Chapter 8

Friday morning I woke up all snuggled against Samantha's back again, but with my bladder so painfully full that I had only one choice of what to do next. I disentangled myself, slipped out of bed, and made for the bathroom at a run. When I returned to the bedroom, I saw that Samantha had flopped over on her back with her arms and legs spread wide. Remembering how she had wakened me two mornings earlier, I thought that her current sleeping position provided me with an ideal opportunity to return the pleasure.

I carefully eased the covers down to her feet and then climbed between her thighs. No kisses up the thighs, or anything like that. This was supposed to be the analog of a blowjob, so I went straight for her slit and wiggled the tip of my tongue up her dry, sealed furrow. Her hand came down and kind of swatted at my head, as if my tongue were a troublesome fly. Undaunted, I sucked my tongue into my mouth to gather as much saliva as I could, then applied wet pressure until I'd separated her lips and moved on up to her clitoris. After I'd added more moisture and got my lips and tongue firmly pressed to her clit, she groaned and lifted her head so she could see what was going on.

"Cameron!" she said. "What in the world are you doing?"

"Ephlut ooblub ouphphpht," I said. I raised my head with a slurp. "You can't try to tell me you don't know what eating you out means."

"Consider it a rhetorical question," she said, as I returned to my task. She grabbed my hair and started trying to steer my head around.

I let her. This was for her pleasure, after all. As Samantha guided my face around her pussy, I let my tongue and lips glide across her labia and up to her clitoris. This was not a frantic exercise but a leisurely journey, a reminder of the relaxed and easy wake-up she had given me. She rolled her hips back and forth and sighed as she ascended the slope to her climax. When she came, it was with a moan and long exhalation. I raised myself up, hooking my elbows under Samantha's knees and lifting them until her pussy was pointing almost straight toward the ceiling. I had to let go of one knee for a moment to get myself lined up right, then, as I pushed my penis into her, she pushed out a sharp, razzing fart.

"'Scuse me," she said, with a straight—however red—face.

I started to laugh.

Samantha whopped my shoulder with the best roundhouse right she could muster. "What are you laughing about?" she said.

"It tickled," I said. The vibrations from her asshole had gone straight through to her vagina and produced an exquisite tickle on my cock; my left ball, which had been languishing right on her asshole, took the tickling column of hot gas directly. I pushed my cock in the rest of the way, giving one final bump to get it seated as deeply as I could. It felt to me like I was plumbing depths of Samantha I'd never experienced before.

"Whee!" Samantha's asshole said.

That sent me into a fit of giggles.

Samantha slugged me on the shoulder again. "You're not supposed to be giggling now," she moaned.

"Maybe we've lost the moment here and should try again later," I said, preparing to withdraw.

"The hell you say," she said, giving me a massive squeeze from the inside. "You got me going, and now you're going to finish me up. Take care of business, dude."

I remembered that I was supposed to be taking care of Samantha this week, sucked it up, and plowed on. For her sake, of course.

Being that deep inside of Samantha in that position changed how she felt. She wasn't quite as tight right at the entrance, and her depths seemed to have more resilience and flexibility, which allowed me to stir around in her insides more than usual. I could feel the sides of my prick slide around behind the neck of her cervix and the tip move against the top wall of her vagina. I think she must have been right about my having a Goldielocks prick: if I were any shorter, I wouldn't have been able to touch those parts of her; if I were a whole lot longer, I probably would have caused her pain.

The intellectual considerations of sex with Samantha with her pussy aimed at the sky didn't last very long, and I was once again completely lost not just in physical sensation but also the emotional impact of just being there, being able to be buried so deep inside of her, and wishing that there were still more—that I could become a part of her and she could become a part of me. Before I knew it, I was going at her like a pile driver and she was gasping for breath. Together, we altered the physics of time and simply were in a place where shapes and colors floated with no connection to a real world. Then the surreal landscape collapsed to a point, I pressed into her as tightly as I could, swiveled my hips one more time, and exploded with a roar as Samantha detonated with a shriek.

The next thing I knew, I was hovering over Samantha with sweat dripping off my nose and she was gasping as if she were about to pass out. I let her legs down so that her lungs could expand fully. For a couple of minutes we lay motionless except for panting to catch our breath. About the time I started to shrivel out of her, I kissed her on her wet forehead and rolled to the side.

"Samantha," I said, "is it possible for us to hurt ourselves doing that? Or maybe just vaporize in the process?"

Samantha smacked her lips a couple of times to get her tongue working again. "I don't know," she said. "It's never been a worry. I'm beginning to think you're kidding me about never having done this before."

