That Friday morning I sat around the house, trying to decide whether to work in the yard or to go shopping. I'd showered, but as I often do, I hadn't dressed. I sat at the kitchen table sort of wondering about the alternatives. I usually wake up horny, and that day was no exception. Eventually, I put on shorts and a tee-shirt and drove downtown.

The supermarket was jammed with people. There were quite a lot of men there, but mainly women getting in supplies for the weekend. Lots of them had children with them and they all seemed focused on their lists, their kids, their shopping carts. I like to look at these women, try to figure out what's on their minds. Usually it isn't much more than the task at hand, but now and then I find one who looks me over — or some other person, male or female — more or less hungrily before getting back to work.

And, I look at their bodies. Try to see what's underneath those layers of cotton and plastic, the shape and weight of the breasts, the configuration of the breasts or buttocks, guess whether they are — or aren't — wearing bras or panties. There are some of them who wear shorts skimpy enough so you see the break of the flesh where the gluteus maximus joins the thigh. Some of them wear panties, some don't. Or, their pants are tight enough that you can see the outline — or not.

And nipples. Some women have nipples that push through the strongest bra, others don't seem to have any at all. Even without a bra, they aren't to be seen, even when you can detect the shadow of the aureolas. The tough nuts, though, are a wonder. Those are the nipples that hit you in the eye, worn proudly, aggressively, their owners asking you to look and appreciate. I saw one of my fellow teachers that morning, her nipples stabbing out at every on-looker. I smiled at her, and she said hello, shrugging her shoulders with a grin, knowing I was watching them dance in her shirt. Pity she's only interested in women — but, I like a sense of humor.

I stowed stuff in the car and parked near the main shopping street — there was nothing perishable that had to be gotten home. Mainly, I'd gone to the market to body-shop and the results had not made my libido any easier to deal with. I watched the jiggles and the grand strides of the girls as they walked down the shaded street. One lovely woman swung past on the other side of the street, a symphony of bouncing breasts, twisting buttocks and swaying hair, and I leaned against a tree to watch and appreciate a beautiful thing.

"You never looked at me like that," said a quiet voice beside me. I looked to my right and, sitting on a bench next to my tree was a lovely young woman I almost recognized. She looked at me, her eyes flicking down and moving from my knees up my thighs, hesitating at my crotch and eventually meeting mine again. Her hair was rich brown. She wore low, tight shorts and a short-sleeve top that stopped just at the arch of her ribcage. For me, that promise of forbidden accessibility, the taut belly and breasts open to the sweep of a hand, is truly exciting. As I returned her gaze, the fractions of seconds that passed in inspection let my mind re-capture her name.

"Alexy. Alexy Tennyson," I recalled, "five years ago, wasn't it? My first year at High."

She smiled — blindingly — and stood. Her top thrust forward from her ribs and was fastened with braided frogs. It was calculatedly tight so the material showed the shape of her breasts and was separated slightly behind the restraining braid — showing nothing, promising, threatening, anything. She put out her hand, which I took, shook and released with a reluctance I made certain not to show.

"Congratulations! I didn't think you'd remember. I know you're Mister Stinnes, but is it Nathan or Nate?" Her smile was sly, knowing, but open and cheerful, and her eyes were waiting for me to meet her challenge. I went for it.

"Nate. There's no way I could forget you, though it took me a moment to pull up your name. You spent that whole year sitting in front of me, showing me your body every way you could think of." I figured she would either drop it or not.

"I always wondered if you'd do anything about it, you know. It turned me on to do that, and you looked, all right, but nothing more."

"Well, for the record, it turned me on, too. And there's never been anything like that since." Recalling her first remark, I added, "And that lady across the street is merely another beautiful woman, not someone I see every day and can't dare look at." I scanned the front of her top and looked back to smile into her eyes. "I don't think I could have survived another year of you. What are you doing here?"

"Well, I've been off to college and I'm back, working here. Was it really that hard?" She looked at my crotch, smiled and returned to my face. The game we were playing was exciting, and I was already aroused. I decided to keep right on with it.

"Depended. Sometimes I was hard as a rock after class, sometimes not. Sort of depended on the occasion. But over the whole year, it was one of the most exciting and — I must say — frustrating things I've ever known."

"Well, I'm sorry if it was difficult for you. Really. I was just having fun, trying out my sex appeal, you know. And if you had 'done anything' about it, I wouldn't have known how to respond." Her direct gaze was vaguely apologetic, though I felt certain she would now know exactly what to do. She paused.

We spoke together, "What about lunch?" Then, laughed. We turned down the street and walked to a cafe where we took a table outside. There was plenty of sunshine, and hedges in boxes separated the tables from the street. She sat down and stretched her legs straight out in front of her before tucking them under the chair, watching to be sure I got a good look. They were as I recalled them, slim ankles, muscular calves, well-defined thighs. When the waitress came, we ordered drinks and sandwiches.

