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Dead on Course

Marva Dale

Copyright © 2018 Marva Dale









They all mixed together to become the fuel that propelled me, even compelled me to commit murder.

Now, take love for instance. What is it really? I think of love as a dance, perhaps a tango, sometimes danced in a frenzy of emotions like starbursts and energy waves, and other times in slow motion like moonbeams and the lazy roll of the waves. Maybe it’s a lot of crap, but it seems true to me; and although, I’m not a poet or man of many words, I’ve been told I have a poetic soul. Funny that. It seems so long ago when I had a young spirit and I could really fall in step and skip to the beat of someone else’s soul.

But enough of that. You came here to record the story of my life. Well, here it is, as best as I can tell it. I’ll start with love, because that came first.

Love Lust

I. Charlie


I grew up in Terrace Cove, Connecticut, the product of hearty New Englanders, the Savitt clan, who lived by the sea and extracted its rich supply. By the time my father came of working age, the fishing industry had more or less dried up, thanks to the restricted crab and lobster hauls imposed by environmental protection laws. So, my dad, Boyd Savitt, started his own business, Bo’s Emporium, a retail store that sold general supplies, locally-made handicrafts, and souvenirs to the summer tourists. Plus, he offered ice cream, fudge and sandwiches. Later he added a coffee bar where he could sell a cup of java for seven bucks as long as he called it a latte or a cappuccino.

I came in the world as Strayer Boyd Savitt, Junior. My dad never liked the name Strayer since it belonged to my great-great grandfather or some other ancestor from Puritan days. The name seemed to stick around long after the ancestors kicked off. He preferred to go by Boyd; but since he felt people would confuse us if we both used the name Boyd, he decided to call me Bo—not an original name by any means since dad used it first with his store.

We lived in a one-story house with clerestory windows and cedar siding and shingles, our property close enough to the ocean that we could walk through the saw grass and down the sand dunes to the public beachfront. My mother, Susan Demarest Savitt, taught fourth grade at Terrace Cove Elementary School. I had one sibling, an older sister named D’Laine, who would become not only a psychology major at Arizona State University but a lesbian as well, although the two were not mutually inclusive.

Basically, I grew up just like any other middle-class kid of working parents. After school and on weekends, I helped out my dad at the store, my free time spent with my pals, Tyler and Josh. We went camping in nearby Cockaponset State Park, rode bikes and played soccer, softball and basketball. We also enjoyed video games like Road Warrior and Dragon Master. I knew Tyler and Josh since kindergarten, and we maintained a steady friendship. Tyler claimed to be the tallest and the most attractive, according to our unofficial and unspoken poll. He possessed an athlete’s body honed from school sports and working out on his dad’s weight machine. Plus, he had the kind of looks girls went for, waves of ginger hair, blue eyes, and thick, golden lashes. On the other hand, Josh proved more introverted, definitely smaller in stature, with dark eyes and hair. He read quite a bit, knew the ins and outs of a computer, and received the better grades in school. I seemed to even them out, falling somewhere in between handsome and bookish.

Once we matriculated from Terrace Cove Elementary, we went on to Piscataway Middle School. From there we attended Warmouth High School in the Greater Warmouth Sound school district, our high school team the Warmouth Wildcats. In between, I found I had some talent for music, and so I quickly learned to play the saxophone, the trumpet, the guitar, and the piano. I played mostly by ear, although I did learn to sight read later on. I didn’t care much for the current musical trends in hip hop, fusion and rap, nor did I care for classical music per se. My preferences leaned toward the sassy and moody rhythms of jazz, a bit of old-time rock ‘n roll, and a helping of easy swing music.

As soon as my parents realized my musical abilities, they purchased an ebony grand piano and placed it in our living room near the French doors that opened to our deck. The piano served as both a utilitarian object and a decorative showpiece. When not in use, my mother draped the piano top with a white linen shawl and added a glass balloon vase of flowers for ambiance. Sometimes, when I wanted to play, I felt guilty for moving her carefully placed objets d’art. One day, I thought, when I had my own place, my living room would consist of nothing but musical accoutrements, a baby grand and a white upright piano, guitars, perhaps a drum set, an extensive stereo system, and lots of amplifiers. What else did I need?


