Jenny never had much money, which is why I knew her in the first place. I have a home office with extensive files, and I needed someone to maintain them; she needed extra work to make ends meet. A friend introduced us, and she was soon in and out of my apartment whenever my filing backlog got high, or her funds got low. A few times, she slept over on my couch after a late evening’s work, rather than take the bus all the way to her place. I dug her long, slender body, but I didn’t want to make a pass and risk losing a fairly good employee. True, I hadn’t had a girlfriend in some time, but my filing backlog went back even farther than my state of celibacy.

Usually, Jenny only stayed over after working for me. But one night, she called from a party, late, and asked if she could stay again. Since I had nothing going but some work, and was dying for an excuse to stop, I said sure.

Jenny was over about half an hour later, letting herself in with a key and saying a firm goodnight to someone just outside the door. He didn’t seem to get the message, but I did. I boomed out “Anything wrong, Jenny?” and I heard the outside door slam a moment later.

Jenny closed the inside door, walked into my office behind me, and bent over so she could see my face. “Sorry about that,” she said. “This guy was hitting on me all through the party, and insisted on taking me home. I figured, better to lead him to your place than mine.” I agreed, shut down my word processor, and escorted her to the living room. Jenny seemed a little dreamy; she’d smoked a joint or two at the party. I rolled one of my own, and we sat there, sharing it. I turned on some Bach, and she joined me on the couch, across from the speakers, to savor its intricacies. Soon, we were savoring each other, with lips, hands, caresses, nibbles, little “mmms” of pleasure and discovery, rustling clothes, the soft buzz of zippers, the even softer pops of buttons retreating through their buttonholes, and soon an accelerating rhythm of breath, couch springs, and soft, slurpy sounds a few feet south of our ears. When I got my breath back, I picked up her warm, limp, slender form and carried her off to my bedroom, where we’d have a bit more scope.

Once on the bed, I took a long, uninterrupted look at her. I’d never seen a body quite like hers: Perfectly shaped legs, the longest I had ever seen; a trunk exactly the same length as mine (perfect in bed, I found, since it let me kiss her lips without slipping out of her or bending double); pale, wispy pubic hair, breasts that extended only about two inches from her chest--but perfectly cone-shaped, with nipples that stuck out nearly another inch when she was excited--as we both were, now. Her breasts led up to gently curved shoulders, a thin pad of flesh over perfect bone structure. Her neck was a softly sculptured pillar, leading to a fine chin, delightful earlobes, greenish-blue eyes, and long, soft hair that I now knew for sure was naturally blonde. Her hips were broad and accommodating, but concave, two gently cushioned ridges of bone acting as guides to center a man’s body in the hollow between them.

Her long, delicate fingers stroked the length of my cock--a length that increased measurably with every touch. I was only able to give her clit an answering stroke or two before she clamped her eyes shut, arched her back, and stopped her strokes as she writhed in another orgasm.

Naturally, that got me even hotter. As her eyes began to open again, I rolled on top of her and slooowly edged my tool back inside her, reading her soft, welcoming smile as she reached up to hug my body to hers. She came two more times before I did. Then we paused for another rest.

People talk about king-size beds as if the point were to have room to thrash all over. To me, the chief advantage has been the ability to make love once or twice and still have room to cuddle up together between wet spots. (It helps to make love at one edge--careful you don’t fall off--and only gradually work your way to the middle.) But by the end of that night, we had no choice except a choice of wet spots.

Jenny slept over many a time over the next few years. But never on the couch again.

And I slept over many times at her place. That wasn’t as much fun. For one thing, her bed had long since sagged down in the middle. For another, the landlord never provided enough heat in winter, and Jenny could not afford an air conditioner for summer. (I offered to buy her one, once, but she turned it down because it would add too much to her electric bill.) When we slept at my place, I could commute to work by picking up my coffee and walking across the hall to my workroom; when we slept at hers, I had to cram myself into a bus at rush hour.

But worst was the intermittent lack of privacy. When money got really tight for her, Jenny would take in a roommate, giving her the bedroom (and the saggy bed) while she and I slept in her sleeping bag in the front hall. That also meant waiting until her roommate came home before we could go to bed, as there was no way into the place without her stepping over us.

One night, however, Jenny’s roommate was already home and tucked in bed by the time I arrived. (This was a new one, Clara, whom I’d never met.) It was a hot night, so we just used the sleeping bag as a mattress, got between two sheets (in case Clara came out for some reason), and began the long-familiar, but never stale, process of feeling out each other’s needs and tensions. In the distance, I could hear Clara walk across from her room to the bathroom, then struggle to get her room’s paint-encrusted door to close again; but all she could see of us from that end of the apartment was our feet, and I discreetly moderated my moans of joy--not that it made much sense, since Jenny was in full cry, oblivious to anything that did not touch her skin.

Afterwards, I walked to the bathroom myself, noting that Clara’s door was still open a small crack. A quick peek showed me a thin slice of her thighs (surprisingly large and powerful) and the point of a black, hairy triangle, but nothing more. I was relieved: Unless she had eyes in her crotch, she would not know that I was naked right outside her door. But I was just a bit intrigued, too.

On the way back from the john, I took a second look, and thought about it. This made me all the more ready for Jenny’s eagerness when I slipped down beside her again. We made love one more time, then I made a return trip to the john. The crack between Clara’s door and jamb was dark, now; she had gone to sleep, or at least was trying to

To keep out of Clara’s way, I had to get up before she did. So I was dressed and out the door before I heard her stir. But there was a long wait at the bus stop, and just as my bus came in, I saw a woman walk out of Jenny’s building--a young woman with such powerful thighs I knew it must be Clara.

And so it was, as I learned a few nights later. Jenny and I were sitting on her couch listening to some records when Clara walked in, was introduced, said a sort of strangled “Hi.” and ducked into the bedroom. That, with a few repeats of essentially the same experience, was our entire acquaintance for some months.

Then, Jenny came to me with a proposition--a business one, of sorts. She’d just gotten a raise at her day job; that, combined with Clara’s rent, was enough for her to get by without my filing, and take some evening courses. Clara, on the other hand, was finding that her money did not stretch as far as she’d expected when she moved to New York. So, could Clara take over the filing? Jenny would still come over as often as she always had--but now, it would be strictly to spend time with me. I gave a tentative okay: Clara hadn’t made much of an impression on me, and I wanted to make sure she was up to the work. I also had to be sure she wasn’t allergic to my cats.