My first year of college I really wanted some freedom.

I'd lived under my parent's roof for nearly nineteen years, living by their rules and constantly under their watchful eyes. I had a part-time job making pretty good money driving a truck for one of the local newspapers and so, when the opportunity to strike out on my own presented itself in an affordable way, I took it.

Of course I wouldn't be on my own. I was part of a threesome of college guys that rented a twenty-year old, three bedroom house in a once middle-class but by then declining neighborhood. We divided the rent and the utilities up evenly, making me responsible for two hundred and forty dollars a month. For this I received a private twelve by ten bedroom and a third of the kitchen, living room, and bathroom.

Freedom certainly wasn't everything I'd envisioned it to be. Though I didn't miss my Mommy or anything like that, I did quickly develop an immense respect for how much my mother had done around the house that I had always taken for granted. Laundry for instance. I now had to do it by myself and I was always a week behind in it. Cooking. I was now forced to live on fast food and pizza (and lots of beer) instead of home-cooked meals on most nights. And cleaning! That is what I missed the most. I grew up in a clean house, my mother nearly a fanatic on the subject. The three of us guys were horrible slobs, none of us wanting to clean up after ourselves, let alone each other. Our house was constantly an embarrassment with beer cans, dishes, empty food containers, even a bong full of dirty water lying around. I don't believe we even owned a vacuum cleaner or cleaning supplies.

The neighbors, some of whom were homeowners and some of whom were renters, tolerated us. The reason for their toleration was that we kept mostly to ourselves and were not prone to throwing wild parties (or even un-wild parties). We were not of the wild partying class you see. I was a History major, angling towards a career in teaching. I'd always been shy, especially around females. Jack, the sophomore among us, was a computer science major and a stereotypical one at that. He had it all, thick glasses, high IQ, pocket protectors, no women and few friends. Lance was a general education major who had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. Whenever he wasn't in class or working he enjoyed staying home, watching TV, and smoking grass. I have never seen anyone smoke as much pot as Lance did. If he was home, he was taking bong hits. Our house constantly reeked with the odor of greenbud. The only thing that kept him from flunking out of school was a near-photographic memory and an eerie ability to pass nearly any written test given to him.

Lance and Jack were friends of convenience but I was never really close to them. All Jack wanted to talk about was mainframes and Cobol and this ridiculous idea of his how one day every computer in the world would be linked together. Lance was very talkative when he was stoned but he was TOO talkative. He would ramble on about strange ideas and things, voicing insights that he'd come to on every subject from politics to why they put those little black things in pre-packaged salami meat.

It was difficult to get a word in edgewise around him. I didn't have many other friends, just acquaintances, and dates were few and far between for me.

I might have moved back home at some point, just to get some intelligent, worthwhile conversation, had I not started hanging out with Roger and Fran. They were a couple in their early thirties that owned the house next door to ours. Roger was a mechanic who worked in a shop nearby. He was a chubby, short man that perpetually had grease and grime beneath his fingernails. He was painfully nice and always jovial; always willing to help out anyone and everyone. He was the kind of guy that couldn't pass a panhandler on the street without dropping in a buck or two. As far as I could tell he was completely incapable of being offended by anything. Even before we'd formally met, he always had a friendly wave for me whenever he spied me coming or going from our house. His wife, Fran, was also slightly chubby in a top-heavy way. She was a natural blonde with an average sized waist but a large torso and huge breasts. Her face was plain but pretty though she rarely wore make-up. My first impression of her was of a woman who used to be somewhat loose back in high school but was now playing the role of respectable married woman. She was a full-time housewife. They had two blonde children, a boy and a girl, ages two and four respectively.

It was my car that did the job of bringing me into this family. It was a battered Toyota Corolla that was ten years old and had nearly a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. I'd purchased the car a year after getting my driver's license. It's paint was faded, it's interior trashed with yellow upholstery and springs showing through multiple holes in the seats. The heater didn't work and the engine was covered with so much grime and oil that it actually smoked while it was running. I treated that car like shit. I changed the oil only when I thought about it, which was usually every twelve thousand miles or so. I drove it with the tires underinflated and I never checked any of the fluids. I rode the clutch.