As I grew into a teen, my interest in sports waned beyond biking and music. I also found a growing interest in the opposite sex. My first date happened to be with the girl I always thought of as the first love of my life. When I asked Charlotte Felding to the junior high dance and she accepted, I felt as if I walked on air for a week. After our first date, Charlotte—or Charlie as she preferred—decided we should become a couple in the diametrical sense of the word. We kept the relationship simple and anguish-free by abstaining from anything more involved than an embrace and a kiss on the lips. After all, we were only fourteen, even though Charlie looked and acted much older.

She had sienna hair that fell in ripples down her back, a heart-shaped face, and discerning brown eyes. She also developed earlier than most of the ninth-grade girls, and could wear a size 34C bra. How did I know? Twice Charlie took off her top and bra and allowed me to feel her breasts. I found them firm and round, her skin soft and pink like a baby’s blanket. She even smelled of baby powder mixed with the floral scent of her favorite Sunflowers perfume.

As I fondled those lovely orbs, I kissed her mouth, and savored her velvety lips and her sweet taste of strawberry gum. Once, I even ventured down her chin, her throat and on to the valley of her breasts, where I dared to kiss and suckle each pink nipple. As I did so, I heard her sigh, whether in pleasure or pain she never let on. Ah, those memories!

I grew hard, of course, but Charlie never ventured beyond rubbing my crotch. Her fingers ran up and down the width and length of my cock as it strained against the fly of my jeans, sizing me up, I think, and wondering if I was worth the effort to go on to the next level. In the throes of lusty agony, I told her I loved her and she repeated the words. That moment no longer involved puerile romantic fantasies such as the writing of my name in her various school notebooks and then surrounding the “Bo” with a large heart. Her artwork may have been the symbolic link to our hearts, but when we said those magic words we became two lovers linked in stardust reality.

Of course back then, what we thought of love was nothing more than hormonal activity, two teens—one practical by nature and the other horny as hell—experiencing fluctuating emotions during our first attempt at sexual exploration. The more she stroked, the more I seeped and struggled to maintain what little resolve I had left, what experts called the “blue balls” effect. Somehow I managed not to come in my shorts; although, when I got home I immediately jacked off in the shower in order to relieve the pressure.


Knowing a bit about what I was going through, my dad sat me down one evening and gave me the man-to-man talk about sex and accepting responsibility for my actions. Masturbation was fine, in fact, encouraged at this stage of my development.

“But, Bo, if you feel you must assuage your urges with a girl,” he told me solemnly, “please use condoms. I’ll be happy to purchase them from the Walgreens in Lynbrook.”

He actually said those words. Even though my dad only graduated from high school, he played a lot of Scrabble and worked crossword puzzles to help him obtain a comparable IQ with my mother, a Radcliffe graduate. Not that they competed intellectually, but dad felt he needed to maintain an edge as the man of the family. That meant he had to have a leg up, so to speak, on the whole spectrum of life. He might not have been forthcoming with practical advice on most occasions, but I still considered him a decent, wise, and even practical role model.

So, Charlie and I dated, usually going out to the one movie theater in town or to Vickers Entertainment Center just outside of town on Highway 50. There we bowled, ate pizza, rode bumper cars, played video games, or engaged in a paint ball fight with our friends.

I never really knew what Charlie saw in me beyond the physical, and that wasn’t much. I had straight brown hair, a dimpled chin, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, and a few well-placed muscles developed from sports and bike riding. I suppose I registered somewhere in between gruesome and handsome, always with the hope I leaned more toward the attractive end.

