where his fingers are waiting to corral its impatient wobble.

Me and my big mouth.

"This..." His newly filled fist wedges my gap enough to drive his double-baton-wide boner into its favorite sleeve, albeit from a different angle, "...feels even better. Aww, fuck..." He grunts like a linebacker running drills in a Georgia July as he splits me open and thrusts as deep as the angle of my trapped legs will permit. "Fuck, you're tight. Gonna do you just like this, dirty girl."

He hasn't done it 'like this' before and it feels a little weird at first but he's breathing hard and clearly enjoying it. I feel a shot of power, that sense of being...I don't know...in charge, I guess. He only thinks I'm at his mercy, but I know it's the other way around. And that's what turns me on the most.

Millimeters above the textured bedspread, my slit is throbbing.  Before I can reach for it, he drops to his elbows and cups my tits in both hands again, blocking access.

"You like being my dirty girl, don't you?" his voice rumbles in my ear.

I think of Marla. An idea blooms. I'll tell the horny jock about it when the time is right.

Desperately I lunge my hips toward the bedspread, trying with all my might but unable to connect, while Lissa Brewer's boyfriend jacks his depraved hard-on in my thrashing pussy from behind.

***

Here we go again. Not even two minutes since he slid it in, and he's bellowing like a moose in rut and pulling it out already. His hard prick skids onto my crack as if it's wrapped in wet kelp, and sea-urchin balls collide with my ass cheeks. I can barely manage to swing my braid (a necessary evil on the days we fuck because I'm fed up with yelling 'Ow!' every time his elbows get careless) out of the way in time before his dick unloads a thick splatter all over my back.

Heh, there's a change. He usually cums on my tits. On two of our earlier 'dates,' he shot it off in my mouth and even though I'm on the pill, he hasn't spurt in my pussy yet. He says it's the best thing he's ever felt, but it's likely he doesn't trust me not to get knocked up. I also think he gets a kick out of watching himself shoot. Maybe it's a jock thing, like uncorking a pass and seeing how far it flies.

His cock is spent and softening, so that's that. We both pull our hands out from under me. I've lost interest in what I was doing up till then and just want to roll over and get dressed.

"That was amazing, babe...Hey, wait. I'll get a towel." His mellow tone tightens as I begin to move. The mattress shifts and I hear his quick footsteps to the bathroom. Something creaks where it doesn't belong.

"What was that?" I'm trapped on my tummy with cum pooling in the dip of my back, staring up at the Tom Brady poster over the headboard. There's someone I'd do in a heartbeat. He's a fucking Adonis, even at forty. My tits are so much nicer than Gisele's, and a girl can dream.

"What was what, babe?" If he's not worried, I'm not. He returns and proceeds to wipe me down as if I were a gym bench. "Okay, you're good."

I still feel rather slimy but decide it's his problem as I flip onto my back once more, mop my dripping slit with the driest corner of the towel, and hoist my jeans into place. We put the rest of our clothes on in a hurry, saying nothing until we're in the Vette again.

Quonnicut Harbor Road is nearly deserted. "Coming to my graduation party this Sunday?" He sounds hopeful.

I'm kind of surprised and not crazy about the idea at first. Lissa Brewer will be welded to his side; talk about wanting his cake and eating it too. But my mom and his mom are friends and it might look more suspicious if I don't go. Besides, the more I think about it, the more the inseam nibbles at my wet clit. Before I answer him, I wait until I have the perfect outfit selected in my mind, then wait some more, until he's about to drop me off.

"What time?" I ask breezily, caressing the door latch in a horizontal hand job.

He just looks at me. I know that look by now.

"Don't go yet." He shoots the Vette into the nearest fire road, kills the engine and unzips his pants. What pops out, puts the gearshift to shame.

I tilt my head and bite my lip. "What would you like this time?"

"Make me cum again," he pleads.

"You mean, like this?" I curl my fingers suggestively around the latch some more, enjoying its voodoo power and its victim's visible twitches.

He sucks in a breath. "Don't tease me, Hotcakes. Just do it. A week is a long time, you know."

