We were having a party for ... hell, I forget who or what. It was a chance for our little crowd to dance a little, drink a little, talk a lot. A chance to drive back the encroaching solstice with noise & human warmth.

As usual, Andrew arrived late, this time with a girl I didn't know. After they'd deposited their coats on the front porch, he led her over to me. "Molly, this is Vinnie, the host organism." Molly briefly squeezed my hand with her cold fingers, and her eyes lit up as she grinned infectiously, "You're Vinnie Tesla!" she exclaimed.

"You're Snufkin, from the mailing list," I guessed. She nodded. A new user on the e-mail list for our crowd had appeared a couple weeks ago. She (or he, as I'd assumed, embarrassingly, at the time) had waded merrily into our usual political battles, displaying an impressive nose for bullshit (including some of my own), and staking out surprising and unpredictable positions that had alternately vexed and charmed me.

Snufkin in the flesh was a short woman, with ash-blond hair cut very short. Her cheeks were freckled, and still rosy from the chilly air outside. A tiny jewel sparkled on one nostril. As she pulled off her heavy rag sweater, she revealed faded bib overalls over a bright red tee-shirt. "I was gonna say to your last post—" I began.

She shushed me, with a mock-stern look. "No politics—I'm here to dance. You wanna dance?"

No. I'm not really a dancer. And I've got to run around and do hosty things. "Sure!"

We squeezed through the crowded hallway into the rather less crowded darkened front living room, where about equal numbers of people were dancing and arguing about what to add to the Winamp playlist next.

I wouldn't presume to say whether she was a good dancer, but I certainly enjoyed watching her when I wasn't too preoccupied with shaking my own booty in a remotely plausible and non-destructive fashion. She was obviously having great fun, and her motions betrayed evidence of a sensual and limber body beneath her baggy and androgynous clothes

Near the end of the song, I noticed Andrew standing in the doorway, sipping a beer and watching us with a small smile. When the song ended, Molly hugged me tightly for an instant. "Thanks," we both said at once. I made my excuses and started to leave the dancefloor. "I'll talk to you soon," she said, and turned her attention to separating Andrew from his beer so he could dance. This soon degenerated into a tickle fight, as her jabbing fingers forced him to lose his habitual cool reserve.

I watched the tussle for a few seconds, and then moved into the kitchen, where one of my roommates recruited me to help him set up a batch of margaritas. The party proceeded as parties do. I floated around, dipping into conversations, nudging smokers out onto the porch, picking up empty glasses from the floor, disposing of a couple margaritas myself. Around 1, I was doing some dishes in the kitchen (go figure—I hate doing dishes sober), when I felt a hand on my waist. It was Molly, close enough at my side that she would have been invading my personal space if she weren't so damn cute.

"Hey Vincent," she said, with a direct gaze, "It's good to finally meet you."

I was about to correct her—people always call me Vinnie; but I discovered I liked the way she said Vincent. Instead, I said, "How did you—" no, that's no good either. I knew how she got on the list—through Andrew, and for some reason I didn't want to hear her say it. "Can I get you—" shit, she's holding a Cider Jack already. I grinned idiotically. "It's good to meet you."

For a moment, we listened to the cacophony in the next room of a dozen simultaneous conversations. Her hand dropped from (Oh my god! the whole time it was at) my waist, and dangled. "It's really nice to be meeting some people around here."

That's good. I can work with that. "So you moved here recently." This close, I can smell her sweat from all her dancing faint and sharp over the smell of the soap in the sink. And, aw shit, I'm getting hard. Guess I'll be standing at the sink for a couple more minutes. And as soon as I notice, she's moving away to lean against the counter across from me.

"Yeah," she says, "I moved up two months ago from Virginia." And we're off. We have achieved conversation. We go through fifteen or twenty minutes of biography—hers is a confusing mix of dot-coms, organic farms, and four (or was it five?) little liberal arts colleges. From there we verge into books and comics, and soon we're in a genial argument about which Hernandez brother. I'm a Jaime man, where she's a Beto partisan. In the harsh light of the kitchen fluorescent, I feel strange and isolated, the next room miles away. I'm at the phase of tipsiness where I feel like the world's greatest wit. Molly laughs merrily at my jokes, throwing her head back, exposing the pale skin of her slender neck. At some point we moved to the kitchen table and sat down. Now she's demanding that I produce my copy of Poison River, so she can demonstrate a point.