An avid reader, Charlie told me once I had a poetic soul, even though I avoided poetry and struggled through classic literature. In fact, I barely maintained a “C” average to go along with my average life. I also found out I had no real ambition beyond the daily grind of work and the respite of video games and my music. Now that I look back on it, I think Charlie meant that I expressed myself completely through the riffs of music, not exactly romantically, but with a free, flowing and artistic vitality I never found elsewhere in my standard, compartmentalized life.

By the time we entered high school, Charlie and I saw less and less of each other as we discovered multiple interests outside of our prurient relationship. It was just as well. I became involved in the school band and jazz ensemble. My friend, Tyler, played the drums so we remained tight, and Josh joined us for Friday night DVDs and video games, usually at my house or Tyler’s. Josh lived in a single-wide trailer with his alcoholic mother and felt uncomfortable about inviting us over. We never asked him to reciprocate or press him for details.

II. Rose


In band, I played the alto sax and piano with the jazz ensemble. The opportunity gave me the chance to blend with an aggregate musical output. I never played with other musicians before which meant I had to learn discipline and timing. Our band director, Mr. Wickenburg, had a degree in music education. Not only was he well-qualified for the position, but he seemed to have an abundance of patience as he worked with a bunch of novice musicians, some more musically-inclined than others, and some just plain tone deaf. Oh, I had the talent all right, not just the maturity and discipline required of all great musicians. It didn’t take long though for Mr. Wickenburg to whip us into shape and turn us into a lean, mean marching band machine, playing at all the school football and basketball games, as well as participating in area band competitions.

Somewhere in the midst of all that learning, marching and discipline, I caught the eye of a clarinetist named Rose Valenza who sat third chair in the woodwind section. Rose skipped the coquettish act and went right for the jugular romance-wise. One afternoon she came up to me and pinched my butt. As I whirled around she kissed me full on the mouth, even nipping at my lower lip. When she finished, Rose gave me a sly wink and said, “Bo Savitt. Want to go out sometime?”

With an invitation like that I could hardly refuse. Of course, I wanted to sound smooth like Will Smith, instead I blurted out something like “Yeah, sure,” in a vocal imitation of Alvin the Chipmunk.

Undaunted, Rose ran her finger down my cheek. “How about Friday night? I’ll meet you at Vickers around seven-thirty.”

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, still a bit stunned. I even shuddered under her light, tantalizing touch.

With that, she turned on her stiletto-heeled ankle boots and walked off with her clarinet case at her side, her firm derriere wiggling provocatively with each step.

Even though I knew very little about Rose, I did know a bit more about her family and her home situation. The Marajos came from a long line of Portuguese fishermen who settled in Connecticut around the early 1800s. Rose’s father had been a lobster hauler, but a boat accident left him collecting disability. I heard he had turned into a surly drunk. Her mother worked days at the cannery over in Lynbrook and spent the weekends waitressing at the Take Five Cocktail Lounge over in Mystic Bay.

The Valenzas lived in a piecemeal, clapboard house that had seen better days, the yellow paint peeling off the wood in strips, the green shudders and screen doors hanging askew. Rose had six brothers and sisters, all of whom worked at various odd jobs, the oldest siblings off on their own, and the youngest ones still at home. Rose figured somewhere in the middle.

At first glance, people often took her for a Goth, you know, those black-lipped and eye-lined kids who liked to stick pins in their faces and offer brooding looks. But Rose came by her dark features naturally, the long raven hair, the bronze skin, the blackberry eyes and full lips. She possessed a curvaceous figure and an ample bosom that far exceeded Charlotte’s 34C cups—not that I ever complained about Charlie’s offerings, glad that I was to accept them as is. Rose just happened to have a different set of breasts in shape and girth; and she made sure to advertise all of her natural assets by wearing tight tops, short skirts, and those ever-present ankle boots in jet leather with spiky heels.

