by GToast

Copyright© 2010 by GToast

Romantic Story: She gave me a gift that kept on giving.

Caution: This Romantic Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   True Story   .

The following is based on some true experiences; some were mine, some others'. Mostly, though, it's just fantasy.

It all began in August, a couple of weeks before school started. I was going to be a senior, and while I understood the importance of that fact, I was unimpressed.

First, I was not going to go off to college. My grades were good, but certainly not stellar, which they would have had to be for me to get a scholarship. Failing that, my parents could not afford anything more than community college. I was also seriously considering the military as a way of making enough money to go.

Second, I was -- well, not a geek, exactly, but far from popular. I was good in math, and I had tutored enough jocks to have friends in cool places. Put it this way: no girls would fuck me, and no guys would fuck with me.

It was a tradeoff, sure, but one I could live with.

Anyway, as I say, I wasn't a geek, exactly, and I wasn't a jock. I was in pretty good shape, though. I had always loved running. I had even considered trying out for the track team, but there were too many guys faster or in better shape than I was who also wanted to be on the team.

Gina was my best friend and fellow running enthusiast. We had known one another since kindergarten. We had shared in the good times and the bad, made it through the cooties stage with our relationship intact, and generally propped one another up.

We were not, however, dating material.

I thought, at the time, we both realized that any attempt to move deeper into the relationship would potentially ruin what we had. We were perfectly content to let the status be just as quo as it could.

So to tie these threads together...

Gina and I were running around the track that outlined the football field. The football jocks were on the field doing whatever they were doing to prepare for the coming season.

Well, someone was definitely doing some kicking. A ball landed on the track in front of Gina and me. It made a loud SMACK and startled the smack out of us, then skittered under the risers.

"Hey, Jeff, get that, wouldja?" called a voice. It was Hank Benson, one of the stars of the team and someone I had once tutored in math, enabling him to stay eligible to play. We weren't great buds, but we were certainly friendly enough.

I looked at Gina; she shrugged. I reached under the risers and pulled out the ball, then drop-kicked it. I'd seen it done, and imitated what I'd seen. Gina and I started running again when we heard another, louder voice yelling.

It was the coach, and he was screaming something like, "How did you do that, young lad?" Or words to that effect, if you catch my drift. Gina and I came to a stop again, as the coach and a group of players, Hank among them, approached us.

"I wanna see you do that again," blustered the coach.

I was genuinely taken aback. "I'm sorry," I said, "I was just returning the ball."

"No," Hank interrupted, "you kicked it like nobody's business. We wanted to know if it was just luck."

"I never tried before," I said honestly.

"Get on the field," grumbled the coach, "and kick it again." There was a chorus of "Yeah," "Hell yeah," "Kick that sumbitch,"and the like.

Again I glanced at Gina, who was by now smiling at my predicament. I shrugged and trotted onto the field.

"Put the tee on the thirty," ordered the coach. He turned to me and said, "See that? See the uprights?" pointing to the goal posts. "Send it straight through."

I complied.

Coach said, "Back it up to the thirty-five," and we repeated. "Forty," he barked. Once again, I did as he asked.

We went through this process about seven or eight times before we found I had a limit of about fifty-two yards, reliably; further was hit-and-miss. Then we went through kicking it from a snap.

When all was said and done, Coach said, "You're my kicker." He hadn't even asked whether I was interested in playing. In the end, though, I knew I had to do it.

My parents went through the usual it's-dangerous-and-you-have-to-keep-your-grades-up objections, but signed the consent form. I think my dad was actually puffed up with pride.

Our team went 9-1 that year, for the first time ever, and made the state playoffs. It wasn't all because of me, but I added to the team by subtracting from the field. My contribution was genuine.

I was a senior, with no prior football experience, and so it was a little late for most of the big schools to take an interest in me. A couple of smaller schools, though, heard about my accomplishments and sent representatives to woo me. I ended up taking the one, solitary full-boat scholarship I was offered.

My college days were memorable, and beyond the scope of this tale; but all is not lost.

You see, Gina gave me a going-away present.

As I mentioned, Gina and I never dated. We never properly had the hots for one another, though I'll admit I had fantasized about her from time to time.

Right after graduation, we were back on the track, doing our usual running. It was late May, and the weather was pleasant after several hot days. A cool front was pushing through; the skies were darkening, threatening rain.