Alexy had done well in high school; she had had no trouble with my world history course. She'd been off to a good college, studying art, did an apprenticeship, and was now working in town, doing renderings for an architect. I told of my efforts at teaching for the four years she was in college, my decision, a year ago, to quit teaching and how I'll be working for the newspaper in the fall.

She wanted to know why. "You were a good teacher. You made history interesting — because it interests you, I think. And even though I tried to tease you and distract you, I really didn't succeed." She smiled with honesty. "Liked the course, though. Took a minor in history at college."

"Thank you. You did succeed, though. Sometimes I almost forgot what I was talking about when you had your legs wide open in front of me. But really, you sort of put your finger on it. I discovered that my own interest wasn't enough. Not enough of the students picked up on it, and I realized that, if I couldn't communicate my interest in history, I wasn't enjoying the work. So, I'm taking the summer off to finish some projects around my house. Then, I'll become a wage slave at The News." I looked at her over the edge of my glass and went on to the next stage. "Are you living at home?" I asked.

"No, I have an apartment." She looked at me with those warm brown eyes. "Why don't we go there? I'd like you to see it; it's not far."

I paid for lunch and she said, "Thank you," making no attempt at playful protest. I sensed she had made up her mind about something, and I saw no reason to question it. We walked off down the street, continuing our chat, though I caught her occasional glance at passers-by. I saw her track a handsome man over a street crossing, noticing, while I watched her watching him, how her breasts shifted as she walked. Her shorts were tight across the butt, but somehow flared at the tops of her strong thighs, providing the same sense of accessibility as her top. She caught me watching her and smiled.

"I like looking, too. Men don't seem to realize that women do it, too."

"I've known it, ever since I got caught once by one of my mother's girlfriends."

"What happened?"

"She took me home with her. She was fantastic." Alexy laughed. "I saw her for years, until I went to college."

Alexy took my hand and slid her arm inside mine, her breast against my upper arm. She smiled at me. "Turn left here," she said, guiding me with her body. We walked down a tree-lined side street and turned in to a low-rise building. "I'm on the fourth floor," heading for the elevator.

Inside it, she turned to me, her chin lifting, and I kissed her while the elevator rose, my hand caressing her butt and sliding upward, finally slipping beneath that tantalizing top. Her breasts were tight against me and her back was bare. But then the elevator stopped and the door opened. She looked at me seriously, led the way to her door and inside.

The place was small, of course, but nicely done. With taste and quality, though economical, even sparse. On the walls were paintings — watercolors. I asked, and they were hers. We stood side by side for a moment in the small living room, and I rubbed my hand across her bare belly and up to cup her breasts and thumb her nipples underneath her top. While I did, she unfastened the frogs and shrugged it off. She looked at me.

"I always wanted you to see me like this. I've got good breasts, but I couldn't think of any way to show them to you. The best I could do..."

"Was wear tank tops. Or peasant blouses. And drop your pencil three times every hour." She pulled my shirt up and pressed her breasts against me. I pulled the shirt off and held her to me, feeling the softness and warmth, my hands on her back, her bottom, pulling down the zipper on the back of her shorts, slipping inside. Our mouths joined again, our tongues exploring, caressing each other. Her hands went to the fastenings of my shorts and then her hands were exploring my ass, urging the clothing down. I stepped back slightly to pull her shorts below her hips and let them slide to her ankles. She placed her hands on my hips and held me back.

"Stand there a minute. I want to look at you. I used to fantasize in class..." She stood looking at me as I drank in her beauty. Her breasts were good. Full, soft, sloping and swooping to up-raised tips, the valley deep and warm. Her flat belly was bordered by sharp hip bones and a trimmed, brown-haired mons. Her thighs framed her pubis, leaving that glorious key-hole between where, somehow, light merely conceals the inner folds. She reached for my hand and walked away, her buttocks, with the dimples and sharp vee, twisting as she walked into the bedroom. We pulled the covers down, standing across the width of the bed, then walked to one another on our knees. We collapsed together, feeling, touching, holding, kissing, until she took my erection in her hand, guided me between her thighs and into her.

Once, resting, I sat beside her looking at her body, lifting her breasts, spreading her thighs, turning her, touching her as she had done to me while we made long, languorous love. She watched me, touching me in return, keeping the fiery contact alive. When we joined again it was more urgent, somehow, than the first time.

"Tell me," I asked, "about 'trying out your sex appeal'. What do you mean, exactly? After all, you had classmates. I must have been an excursion."

"You were. A fantasy. I'd rub myself thinking about having you. But of course, I had lovers by then, too, or the fantasies wouldn't have been worth the effort."

"You never seemed to be one of the girls that had a trail of boys. Always puzzled me. I mean, here you were exposing yourself to me and you didn't appear to be..."