As the old saying goes, if you got it, flaunt it. Rose made sure to flaunt it. She sashayed down the school hallways and sat on the bleachers with her skirt hiked up and her legs splayed to give the guys sitting below a hint of the dark treasures she possessed between. A few times she caught the attention of the basketball players who were playing on the court at the time. One even managed to get knocked on the head by the ball in play as his attention skewed toward Rose. The ball had been thrown by his own teammate, on our team no less, the Warmouth Wildcats. What can I say? Rose seemed the epitome of the wildcat, lusty and rapacious. She possessed the kind of bod and personality men naturally gravitated to and wanted to get to know better.

And she didn’t disappoint that Friday night.


As I rode into the parking lot on my bike, she met me there. I felt a bit silly having her see my mode of transportation, but it was either that or walking. Even though I received my driver’s license just that spring, my dad still refused to let me drive the family Subaru alone. What could I do? When I offered to buy Rose something to eat and drink along with tickets for some of the games, she agreed; although, she told not to make it an all-night affair. She had other plans for me.

At foosball bowling, she had me stand behind her and grab her around the waist. She wore a two-piece outfit of some kind of shiny, scarlet material, a short skirt and a midriff top with a front zipper. The top exposed her curvy middle, the skirt her luscious thighs. As I held her, I felt her warm, enticing skin beneath my hands. She even wiggled her butt against my crotch and found what she wanted to find—my erection. I should have felt delightfully aroused, but instead, I felt both embarrassed and mortified. It wasn’t the first time I had a hard-on in public. But now, with a sexy girl stimulating me, I couldn’t move lest I do something totally gross like erupting in my jeans.

“Hey, Bo,” Rose said as she turned and snuggled against me, body to body, her hands on my shoulders. “Let’s get out of here.” Her smile and the look in her eyes, clever and sly, told me that she understood my dilemma and would help ease us away from the growing crowds.

Friday nights brought out the entire family for pizza and games. We were surrounded by kids, big and little, loud and getter louder. I knew quite a few of the people from the store, church, school or just around the neighborhood, which seemed to make it doubly embarrassing. I could barely move, my senses honed entirely on Rose, her Mountain Dew breath on my neck, the pressure of her breasts against my chest, the feel of her firm hands on my arms, and the barest scent of her jasmine-inspired perfume.

Slipping her arm around my waist, she partially obscured my lower half with the sway of her hip and legs as she took us out of the arcade. I never knew a woman possessed such pliable, agile limbs; but at the time, I had no experience when it came to the wonders of the female anatomy and what it could do to a man’s body and soul. I would find out soon enough.

As we returned to the parking lot, Rose told me she wanted to take us to a private place she knew on the beach. We could get there on her motor bike, one of those compact mopeds just big enough for two riders. She informed me it belonged to her brother and that he let her use it whenever she needed to get somewhere. Well, we got somewhere and in a hurry. Rose drove like an Indy car racer, taking curves like a pro. Neither of us wore helmets and so the wind flapped her hair against my face. I didn’t mind. I loved the feel of it, soft and luxurious like sable fur caressing my chin and cheeks. That, combined with the briny smell of the sea and all the other heady sensations she inspired, continued to whip at my senses.

True to her word, Rose took me to a small, secluded nook in the dunes near Hampton Beach. We took off our shoes and ran along the sand, fairly clean of debris and broken shells. The glow of a full moon danced across the water and kissed the foam of the lazy, incoming waves. As Rose ran ahead, I followed along and stopped once to retrieve her shimmering red top that she had shed on the way. When I caught up with her, she beckoned me to follow her inside our hideaway, really just a natural gap in the sand dunes. It offered a secluded shelter with a sandy floor, sea-grass for shading, and a rock that looked like a chair with a smooth, polished top.