"C'mon, let's see it," she's shouting, "you'll eat your words, Tesla! You'll rue the day you questioned my judgement!" Laughing, I rise, a little unsteadily, to find the book. Laughing, she follows suit. She tries to balance herself by gripping my shoulders. I'm not quite steady myself yet, and we're suddenly very close. Our eyes are darting over each other's faces, searching for the source of the sensation washing over us.

Without my volition, my hand comes up and touches her cheek. Her eyes flutter as she presses her face into my palm. Then they open again, and our gazes meet.

"Uh-oh," Molly says, very quietly.

"Yeah," I answer.

"Where are we gonna go?"

Good question! The kitchen isn't a secure site for what we suddenly have very much in mind. My room is a bad idea—it opens on the living rooms, where the others are talking. My roommates' rooms are far worse. I bark out loud with laughter as I try to imagine using one of the closets, jammed as they are with sweaters, croquet sets, pornographic videotapes, and dead computer equipment. Then an idea strikes. "The basement!" I say excitedly.

She narrows her eyes in mock suspicion (and god is it cute!). "Cold, damp, cardboard boxes of old textbooks, all hard surfaces?

"Cold, damp, cardboard boxes, old mattresses," I answered.

"Giant rats?

"Those were the hors d'oeuvres. You missed them by about half an hour."

She glares and jabs me in the ribs with her fingertips. "I'll go pee first."

I dash for my room to collect a few items. Condoms: check. Lube: check. A couple antibacterial handiwipes from my last airline flight. Handcuffs? excessive. Pillow? Too obvious. Guess I'm ready.

I would have preferred to slip back into the kitchen unnoticed, out of sight and out of mind, but someone in a pile of people on one of the couches calls me over. A guy from my gaming group wants to do some politicking for our current campaign. I fend him off and dash back into the kitchen in what I hope looks like a random saunter.

Molly's sitting cross-legged on a kitchen chair when I come in. "Ready?" she asks.

"Very, very, very," I say slowly. She grins at the compliment as I unlock the basement door.

The basement is cold and damp, and littered with cardboard boxes. Two bare bulbs provide dim illumination. I come up behind Molly, and she starts to turn to face me. Instead, I take hold of her hips, and she purrs and presses back against me. I bend down (quite a ways!) and press my lips against her neck, just below the jawline. I can feel her shudder at the skin-on-skin contact. I can feel the rapid pulse in her veins. Her little cold hands come up, back, stroke and tug at my head, working my lips along the line of her neck. I venture a bite, and she gasps and pulls harder.

At this point my pants have become very uncomfortable. Somewhat sheepishly, I draw back, and reach a hand inside my jeans to resolve the problem. She presses back against me again, and grinds her ass against my erection. I squeeze her hips hard, and return the pressure. Her head comes back, leaning against my collarbone, and our lips meet, not in a tentative first kiss, but a hungry, hard searching one.

We draw back to catch our breaths, and she breaks free and whirls around. With an evil grin, she grabs the back of my neck with one hand, wraps her other arm around my waist, and shoves her tongue into my mouth. Her breath is hot and sweet, her arms unexpectedly strong as she squeezes me. Our mouths still pressed together, she reaches down and untucks my shirt, runs her hands over my torso.

Our lips separate, I reach up to her overall straps and undo the fasteners. The bib falls down in front and the straps drop behind her. Though she's no more exposed than before, my heart is hammering in my chest. I grab the hem of her tee-shirt, and she raises her arms, her eyes fixed on my face. The hem comes up over her head, so that her arms and head are momentarily caught inside. Playfully, I pull the fabric taut, so that she's caught inside. As she laughs and struggles, I drink in the sight of her little breasts, pale and freckled in her navy blue bra, the delicate musculature of her lightly-tanned shoulders, and, ah! the exposed nooks of her underarms, fringed with pale reddish hair.