But still it kept on running faithfully for me until one morning when it rebelled in a big way.

It just so happened that Roger was out in front of his house that morning, watering some plants in his front yard while his car warmed up in the driveway prepatory to taking him to work. He tossed me a friendly wave as I hustled out of the house, back-pack in hand, working on being late for my 8:20 class. I returned his wave and jumped in the car, which I'd never bothered to lock since there was nothing inside of it worth stealing. I inserted the key into the ignition, pumped the gas pedal two times, and gave it a crank. It fired up like usual, ran normally for about ten seconds and then, just as I was about to put the gearshift in reverse, from beneath my hood came the most agonizing sound of mechanical torment that I've ever heard.

There was a loud screech, a bang, multiple thumps, and a louder bang before I had the presence of mind to shut off the key.

The noises gradually ground to a halt along with the engine. I then heard the sound of fluid pouring to the cement driveway beneath the car.

I popped the hood latch and stepped out of the car. Though I knew next to nothing about cars I still felt the typical male urge to have a look under the hood. Roger had heard the sound too and headed over from his driveway, sensing the call of a vehicle in peril. The first thing I saw was a large puddle of shit-brown liquid beneath the car. It was still dripping out from underneath and running down the driveway to the gutter. Mechanical ineptness or not, I was pretty sure that this wasn't a hopeful sign.

Roger, who I'd never been introduced to or spoken to before, looked at the puddle too. "Looks like old radiator fluid." He told me matter-of-factly.

I looked at him, offering a polite smile. "That's probably not a good thing to have pouring out of the car, is it?"

He shook his head sadly. "Afraid not. And that sound it made most definitely didn't sound too healthy."

"I was afraid of that." I sighed.

"Open her up." He suggested. "Let's take a look."

Afraid of what I'd see, I unlatched the hood and raised it. The entire front of the engine was a mess. Like I said, I'm not the most mechanically inclined person in the world, but even I could see that my fan and my radiator had met at high speed, destroying both. Brown fluid was everywhere. Fragments of plastic fan blade, metal fragments, hoses, and radiator parts were strewn throughout the front of the engine compartment. Several pieces of the fan were actually protruding from the back of the radiator.

"Hole-ee shit." Roger said cheerfully. "Looks like your water pump up and exploded, sending your fan right into the radiator." He shook his head again. "That's the thing with these rice burners. They run forever but when they go, they go in a big way."

I sank my head, immediately depressed. "Can it be fixed?" I asked.

"Oh sure." He answered. "Anything can be fixed. It's bound to be expensive though."

"How expensive?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Well, you're talkin' a new radiator complete with all the hoses, a new fan, new belts, new water pump." He poked around inside for a second. "Oil pump and alternator look okay. All that plus labor is gonna run you about a thousand at a reputable shop."

"A thousand?" I exclaimed. The whole freaking car wasn't worth a thousand dollars.

"If you went to the dealer though it'd be more; like fifteen hundred probably."

"Oh shit." I said, majorily depressed now. There was no way in hell I could afford that, not even in my wildest dreams. I also couldn't live, work, or go to school without my car. I was truly and utterly fucked.

Roger seemed to see this in my face. "Tell you what." He said. "I'm a mechanic and I do this kind a thing for a living. If you buy the parts, I'll be happy to help you put them in."

I looked at him, wondering if there was some sort of catch.

"Really?"

"Why not?" He said. "Shouldn't take more than two hours or so. It'll save you a lot of money that way."

"How much are the parts?" I asked.

"Well," He said, "How about I help you after I get off work tonight at four. You gonna be here?"

"I sure ain't going anywhere now." I told him.

"I guess not."

He said. "I'll call my friend at the wholesalers that my shop deals with. I can probably get you a refurbished radiator, rebuilt water pump, new fan and new belts for about a hundred and fifty total."

"You're kidding." I said, not sure I'd heard him right.

He chuckled. "That's the advantage of being in the business." He told me. "Can you come up with a hundred fifty?"

"I sure can." I said.