As Rose leaned against the rock, she jutted out her bare breasts. They seemed to gleam like twin moons. I skidded to my knees before her, a supplicant to her goddess-like form. Reaching up, my hands caressed the smooth curves of her breasts, the areoles large and brown with hard, red nipples. She told me to take what I wanted, and I did, my fingers, lips and tongue feasting on her as if I hadn’t eaten in weeks, and not just her breasts. I pigged out on her abdomen, and the curves leading to her full hips. Rose had a gold navel ring with a little diamond attached. The gem winked at me in the light of the moon. I registered that she had several tattoos on her torso but I couldn’t make out their design, only that I skimmed over inked skin and pure skin that tasted like clover honey and smelled of fresh fields. From there, I planted hungry kisses between her breasts and up her throat until I couldn’t stretch any further. When I got to my feet, I felt a sudden dizziness, like someone who had imbibed too much too soon. I tried to say something, but Rose coveted my mouth in a sudden, fierce lashing of lips and a duel of tongues. At the same time her hands slipped beneath my jersey and stroked my chest.

Everything about her seemed to overwhelm me at once. When I could no longer breathe, I tried to pull away. Rose simply laughed and then spun me around so that I leaned against the rock. Before I knew what hit me, her quick, nimble fingers had unzipped my pants and taken me out. As her lips covered my tip, I let out a yowl of both surprise and delight. Her hands and mouth began to work in rhythm, up and down my shaft, sending torturous shock waves of pleasure throughout my system. When she swallowed most of me, her fingers caressed my balls and I screamed, totally on fire now. My body jerked as the flames grew heavy and intense. My eyes fell back in their sockets, and if I had the ability to swallow my tongue I would have. Nothing in this world felt as exquisite as what she was doing to me now. My own jerking-off efforts—even the method I devised with a pair of my sister’s old, discarded black lace panties—paled by comparison.

She brought me to the peak twice, only to pull back so I could shudder and scream in both agony and ecstasy. Finally, Rose relented and took me to the top so this time I could teeter on the brink of insanity. One final suck pushed me over the edge and sent me plummeting in a burst of vivid colors and sensations. I must have screamed and cried together, my body one big quivering mass as desire rose, quenched and abated. The world flashed white-gold against my eyelids and I tasted blood as I bit my lip. But my tormentor had yet to finish with me, continuing to suck the very last drop of my essence.

When Rose finally let go, I slithered down and then lay prostate along the sand. Perhaps I passed out for a moment or two; I simply don’t remember the aftermath as much as what happened to me just before the world gave way under and over me.

As I came back to life again, I found Rose straddling me, naked. Her bush loomed in front of me, lush and thick with midnight curls. I caught a slash of cherry red when she parted her lips with her fingers. Then she settled on my deflated dick and began to rub back and forth.

I didn’t think I could rise to the occasion again, until I realized she also wanted satisfaction. Soon she increased her rocking, leaning over me and pressing her palms against my chest. I strained my neck to try and catch her mouth for a kiss, but she began a wild bucking, up and down, around and around, the friction catching my dick on fire. She let out a series of little oohs as she tensed, pressed and bucked once more. Then I felt her body relax, her warm, sultry juices flowing to mingle with my own and quench the burning down under.

After Rose dismounted, she brought her luminous face over mine, her eyes like gleaming cobalt. “We have to do it like this,” she warned me in her sulky voice, her breath hot on my cheeks, “until I go to the doctor in New Haven and get my pills. Okay? I’ll show you next time how I want it with me. And with you, I’ll do whatever you like.”

I wanted to tell her that I adored the way she had just done it; and that any way she would deign to give it to me in the future, I would gladly take it like the man I had become. But now I simply nodded in agreement. Then she told me she’d just be a minute while she found her clothes and got dressed.

After I rose and stuffed myself back together, I brushed away the lingering sand and left the confines of our love nest. I should have felt sated and tired; instead, I possessed this incredible kind of energy that continued to perk every nerve and muscle. As I waited for Rose to join me, I picked up a piece of driftwood and flung it as far as I could into the sea, wanting desperately to play my sax or the piano, to dance, sing, or just zigzag through the sand with silly abandon. It would be two hours or more before I could wind down completely and go to sleep.

