Chapter 1

I had my first apartment in a crappy little complex full of enlisted men and their wives, divorced moms with kids, and people who thought it was a good idea to start the day drinking beer on the front porch. It was a shithole but it was my first shithole and I was excited to be on my own after high school, working and saving for whatever I figured out to do next. I had a lot of opportunity to save because my only girlfriend was at the end of my arm.

I first made friends with the couple in the apartment above me, Bart and Lana. At first I felt kind of sorry for Bart because he was a pretty good-looking guy (a sergeant in the Army, by the way) and Lana seemed like a cow to me. In reality I suppose she wasn't that fat, just well-rounded, you might say. But since my standard for women came entirely from Penthouse and late night cable, a regular sort of woman like Lana seemed as big as a bus. Not that Bart seemed to mind. He was some kind of technician and tended to be gone for days at a time, and I could always tell when he came back, the walls and ceiling were thin enough that I could pretty much hear everything.

With Bart being gone and me working nights, Lana and I got to be friendly during the day, and it wasn't long before it just became part of my routine to drop in on her first thing in the morning, or for her to come downstairs and see me. And pretty soon, between seeing her every day and jerking off at night listening to them thrashing about, my views about the desirability of a woman shaped like Lana started to change. I certainly thought more and more about her as I got to see more and more of her that summer-- she had no problem wearing loose or short clothes that gave me a pretty good idea of what was underneath them.

One day it might be a sundress which her breasts moved freely inside, so that I might imagine coming up behind her, nuzzling my face in her flowing red curls, slipping my hands in under the armholes and grabbing those big swaying globes (I read a lot of Penthouse so breasts were always "globes"). Another day she might wear a white undershirt (bra underneath, but not enough of one to prevent a little nipple impression) and short shorts which would show lots of creamy white thigh running up to that intersection of tummy roll and crotch, and the mysterious (red, I assumed) world inside.

One day I was startled to find her sunbathing in a bright fuchsia bikini, her big globes seeming extending a foot as they rolled to either side, soft chest flesh in between, then that broad tummy, a huge but soft and smooth white tummy you could lose yourself on for days. Below that another fuchsia hands-off sign, then long strong thighs supporting a big heart-shaped butt, the bikini bottom sucked into the crack when she turned over. For the first time that day, too, I noticed her feet, little pink toes on a fat foot. I was surprised that night that it was those feet I kept thinking off as I beat my cock furiously.

In retrospect, of course, Lana was putting on a show for me, but I was too naive to realize it. I just figured she had no idea that there was anything to notice about a married woman being half-naked in a different way every day for the 18-year-old boy downstairs. Over time, too, our conversations got more intimate. First she'd just make offhand comments about being a little sore from the night before, or expecting Bart that night "and I better be ready for a workout." Soon she was asking me if I had any girlfriends (the closest I got was a girl at the restaurant I bussed at who, if things went well between us, I might actually ask out in six or seven months). As she asked me about her she raised one leg up on the chair, hiking her shorts up so that I could practically see where her thigh met her crotch. Somehow I managed to keep my mind on the girl I was talking about and not the one who was inviting me to see if I could spot curly red hairs.

Bart had a two-week training session out west somewhere, and as the first week went by and he was gone longer our conversations got more and more heated-- at least for me. She made a comment about "keeping herself happy when I go to sleep, but it's not the same as having Bart here" and when I looked startled-- actually, I was quite amazed she had said such a thing-- she said "You're 18 years old, you can't tell me you don't masturbate. At least I hope you do, otherwise you'd be missing one of the main pleasures in life."

I tried to sort of avoid the topic, but she kept pushing me-- and as she did she reached for a bottle of suntan lotion and started rubbing it on her chest, that soft spongy area that promised the feel of the big round breasts to either side, hands disappearing under the straps to that mysterious place I so badly wanted to go. "Every guy does it, and any girl with any sense. You can't tell me that you don't think about that Candy or whatever her name is at the restaurant and get yourself off. I think about Bart every night when he's gone... among other things."