"Cool. I'll see you around four-thirty or so then and we'll take a ride."

"What can I pay YOU for this?" I asked timidly. I'd been taught from birth that you didn't get anything for free in this world.

"How 'bout a twelver of Budweiser. We'll pick it up while we're getting the parts."

Numbly I said, "Sounds like a deal uh... "

"Roger." He said, holding out his hand. "Roger Brunt."

As promised, he was there precisely at 4:30. I hopped in his Ford Falcon and we stopped first and foremost for the twelve-pack. As we drove across town he chatted to me about his job, his kids, his house. He was friendly and easy to talk to. He kept the open twelve pack between the two front seats and drank can after can of beer while he drove. When he was finished with them he tossed them over his right shoulder to the floorboards of the back seat where a large collection of similar cans rolled back and forth. By the time we picked up the parts and returned to his house, he'd consumed six cans of beer. I myself, though I didn't like having an open container in the car, drank two out of politeness.

He brought a few simple tools over to my driveway which he used to drain all of the old radiator fluid, that which hadn't leaked out in the explosion anyway. He eyed the brown fluid as it dribbled out.

"When was the last time you drained and flushed this thing?" He asked.

"I wasn't aware that you were SUPPOSED to drain and flush it." I answered.

He chuckled as if I was joking. I wasn't. My Dad had taught me a lot of things as a child and young adult, but automotive maintenance and repair were not among them. Dad always sent the cars to the shop when something went wrong.

I was probably in my teens before I'd even seen the inside of an engine compartment.

We pushed the car over to his garage, having to struggle to get it up the steep incline, and he went to work. He did all of the actual procedure, drinking beer all the while and explaining carefully to me what he was doing each step so, if my water pump ever exploded again, I would know how to fix it. About fifteen minutes into the old radiator extraction, Fran came outside with one of the kids in tow.

Like her husband, I'd seen her coming and going but I'd never actually spoken to her before.

She was wearing black stretch pants and a baggy button-up shirt.

Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She greeted me politely after her husband introduced us and she immediately began chatting me up brightly, her blue eyes shining.

She asked about me, my roommates, my life at the college, my girlfriends. She was as easy to talk to as her husband was and I conversed gladly, grateful to discuss something other than computers or what the government was REALLY up to with that space shuttle. I noticed immediately that Fran was a toucher and a frequent invader of personal space. She was also quite a flirt. She would stand very close while she talked, occasionally reaching out to touch an arm or a shoulder to punctuate some remark. Her husband seemed completely unfazed and unconcerned with this.

In the two hours it took to repair my car I became a friend with the two of them. I drank beer, watched the car repairs, and talked to Fran and Roger about anything and everything. Fran came and went with frequency, sometimes alone, sometimes with one or the other of the kids with her. I talked to the kids when they were out, finding them cute and personable. When the last bolt was tightened down and the radiator refilled with antifreeze and water (fresh antifreeze is GREEN, not brown, I discovered), Roger had me start up the car. It roared to life instantly, it's parts once again meshing as they should. I was beyond grateful and I must have thanked him sixty times before I pulled it out of his driveway and back into mine.

Fran, just before I'd left, had invited me over to dinner the next night and I'd accepted, my mouth watering at the idea of a homemade meal. I went over at the prescribed time and enjoyed potroast with mashed potatoes and gravy. After dinner we drank some beer and watched television together. I played with their kids enthusiastically and they seemed to like me. We talked some more amongst ourselves, our conversations becoming more comfortable and animated. We were officially friends.

From then on I began spending a lot of my free time with them.

They both obviously liked my company and I never had the sensation that I was imposing upon them. Their kids loved me. On nights off from work, I would go over after school when Roger got home from work and hang out, usually eating dinner with them. Our friendship grew and, as a natural part of friendship, I learned a lot about their respective personalities.