I still feel the same way after sex, so totally electrified that I can’t do anything but pick up an instrument or sit down at the piano and play, not necessarily a strong and quick tune, but something grand and illusive. Only then, will I chill out to a state of blissful relaxation.


From that night forward, what I had going with Rose defied a pat definition or an explanation. We weren’t exactly dating but fucking. We got together for fuck sessions and sometimes musical rap sessions. We usually ended up at my house after school because no one was home for at least another hour or so, my father busy at the store, my mother still at her school grading papers or chairing a teacher conference. My sister, D’Laine, who attended school in Arizona, seemed light years away from me.

Initially, I felt apprehensive and guilty, afraid that my parents would walk in at any time and catch me in flagrante delicto with this dark, sensuous wildcat of a girl. But Rose knew how to curb my anxiety as well as assuage my guilt for soiling my mother’s carefully decorated house with our carnal lusts. My mother liked the colors of the sea and sand, rustic browns and driftwood tans, creamy tones like the ocean spray, and light blues and teals like the water itself. In the living room, a series of French doors opened to our redwood deck and allowed the sea breeze to flutter the cream muslin curtains and waft throughout the house.

“Where’s your liquor cabinet?” Rose asked on her first visit. Before we commenced to do anything else, she told me it was important to set the mood.

I knew my parents kept liquor in the lower cabinet of the dining room sideboard. They rarely drank and reserved most of the hard alcohol for guests. When they did imbibe, my mother preferred Zinfandel wine and my father enjoyed imported beer. I had tasted beer on occasion, once at my uncle’s birthday party and another time at a cousin’s wedding. I could take alcohol or leave it; and at this time in my life, I preferred to leave it alone.

When I told her where to find the liquor, Rose told me to sit back and just chill out. She’d be right back. So, I went to my bedroom and began to pick up the mess, mainly my dirty clothes strewn along the floor. I suppose I could be classified as a typical teen-aged boy with all the sloppy and lackadaisical quirks that went with my age group.

I had decorated my room in blues, tans and basic whites. My double bed came covered in a slate-blue, downy comforter, while my white nightstand featured a clock in the shape of a guitar, and a funky lava lamp with psychedelic blue goop. I had a polished, light maple dresser; its top laden with the usual junk guys like me threw up there to get it out of the way, old notebooks, candy wrappers, an odd sock or two. The realm of storage possibilities seemed limitless. Next to the dresser, the matching desk held my laptop computer, my iPod and CD player, and a small, flat-screen TV with a built-in DVD player.

On my indigo walls, I hung several music-themed posters. I had one of Bob Dylan with his guitar; and another—my favorite actually—of a circa 1930s Art Deco piano design, an advertisement for one of Michael Feinstein’s American tours. I even had a small poster of Frank Sinatra when he did one of his Las Vegas gigs. Okay, so I wasn’t exactly a typical teen guy who liked grudge rock groups, monster trucks, and avatars. I thought of myself as a bit esoteric, above those puerile interests. I wanted and needed to feel sophisticated, savvy, and cool like the musicians of the past. I suppose I tried hard to maintain a mix of both, the normal, average teenager and the man-to-be who liked the better things in life.

When Rose came to join me, she made a succinct perusal of my inner sanctum, but offered no comment. In her hands she held two of our family juice glasses filled with a white liquid that resembled milk. She handed me a glass.

“Here, drink this. It’s a cocktail I made up with what you had in the cupboard. It’ll relax you.”

One sniff told me of its potency. I told her I really didn’t care for hard liquor, but she just laughed. “It’s not strong, Bo-Diddler. It won’t knock you out. But it will calm you down and pep you up at the same time. Go on! Drink it so we can get naked.”

She had taken to calling me Bo-Diddler, and I didn’t mind the teasing affectation. It made me feel wanted, desired, even important, silly though that sounds. At the time, I thought Rose really liked me beyond the sexual convenience I offered. Maybe she even loved me; but I didn’t dare ask. I doubted I could accept her raw, lusty rejection. So, I went along with her desires, even if they proved intense, mind-boggling, and even dangerous.