We finished our run, walked a lap to cool down, and sat on the risers to relax a moment before heading home. She was a little pre-occupied. Finally she said, "Why don't we head to my place and get cleaned up?"

As if on cue, at that moment several large, noisy raindrops plopped on the hot surface of the track. We were close to her car -- I had ridden with her that morning -- and so we hightailed it. We closed the doors just before the rain really settled in. It wasn't torrential, but I was glad we hadn't gotten caught out in it.

As we drove, she was silent; unusual for her.

At length she said, "Did you ever wonder why we never dated?"

I pondered. "Yeah, I guess I have. I guess we're too smart to ruin a good friendship."

"Do you find me attractive?" she asked.

"Well, sure I do. You're very pretty," I responded.

"But are you attracted to me?" she pressed.

I was getting a little annoyed. "Yes, Gina, you give me a hard-on. Is that what you want to hear?"

"I'm sorry," she said, looking sad. "I'm not handling this very well, am I?"

"Just say what you want to say," I said firmly. "We've known each other for too long. Just spit it out."

She was silent for a moment, then said, "Okay. I used to think you and I would eventually get married, have kids, stuff like that." I said nothing, and she continued. "A couple of years ago, I realized I was never going to love you that way."

I guess that should have stung, at least a little, but it didn't. "Oh, well, that's nothing to get worked up about. We're still friends. Right?"

She paused, then said, "No, what I mean is, I met someone else. A friend of one of my cousins." There was a pregnant pause, then: "A girl."

What might have been a body-blow to others was sort of a relief to me. It answered a lot of questions, cleared up a lot of things that had occurred over the previous year or so.

I nodded slowly. "So, you're a ... lesbian."

She grinned a little. "At least you didn't call me a dyke."

We were silent for a moment; then, I said, "So, who else knows about this?"

"No one. Not around here. My folks don't even suspect. At least, I don't think they do."

Another lightbulb moment for me. "And you told me because you wanted to unburden yourself to someone who wouldn't gossip."

She smiled again. "That's my Jeff."

We rode in companionable silence the rest of the way to her house.

Her parents had set up a small additional parking spot for her, to the side of the detached garage, meaning we had to cover thirty feet or so. We ran to the house, getting soaked yet again by the rain, a hard, steady, insistent downpour.

Her parents' house had a side door that entered the kitchen; just to the left of the kitchen was a laundry alcove, and that's where she guided me.

"Strip," she commanded.

"Gina!" I exclaimed.

She looked at me. "What? We've seen one another naked before."

"We were barely seven," I answered.

"Besides," she continued, as if I hadn't said a word, "you know you're not gonna get laid. You know who I am now." With that, she stripped off her A-shirt and sports bra.

I couldn't help stare. Her breasts were ... well, perfect. I had never seen any others for comparison, not in person; but, damn!

She saw me staring, and I blushed and averted my gaze. She giggled. "It's okay," she said. "I know you like boobies. It's kinda nice to know they get your attention."

As I undressed -- I had surrendered to the inevitable by this point -- I said, "I'm very impressed. With your breast," I added, and we both laughed.

She loaded all our clothes into the washer and started the load. "I'm putting it on cold wash, so we'll have plenty of hot water for the shower." She grabbed a couple of yet-unfolded towels and bath cloths, and signaled me to leave the laundry alcove.

I followed her to the upstairs bathroom, where she started the shower. She stepped in; I held back, unsure of what she intended of me.

She stuck her head out the door and said, "Well, get in here."

I complied.

The water rolled over us like liquid muscle relaxant. We soaped the cloths and then washed the good grime of hard exercise off ourselves. It was glorious.

After a bit, she handed me her cloth and said, "Be a sweetie and wash my back? I'll do yours next."

"I'd like to wash your front," I said, and giggled.

"Behave!" she scolded, then added, "I think I can arrange that. Not like you haven't seen 'em."

I washed her back, handed her my cloth and turned for her to reciprocate.

When we were done, she took my hands, spread the bar of soap over my palms, and said, "Go ahead. Part of your gift, anyway" Then she winked.

I ran my soapy hands over her breasts (and I must tell you I almost shot a load right then and there). The sensation was better than anything I had imagined. She moaned appreciatively. "You're very gentle," she murmured. "Some girl is gonna be damned lucky to have you for a lover."

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