Fran, as I mentioned earlier, was a toucher. She was also a hugger. Whenever we greeted each other she would throw her arms around me and squeeze my chest against hers, allowing me to feel those large breasts pushing into me. She flirted shamelessly with me, always sitting on the couch next to me, touching my leg, my arm, making sexual comments towards me. She would even kiss me on the cheek or the neck when we parted. She did this openly in front of her husband and Roger didn't seem to be the least bit concerned about it. I realized after a while, when I met some of their other friends (there were two other couples that routinely hung out with them) that this was because she did this sort of thing with everyone, not just me. Roger must have been used to it.

Eventually it worked up to the point where I felt I could say damn near anything in front of Fran or Roger. I could comment on how big her tits were using the crudest language imaginable.

I could ask her to show them to me. I could ask Roger if she sucked his dick well and if he'd mind if I borrowed her for a while. I could give her ass a friendly squeeze when I hugged her. I could even kiss her on the lips when we parted. She ate up my comments, always laughing at them and Roger always thought they were funny too. The man seemed not to have a jealous bone in his body. She always flirted back with me, even going so far as to squeeze my ass too but, since she treated every male friend of hers the same way, I had no reason to believe that she was actually sexually interested in me.

I, on the other hand, was very sexually interested in her. Though she was not Playboy material by any means, she was attractive in her own way. Sure, she could've stood to lose fifteen or twenty pounds, but her breasts were huge and her legs, though chunky, were nicely shaped. She was also a married woman, forbidden fruit, and that, in and of itself, is a powerful attracter. I thought about her a lot, usually when I was in my room at night rubbing my hand up and down my cock. She gave the distinct impression that she was very good at sex. I never thought that I'd actually get to sample her treasures however. I was only nineteen and still naïve.

I simply assumed that a married woman would have no interest in sleeping with anyone but her husband. Oh how wrong I was.

My first solid indication that her flirting was not mere wordgames came on an early May night just before summer vacation. Roger called me up and told me that he, Fran and another couple, Candice and Bart, were going to take his truck to the drive-in to catch a movie. He wanted to know if I cared to go along.

"I don't think so." I told him. "I don't have a date or anything."

"So?" He'd enquired, giving no indication that his offer was simply for politeness sake only.

"Well," I went on. "I'd be kind of an oddball with two married couples, wouldn't I?"

"You said the magic word there." He informed me, chuckling. "We're married. We don't go to the drive-in to make out or fuck. We go to watch the movie and drink beer."

It didn't take him long to convince me to go with them. I'd met Candice and Bart many times before and was almost as friendly with them as I was Roger and Fran. Candice was very overweight, coming close to three hundred pounds I figured, but she was very nice and easy to talk to. Her husband Bart was a biker friend of Rogers from the shop. He smoked almost as much pot as my roomate Lance and discussed conspiracy theories while stoned that Lance would take another six or seven years to work his way up to.

They followed behind Roger, Fran, and I in their Chrysler. When we backed into the drive in, we all climbed into the back of Roger's Dodge pick-up.

We piled in our ice chests, blankets, and food bags. Fran planted her back against the cab of the truck and had Roger and I sit on either side of her. It was cramped and I found myself pushed against her soft body on one side and the edge of the truck on the other. Bart and Candice spread a blanket down near the open tailgate and lay on their stomachs.

Beers were passed around and opened. Bart produced a large joint and fired it up. That too made the rounds. The first movie was "Platoon" which I'd already seen once in a conventional theater (by myself).

By the time Charlie Sheen was watching the VC creep through the bush towards him after the lookout had fallen asleep, I was flying high and feeling very horny with Fran's body pressed against me.

I put my hand on her thigh, feeling it. This was an act that I'd done before in front of Roger and he never seemed to mind it, seeming to treat it like a normal showing of affection. He didn't mind now, he simply stared at the movie, sipping out of his beer can and hitting the joint thoughtfully when it came his way. Fran put her own hand on my leg, again something that she always did. With the pot and the horniness, I was soon spouting a powerful erection as my mind, ignoring the movie, pondered the feel of her leg beneath my fingers and the sensation of her caressing hand on my thigh.

By the time Charlie and his Vietnam buddies were smoking out on the screen, Bart and Candice had thrown a blanket over themselves and were making out contentedly. I was so horny I found myself wondering what it would be like to bag Candice.