"... that kind of girl?"

I chuckled. "Exactly."

"I knew those girls, and I didn't like them. They were exploitive, used their sex to get things from the boys. Actually, I'd had about a dozen lovers by the time I graduated, usually about three or four at any one time; I like variety. But looking like a good girl and flashing you was fun. Only, it made it harder."

"How? It made me hard enough."

She chuckled in her turn. "For a while I tried to find a way to show you my pussy, but even when I didn't wear panties, I could tell that, if I really took your picture, it would be obvious to the rest of the people. Had to give it up."

"I got plenty of looks at your bush, though."

"Good. That's what I wanted. Really turned me on." She lifted her hips in the air and I caressed her sex with my hand, slipping in and around the wet folds. "Funny about fantasies," she said. "Reality is always better. Because it's real."

"Never had a let-down?" I asked with some surprise, continuing my exploration.

"Of course. But knowing is always better than guessing, Nate. I've been back here for months, now, and I've been looking for you. I wanted to test those fantasies. I'm glad I did."

"So am I," I said, and gathered her to me, rolling her onto me again so I could suckle her breasts and run my fingers between the cheeks of her behind, looking for, finding, incredible wetness, openness. When my finger teased her anus, she pushed against it, yielding, suddenly aroused again, hungry.

"Do me there," she told me. I thrust into her heat.

In the shower, I asked her to dinner. "Sorry, I'm busy," she said with a hug. "But don't be discouraged. Try me again." As I dressed, she sat on the arm of the sofa, naked, watching, her thighs spread and holding one knee, the promise clear. At the door, she kissed me, pressed herself all over me.

"Thanks," was all she said.

By ten the next morning, I gave up and called her. Her voice was quiet, low.

"It's Nate. Is it too early? You busy?"

"Morning," she hummed deep in her throat. "No, I've been awake for a while. And my date just left. What's up?"

"Come out to my place. Have lunch. Sun. Stuff like that."

"No fucking?"

"Of course, fucking. You got me hooked yesterday, I want more."

"So do I. Give me time for a shower and all."

I thought about that. "Uh... You had breakfast?... Uh," I was stammering like a kid.

"Yeah, had breakfast early. Then... What's on your mind?"

"Umm... Don't bother to shower. Come as you are."

She laughed quietly, understanding. "I got fucked just before he left. My pussy is swimming with his cum. You want some of it. I'm on my way."

I was naked and watching when her car pulled into the driveway. She wore bib overalls over nothing, her breasts covered in front but visible from the side, the pants gaping at the sides, inviting hands to explore. I opened the door for her and she came in, stood in the entry. I pulled her close, reached in to grab her cheeks, and we kissed briefly before she pulled back.

"Hurry. I can feel it running out." She slipped the straps of her overalls from her shoulders and let them fall. Stepping out, a tissue in her crotch dropped onto the pile of material. I picked her up and took her into the bedroom, the covers folded back and sun shining in the window. On the bed, she bent her knees and lifted her hips to me.

"Wet me — the tissue's dried me out," she said with a leer. I bent to her sex and tasted the wonder of her again. She moaned happily. "Oh, yes," she said, "now, come inside me." I slid into her, feeling oceans of hot wetness. "Feel how wet it is?" She looked at me, smiling, weaving her hips to rub my cock around in her puddle. She rubbed her breasts against my chest. "He fucked me three times last night. And then again this morning when I woke up, he fucked my ass." She began thrusting with her hips. "And he fucked me again after breakfast. My cunt wasn't empty more than five minutes when you called." She bucked furiously and moaned violently in orgasm. "God, you have good ideas. Know what I was doing when you called? I'd just started jerking off, thinking about it. About fucking you all afternoon and him all night."

I hadn't noticed the afternoon before. "You're a noisy bitch, aren't you?" I told her.

"You mind? I love to talk while I'm fucking."

"No, I love it. Yesterday I was so knocked over I hardly noticed. I love the way you tell me what you feel. Know what? Right now, I can feel your cervix against the underside of my cock. Against the glans. Feel me rubbing it?"

"Oh, goody! I love it when my lover talks, too. Yes. I feel that. I'm rubbing my clit on your shaft. It feels wonderful."

We spent an hour making love that first time, each of us doing a play-by-play, sometimes hamming it up, rolling, humping, slipping and sliding. Alexy came again and again, and when I finally exploded, it left me dizzy.

"What do you think, is it shower time?" she asked, looking up at me, her legs still wound around my waist. My cock was still inside her, its length bathing in her wetness, all rigidity gone. I rolled to the side, bringing her with me.

"Not if I have to take it out of you." I said. She kissed me, squeezed my cock with her muscles and waited.

"We have the shower in the master bath," I suggested, "and, then there's the shower outside by the pool."

"I don't do cold showers."