As she gulped down her drink, I tried a small sip of the cocktail. It tasted like sweet, silky, vanilla-laden milk, but with a definite warm kick. As I took a few more sips, the warmth quickly spread throughout my body and left me tingly all over.

“Whoa!” I proclaimed. “What’s in this?”

Rose offered a clever smile. “Just gin, vodka, and crème de cacao.”

When she thought she had me sufficiently relaxed, she took my glass and set it down on the nightstand along with her own. Then she pushed me down on the bed, but without much of an effort. As the old saying goes, she could have knocked me over with a feather, my body so willing and pliant to go along with her wishes.

“I’ll undress you first, Bo-Diddler, and then I’ll go for it.”

With those quick, deft fingers of hers, she stripped me bare in no time. As she ran her hands over the breadth of my body, I shivered with her light, tantalizing touch. I managed to lift my heavy head a moment to survey her handiwork, finding myself stiff and eager. To reciprocate, I wanted to undress her next; but Rose said we didn’t have time for a lot of foreplay. Maybe next time. She was right; my parents would be home sooner than later.

With a few quick pulls, she shed her denim skirt, jersey top, and black lacy bra. In the light of day, I could clearly see her tattoos, a blooming rose on her right shoulder, another on her right hip, and a garland of the red flowers around her left ankle. When she turned slightly, I noticed the diamondback snake slithering across her shoulder blades, and a flaming skull at her lower back. She certainly had an interesting array of body art, and I had to admire her bravery for undergoing the needle so many times. I wouldn’t even do it once.

Now as Rose straddled me, I gazed at her full breasts, those bronze hills of delight with large mauve nipples. She leaned over me and swept her hair across my face, making me giggle with the pleasure she produced. Then, before I knew it, she had us tumbling around the bed in a light wrestling match, playful yes, but with definite sexual overtones. We both laughed, giddy with the moment and the alcohol. In fact, I found my mind drifting along with milky clouds of pleasure. When I came up on top, I pressed my body to hers and took her mouth for a voracious kiss. I tasted the sweet, smooth, vanilla flavor her lips and tongue.

Now I wanted to give back what she had given to me. I dared to go lower, peppering her chin and throat with potent kisses. When I came to her breasts, I paused to cup those satin mounds and suck those tantalizing nipples. I wanted to linger, but I knew I needed to go on and pleasure us both before time slipped away. My lips quickly trailed down to her stomach and now ring-less navel.

Steeped in my own alcohol-fused bravery, I had no hesitation about exploring her very essence. My fingers worked as scouts to penetrate her passage. I felt her heat and dampness as two of my fingers easily worked in and out of that dark grotto. My tongue followed, blazing a path down her cherry slit. Rose arched beneath me as I hit upon the ultimate spot and suckled her into moans of pleasure. It was something I read about and heard about, a woman’s clit, the most sensitive part of her body. Now I could experience its formidable power for myself. The more I probed, the hotter and slicker she became, and I tasted a stream of her musky essence.

Rose bucked and shimmied as I continued to torment her. She grabbed tuffs of my hair and pulled. Although my head felt numb, the rest of me hummed with excitement. Finally, she pushed me away before I took her over that dangerous edge of pleasure.

“Let’s change,” she gasped, her face and body flushed and full. I went limp and allowed her to position us the way she wanted. As I lay prone, she lowered her groin on my face while she leaned across my stomach and took my full cock in her hands and then in her mouth. From somewhere in my foggy mind, I realized she wanted us to do a 69er, a position I had learned about through diligent research. This came courtesy of my friend Josh who had purloined his mother’s sex manual. One afternoon, he, Tyler, and I poured over the manual until we knew the various positions as well as the lingo by heart. Had we put as much effort into our regular school studies as we did that manual, we would have been straight-A students by now.