Impulsively, I bury my face in an armpit, and drink in her sharp animal smell. She's moaning and laughing at once as my beard tickles her delicate skin. I lick along the line of her shoulderblade, the muscles there flexing as she struggles playfully. I throw her tee-shirt to the ground, and push her against one of the basement's grimy cinderblock walls. I pin her arms above her head, and give the other armpit a more thorough treatment.

She starts out laughing and twitching, but this gives way to quiet moans, that get louder when I bite. I release her arms and run my lips over the pale, freckled flesh above her bra. Impatiently I pull the bra up over her tits, and fix my mouth over one of her nipples, crinkled tight in the basement's chill air. My hands find the catch of her bra, and it joins her tee shirt on the floor. Once again she grabs my head and holds it tightly as I worry and suck at her fat little bud. I hold her other breast in my hand. The flesh is breathtakingly soft, and fever-hot. I pull the nipple roughly, stretching the crinkles smooth. "Yeah," she whispers in my ear, her hot breath sending shivers down my spine, "yeah."

Still cradling my head with one hand, her other strokes the front of my jeans, and cups my cock with her open palm. "Mmm, nice," she purrs.

"You like it?" I ask, my hands kneading her breasts, "soon it's going to be buried in your cunt."

She looks me in the eye teasingly. "Just my cunt?"

I open and close my mouth several times like a goldfish. So much for my attempt at the suave dirty-talker. Molly laughs at my expression and begins struggling to get the legs of her overalls over her boots. I should offer to help, but watching her breasts sway as she works bent over is irresistible for the moment. She tugs the overalls down her thighs (more navy underwear is revealed), and sits on the floor. Then, with a yelp, she's off the cold, damp concrete again, rubbing her chilled ass.

"Here, let me help with that," I volunteer, and squat behind her. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"Molly, you have got an amazing ass." Broader than I expected, exquisitely round and smooth. Dusted with pale freckles. Flawless, so far as I can see. Groaning, I grab her hips and bury my face in that exquisite butt, licking and biting at the smooth, taut flesh. She presses back against me, and wiggles her hips slowly and sexily, enjoying the attention. Eventually, though: "Weren't you gonna help me get my clothes off?"

"I got sidetracked," I admit, and jerk her panties down to her knees before resuming my feast.

She begins skeptically, "That's not a whole lot of— oooh, that feels good." I'm kneading her cheeks hard with my hands now, while licking teasingly around the top of her crack.

"Bend over," I tell her.

"Yes, sir!" she says sarcastically, but does so, resting her hands against the wall, and spreading her legs as much as her bunched clothes will allow. I stroke her ass lightly

"You want me to?"

"Yeah," she whispers, almost inaudibly.

I pull at one of her cheeks, exposing her hidden parts. The skin of her anus is surprisingly dark, and fringed with wispy reddish hair. Below, the lips of her cunt are fat and swollen. She flinches a little when the wet handiwipe from my pocket touches the sensitive flesh of her asshole. I run it over the surface a few times, and then drop it onto the floor. My hands spread her cheeks, and I begin running my tongue along the skin just above her anus. Then I move down, and lick at her perineum, drawing a gasp from Molly. Finally I bring my tongue to her clenched little orifice, and rub against it with gentle pressure.

She lets a little shriek escape, followed by a low moan. I feel goosepimples rise on her muscular thighs, as she reaches down and cups her cunt in one hand. I'm alternating broad, spiraling licks with tighter, more aggressive ones, loving the feel of her soft flesh against my face. She's slowly undulating her hips; each breath out is a long quiet moan.

The rocking of her hips accelerates; her voice rises in pitch. I (teasing bastard) rise to my feet and draw her up too. It takes a moment for her eyes to focus again, and then I'm seized in a bruising hug. "Oh, wow," she says dreamily, "Oh, that was really nice. I haven't done that before."