I guess we both drifted off for a little while—everything sort of faded out—and then I was laughing, silently this time, with a stray thought that had popped into my head. I tried as hard as I could not to laugh, but I couldn't let the thought go, and pretty soon the bed was shaking.

"What?" Samantha said.

"Nothing," I said. "Just a stray thought that popped into my mind."

"I think you'd better tell me about it," she said.

"I think I'd better not. I don't think you'd like it."

"Grrr," Samantha said, backhanding my chest. "You can't get my curiosity up like that and then not say anything."

"Well, okay," I said, "but you have to promise not to get mad or anything."

Samantha didn't say anything. After maybe a minute of silence, I forged on.

"You're familiar with the phrase 'to fuck the shit out of someone, ' yes?" I said.

Samantha turned her head toward me. "No. Ew. That's gross, Cameron."

"It's metaphorical, I'm sure," I said. "Well, I'm pretty sure, anyway. It's kind of like fucking someone's socks off, or fucking the daylights out of someone, or fucking them blind, you know?"

"I'll take your word for it."

"It's common in the stories I read," I said. "A guy sees a good-looking girl and he thinks, 'I'd really like to fuck the shit out of her.' Or a woman in the throes of passion says, 'Sock it to me, honey! Fuck the shit out of me!'"

"Oh, gawd," Samantha said. "That sounds just awful. Do you want to fuck the shit out of me sometimes?"

"Er." I said. "Um. I mean, well, in a highly metaphorical and loving way, probably. As a verbal expression of extreme passion."

Samantha threw her arm over eyes. "I can't believe we're having this conversation," she said.

"Look to the good side," I said. "Some of those stories are a little gross, but you yourself said that I'd learned some good stuff from them."

"And the thought of fucking the shit out of me was what made you start to laugh?"

"No! I wasn't thinking that at all. Exactly. Quite the contrary, sort of."

"Are there any more qualifiers you'd like to add? Just get on with it, will you?"

"Okay, yeah, so I was lying there when all of a sudden I got this image of two guys walking down the street, and they see a good-looking girl coming their way." My shoulders started shaking again, and I had to pause before I went on. "One of them looks at the other and says—" I couldn't help it. I started laughing out loud, that kind of giggle-fit that has one person cracking up with tears running down his cheeks and everybody around is looking at him like he's nuts but he's laughing so hard he can't tell them what he's laughing about. Gasping through my giggles, I said, "and this guy says, 'Man, I'd love to fuck the shit out of her.' His buddy looks at the girl, looks at him, and looks back at the girl, then says—" I stopped for another fit of giggles to pass. "Then he says, 'Her? Nah. I don't think I'd like to fuck the shit out of her, but I would fuck the fart out of her.'"

I totally cracked up again, laughing like a ninny and slapping the sheets. When I'd calmed down a little, I wiped my eyes and said, "And then I got this image of a guy about to make love to his girl, and he says to her, 'I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, ' and she says— and she says, 'I'm kind of tired tonight, how about if you just-' hee hee hee 'fuck the— fuck the fart out of me' wahahahahaha."

After a couple more minutes, I got over it and sniffed myself to a halt. Samantha was still lying on her back with her arm over her eyes.

"Samantha?"

No response.

"Samantha?"

Nothing moved except her lips. "My mother once told me," she said, "that inside of every man, no matter his age, there lives a nine-year-old-boy who still thinks fart jokes are funny."

We made it through a shower, and as we were finishing up breakfast Samantha said, "So what let's do today."

"Well," I said, "when you were younger, you seemed to want to go to the mall pretty bad. How about we do that, and when we've had enough of walking around we can go junk out in the food court for dinner?"

And off we went to the mall. Neither Samantha nor I was a big fan of rampant consumerism, so we weren't shopping with the intent to buy anything. Mostly, we looked at store windows full of stuff that nobody really needed.

My world history teacher had spent some time talking about architecture as physical evidence of the major concerns of a society. The great cathedrals of Europe and Russia bore witness to the time when society held a belief in God and had extreme interest in the fate of the soul after death; when the exchange of money as a commodity was at the fore in the United States, banks took on the appearance of cathedrals and ancient Greek places of worship; when the focus of activity in the US was on business, we built huge multistory monuments to business; and when Hollywood set the tone of America, movie theaters took the forefront with their art deco and rococo styling.