I transfer my touch to where he wants it most. He exhales a submissive sigh. My hand closes around the thick needy shaft, rises and falls in a slow squeeze. The fingertips of my free hand float over his bulging cock head.

Less than a minute later, my tongue dips into the little dent on his tip. I open wide and swallow his length.

"Oh, fuck," Reid grunts, gripping my braid and thrusting upward. I taste myself on its rugged thickness, slide off and lap teasingly under its stiff upper lip. "Suck me off, you little bitch." The leather upholstery buffers his moans as his prick repeatedly sinks into the cinnamon heat of my mouth.

Knowing I'll be humping my fingers to this little vignette later tonight, I oblige.

Make that three times he's shot it off in my mouth. Take that, Lissa Brewer.

***

"So glad to see your mom up and about," coos Mr. Danforth halfway through his second Shipyard Ale. He's the village pharmacist and when I went to pick up my mom's Cipro he sprouted a woody while reviewing the dosage instructions for me. Now he gives me a thorough once-over. "You look very pretty today. New dress?"

He's a major perv all right, and it just so happens he's also Lissa Brewer's uncle.

Around us, guests are mingling on the thick backyard lawn. Barbecue smokes the air, long refreshment tables are full of drinks and hors-d'oeuvres, and strings of lanterns provide the traditional overhead color. Everyone in town has turned up, it seems. Reid should make out like a bandit in the gift department. I haven't a clue what my mom got for him but I figure he's already getting one from me every Tuesday.

Even without the perv's editorial, I already know the dress is doing its job. Lissa Brewer is polite when she greets me but her eyes frost with disapproval at the short hemline and form-fitting outline.  It's not all form-fitting, really; the skirt flares out a bit once it hits the top of my ass. It just doesn't go very far after that.

I manage to evade Mr. Danforth without too much hassle and head over to talk to some friends. Maybe I can bum a cigarette. Then I remember Mrs. Collins' request that the grounds remain smoke-free. Crap. If nothing else, it'll keep me straight and narrow with the new resolution.

Speaking of good behavior, so far, Reid's keeping his distance other than to say hello to my mom and me--until the party's social flow brings us into proximity on the back deck.

Lissa Brewer is tucked under his right arm, looking perky and diminutive as a pair-skating partner on the gold-medal podium. Mr. Kelleher, Reid's coach and one of the town councilmen, suddenly calls the gathering to silence. I happen to halt, on my path to the kitchen, at Reid's unoccupied side. All of us watch Mr. Kelleher as he holds court from the center of the lawn.

Yawn. Congratulatory speeches. I'm just about to turn and go my merry way when I feel a huge warm hand on my bare ass. I freeze.

I haven't bothered to wear panties again, but it seems Reid has figured it out even before I could drop any hints...like my napkin. One part of me wants to slap him, but I can't. For one thing, my hands are full of empty serving bowls. For another, all eyes not on Mr. Kelleher are definitely on the new graduate's reactions.

Thank fuck they can't see the new graduate's very naughty fingers reaching under the back of my dress to trace the sensitive shelf where my butt cheeks and thighs meet. They're sketching rows of intricate curlicues over the tender, downy skin. It must be eighty-two degrees outside, yet I'm starting to shiver.

I'm not really listening as Reid's teammates and other male acquaintances step forward one by one to add their reminiscing speeches and well-wishes. The tactile upskirt-demons dance inward, inching ever closer to my thigh gap. A tickling figure-eight across my cunt lips nearly causes me to drop everything.

Reid sure has more balls than I've given him credit for. Wonder how far he'll take this.

I shuffle to widen my legs a little, and in those few cubic inches, the afternoon's heat suddenly feels like a sea breeze. Immediately the warm fingers steal between them to tease along the crease between my thighs and pussy lips, first one side, then the other, deliberately avoiding the most sensitive seam. Then they do it all over again; this time, they slalom delicate S-curves across the soft snow pack of my outer lips.