At the moment, I felt thrilled with the fact that I had been the first to actually put to physical use what we learned that day. I never thought it would be me since Tyler possessed more charm and finesse when it came to interacting with the opposite sex. But Rose—a definite, lusty female—had sought me out, wanting my body as much as I wanted hers. Who was I to complain?

Now, I gladly welcomed her crotch on my mouth as she took my cock in hers. I shuddered when she stroked my balls in addition to licking me up and down, thus driving me mad with her simultaneous torture. As I lapped at her slit, I stroked her clit with my finger. In turn, she swallowed my penis and tickled my tip with smart, little flickers of her tongue. If it hadn’t been for her body posed on mine, I would have jumped out of my skin with the exquisite pleasure she caused.

When I increased the maddening strokes of my tongue while suckling her clit, Rose squirmed with delight. She stopped playing with me for a moment to let out a low, throaty moan, her breath ragged and heavy. As I grasped her hips, she shuddered with an orgasm that came fast and hard, her juices washing over my mouth and chin. I lapped up her hot silky musk while she relaxed and then resumed her oral stimulation.

My own breath came uneven and thick as she increased her assault with piston-like precision. Her mouth tightened around me while a finger slipped into my asshole. I yowled with pleasure, into the fall bush of her dark hair. My system became overloaded, my brain waves scattered and my senses in tatters. I felt my body under siege, my cock so sensitized that such wild pleasure seemed akin to pain. Despite the fact I thrashed beneath her, Rose held on, and seemed to enjoy the additional torture she inflicted. Finally she drove me to the brink; and with one more vicious ripple of her tongue made me explode inside her mouth. I arched, shuddered, and then went limp. She let up only after she sucked me dry.


A steady ocean breeze flowed through my open window, a much-welcomed relief to cool off our drenched and drained bodies. The opened window also served as my alert system should my parents drive up to the house. Since we had only the one car, a five-year-old Subaru, my father usually closed up shop and then went to fetch my mother at school. I learned to pick out the sound of the tires crunching on the sand and gravel as the SUV made its way up our driveway. I did so now as Rose and I lay next to each other, spent and satisfied. Suddenly, I sat up and turned to my paramour.

“Get up,” I commanded as I shook her rose-engraved shoulder. “My parents are on their way up to the house.”

Rose wasted no time in finding her clothes and dressing. I quickly jumped into a pair of shorts, and donned a tee shirt and my moccasins. Then I escorted her out the back door. From there, she could run across the sand dunes, circle around to the road, and reconnect with her brother’s scooter that she left parked midway between my house and the neighbor’s. I quickly rinsed our cocktail glasses in the kitchen sink, and then placed them in the dishwasher. Thankfully, Rose had replaced the liquor bottles in the cabinet when she finished mixing our drinks. Now no one would be the wiser.

Later on, with my head cleared, I tried to control the big grin that kept popping across my face as I ate takeout chicken with my parents at the dining table. I had a fantastic secret churning inside of me, threatening to boil over. So, for the rest of the evening, I stayed in my room, supposedly to do my homework. But my thoughts kept playing and replaying my wonderful afternoon delight. What Rose and I did took precedence over algebra equations any time.

I had to tell someone, and that someone was Tyler. After all, I could now claim braggadocio rights with my fellow companions; and Tyler seemed the logical one to know about my burgeoning sexual exploits with Rose by virtue of the fact he had a more mature outlook. With that in mind, he managed to snag a few condoms from his older brother’s stash, and graciously passed them on to me. He also knew of my hesitation to procure them myself from our local drugstore, and so his gift came with grateful appreciation—one friend helping another. I’d do the same for him.

Now I felt safe and secure, and definitely ready to move on to the ultimate stage of pleasure. Interestingly enough, it came as a serendipitous and dangerous moment. Rose knew of my recent acquisitions, and so decided to take the next available opportunity. During a break between classes and music practice, she grabbed me as I entered the band room and shuffled me off to one of the sound-proof practice cubicles.

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