Today? The mall nearest to us housed 212 shops or boutiques clustered around two "anchor" stores in a two-story edifice that covered enough ground to accommodate probably a half-dozen French cathedrals, and its sole purpose was to provide a place for people to exchange money for goods—indiscriminately, in establishments ranging from Cartier and Louis Vuitton to Zales and MacDonald's.

So we walked around and looked at overpriced clothes and fancy jewelry and sunglasses and camping equipment and knives and swords and high-end electronic gadgets and Victoria's Secret underwear; and at people: old couples walking hand-in-hand seemingly unaware of either the shops or other people around them, young mothers with tots in strollers and older kids tagging along behind, and hordes and droves of teen-agers in every extreme of dress, thoroughly at home in what they had co-opted as their social gathering place. A little less than three hours later, we arrived at the food court, located at the far end of the second level.

Friday afternoon had drawn a huge number of people to the mall. The sounds of several hundred people shouting to be heard over each other and banging trays and glasses around bounced off the hard floor, the glass fronts of the surrounding stores, and the dome-shaped ceiling, which gathered the noise, collected it into a beam and sent it smashing back down to collide with itself, doubling the volume and creating a din that made my eyes hurt. Samantha and I went and gathered up our choices of food, rendezvoused at a tray repository in the middle of the room, and swivel-hipped our way to a table on the border between the walkway and the eating area.

Just as I saw Samantha look up from her sushi, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I expected to see one of the guys, but nearly fell out of my chair when I saw that the hand belonged to Emily Wentworth, one of the top several dozen better looking girls at school. Wiping the Buffalo wing grease from my fingers, I stood and turned and came almost face-to-face with Emily's friend Jessica Blanca. "Hey, Cameron," Emily said, "wazzup?"

"Hey," I croaked.

"Hey," Jessica said, with a wide smile.

"Hey, Jessica," I said.

"Who's your girl?" Emily said, nodding toward Samantha.

"That's my friend Samantha," I said. "Er. Samantha, this is Emily and Jessica; I had some classes with them last year. Jessica and Emily, this is Samantha."

"Hi, girls," Samantha said, with a finger-wiggling wave.

My skin started to feel prickly, and I didn't have the foggiest idea what to say next or what to do. Emily and Jessica looked over my shoulder, and from behind me, I heard a feminine voice say, "Hey, guys, watcha doin?" Ashley White and Sarah Harrington, another two of the school's top good-lookers took up a position next to Emily and Jessica.

"We just saw Cameron sitting here and thought we'd say hello," Jessica said.

I made the round of introductions to Samantha. She was covering her mouth with a napkin, and her eyes were laughing.

"Cool," Ashley said. "Cam, where you been keepin yourself all summer? We haven't seen you around anywhere."

"Oh, er, I've been, you know, mostly just staying around the house."

"Hey, bummer," Sarah said, "you really ought to get out more."

Over the girls' shoulders, I saw Gloria Sanchez and Shanilla Boudreau separate themselves from the mob and start walking our way.

"Whoa!" Shanilla said, in a loud voice. "Cameron, you're really looking good. You need to get out and play more."

I'd no sooner made the introductions again when I saw Hannah Little and Taylor Walker apparently coming to join the crowd.

"Hey, girls, what's goin on?" Hannah said.

"We just stopped by to say hi to Cameron," Ashley said.

"Hey, Cam, are you being bashful this summer?" Taylor asked.

"Er, no, um. I just don't get out much, I guess," I said.

"Not good," Taylor said. "Not good at all. We don't want to count you among the missing, you know?"

I made introductions again. And I realized that I was now standing and talking—sort of—with eight of the hottest girls at school. They were talking to me. They'd come over specifically to say hello to me. This didn't make any sense at all. Except maybe to say hi or exchange information about classwork, these girls didn't talk to me at school. Or maybe it was more correct to say that I didn't talk to them. They were in a different league, as far as I was concerned.

All of a sudden, there was a group squeal. Apparently the girls had decided that they just had to go find out about some bare minerals. At least that's what I think they said. As they checked hair and purses to move on, Emily came up to me and ran her finger around my damp collar. "You really ought to come hang out at the mall more, Cameron," she said. "Maybe we could hook up, or something, you know?"

"You take good care of Cameron, now, hear?" Shanilla said to Samantha. "We want him to be in one piece the next time we see him."

And with an explosion of giggles, the girls moved on, eight tight butts rocking in rhythm as they walked away. I stood there dumfounded. I looked over at Samantha. She was laughing her ass off.

I sat down and picked up a cold chicken wing. "What's so funny?" I asked.

"You really don't get it, do you?" Samantha said.