The naked thrill is giving me gooseflesh and causing more than a dribble of moisture along my slit. As if on cue, a skillful fingertip dips into where I'm leaking, wriggles a little, which increases the drip rate, and spreads the slickness up toward my clit with feathery, circular motions.

Fuck. Why doesn't he ever do this on Tuesdays? The son of a bitch has never made me come once. If this is what Lissa Brewer's presence brings out in him, I'll kneel and kiss her tacky tourmaline ring along with the rest of the class.

I focus on a lantern above Mr. Kelleher's head and try not to give anything away while the same fingertip softly plays just below my clit. It's driving me crazy. I'm getting so wet the insides of my thighs feel as if they're being licked. Hoping no one will notice, I tilt my hips back and upward to try to center my clit atop the wagging finger like a spinning plate on an acrobat's pole.

Lissa Brewer's giggle rattles my trance. Reid bends to his right and plants a kiss on her forehead.

Brass balls.

The finger drags backward, half an inch off-target and rubs back and forth in a gentle taunt. I risk tilting back a little more. Again, the probing retreats to compensate for my motion.

Without warning, it penetrates me and stirs like the spindle of a frappe machine. It's all I can do to keep my fucking legs from buckling.

"Come on over, Reid," shouts a teammate, shattering my impaled daze. "We've got a surprise for you both."

I steel myself for the frustration of withdrawal--hell, it won't be the first time he's left me hanging--and detachedly wonder how Reid is going to wipe--or explain--all that girl-glaze dripping from his hand.

But as the happy couple steps forward, the finger dives even deeper and the whole hand clenches my pussy. Its rough, vise-like grip nearly makes me cum.

"Don't move," a whisper scorches my neck under the smattering of applause that washes the new grad and his girl.

As if I could, or want to. I suppose I should feel outraged, but I don't. Aside from being so fucking horny I could scream, it's sort of a kick to have my too-good-to-be-true hunch about Reid proven right.

A second finger slides up inside, while a third darts at the soft underbelly of my clit. Shooting stars begin to green out my vision. Fuck.

"Well, if it isn't Tuesday Weld," the upskirt-demons' puppetmaster sniggers. "Anyone ever tell you how sexy you look while getting fucked from behind in Reid's bed? But don't worry. It'll be my pleasure..."

The intruding column plunges, curls, agitates. I'm shaking so hard the bowls I'm holding are starting to chatter.

"...to keep your secret."

Shit! Double, triple-shit! Was that the noise I heard that day? Who the fuck else could have been there? But the lightning-quick, feathery strokes over my bullet-point are silencing all objections. So much mayhem, going on behind the placid front panel of my dress, within sight of the other guests.

Even though I'm guessing it's the doing of the pervy pharmacist, I'll fucking die if he stops.

"Want to get off, don't you?" the hushed voice I don't recognize continues, reading my filthy thoughts. "Just nod if you do. A horny girl like you? You will."

I'm feeling dizzy with the need to come. I nod.

"Harper's Trail bridge, tomorrow. Four-thirty. Find the camo blanket. Clothes off, blindfold yourself, and wait."

Mrs. Collins is walking briskly toward the deck. The fingers ease out and pop from their sleeve, leaving me empty and soaked.

"Count to ten before you turn around, or it won't happen," hisses his parting shot.

I pretend to check for other bowls on the tables while I wait, scarcely able to stand, pulse thundering. Far across the lawn, a nondescript man extracts another Shipyard from the ice bucket and turns to reveal his face.

It's the pervy Mr. Danforth, who apparently hasn't been as pervy as I thought.

Then who just had his hand up my snatch?!

By the time I get the dishes to the kitchen, twin slippery trails run from my pussy all the way to the insides of both knees. I rush to the bathroom and clean myself up. But while I'm braced with my back to the wall, knees turned out like a pornographic Pavlova, skirt crudely lifted and bunched, needing with all my might to rub one out, I stop and decide to leave the ache alone.

For tomorrow's touches, from a faceless stranger?

The realization that I might actually be taking it seriously--and wondering what to use for a blindfold--sends fresh rivulets oozing down my leg.

To be continued...