A Woman's Charms free porn video

Rich is not all too happy about having to move back home. It will really be the first time, since summers in college, that he’s relied on his parents for food and shelter. His five years since graduation have been spent in the city, getting his MBA and then a stint at a software firm that recently tanked. So, unable to afford living in the city for more than a couple months without an income, he's moved back, living in his parent's place where they stay now only through the summer. They spend much of the year in their condo down south, and have recently left for the winter. He's been hanging out with his old high school friends, none of whom really ever got out of town. They're content with their little jobs: landscaping, waitering, one guy manages a shoe store.

After he's been home a month or so, with no luck finding real work (and not much effort, to be truthful), he ends up going to a concert at the local civic center with a group of guys and a few hangers-on. His buddy Mark shows up with his k** sister Emily, who brought along a friend - Traci, he thinks her name is. He remembers the two girls from long ago, as k**s, even before he went away to college. He knows they had long been friends. They had always been so pesty, always wanting to hang around Mark and his gang. Rich always felt that this one, Traci, had once had a little crush on him growing up. He, of course, never gave either of them the time of day or a second thought. How young they once were. He can remember them at, what, seven or eight years old? Could they really be s*******n already? Man, time flies.

He recalls being home over summer break one year, the two girls then in their p*****ns, playing with the ouija board at Mark's house. Asked about this, Mark replied that "Yeah, Em's new kick is trying spells and things. Witchcraft,"' he says with mock drama, "black magic...oooh! Scary! I think she's trying to put a curse on her English teacher for giving her a 'B', and she says she's going to turn me into a monkey. Funny, huh?"

"Yeah," Rich had replied, "don't they have better things to do?"

"I dunno...but you better watch out," Mark joked, "or her little friend will put a spell on you, make you her boyfriend..."

"Shut up, y'idiot."

He remembers seeing Traci with Emily again, a few years later, at some town picnic he grudgingly agreed to go to with his parents. Though still a k**, she had started to develop coltish good looks and had begun to carry herself more like a young woman than a little girl. She was dressed in the latest teeny-bopper styles, definitely a good looking thirteen year old - in contrast to Emily, who on the other hand was still a little bookworm at that point, pudgy with baby fat.

But nothing could have surprised him more than seeing the two of them today, at the concert. How they'd grown! Emily had sprouted, and thinned out, to a relatively attractive, long haired brunette. He knows, through Mark, that she is doing well in school, and she carries herself with confidence. He has to admit that Traci, however, is now downright hot. God, look at that body! Is that really little Traci? Blonde, probably five-six or so, she came to the concert dressed in a pair of tight, low-rider jeans and a white, clingy, button down blouse. Thin but curvy and ripe the way only a teenager can really be. And, though both girls are wearing make-up, Traci's is done expertly, accentuating her full lips, high cheekbones and big eyes. Though they came across as somewhat haughty at first to the group, as girls their age tend to do around those outside their usual cliques, Traci warms to Rich as soon as they recognize one another.

By chance, they end up sitting next to each other at the show. Little Traci, he realizes, certainly isn't very little anymore. He spends as much time as possible surreptitiously looking at her breasts in profile, trying to gauge their size, astonished at her development since he last saw her. He studies the outline of her bra band through the material of her shirt. Man, she is built, he thinks, watching the heavy mass of breast stretch her white top under her arm. And that's a considerably significant bra. I can't believe she's a s*******n year old and has that much weight to support. He finds himself trying to imagine, standing there next to her, what color this bra is that she’s wearing, what kind of material it’s made of - white, he figures, white nylon with some spandex. And the rest of her, he marvels, is near ideal as well. Though he has never really liked the low-rider jean look on girls, this pair did hug a plump, heart-shaped bottom that is obviously perfect.

Though Traci talks mostly to Mark's sister during the concert, he jokes around with her a little bit, trying to act funny and cool between stealing glances of her body. It is a guilty sort of kick for his ego, making this little hottie (who, if he was back in high school, wouldn't give him the time of day) giggle at his jokes. He feels pretty impressed with himself, actually. The concert, however, ends uneventfully, with Rich and his friends parting ways with the girls, who obviously can't go bar-hopping with them afterwards.

The next week, sitting at a local dive bar, tossing darts with his friends, he hears through Mark that Traci has been asking about him. Is he home for long? (positive) Has he found a job yet? (negative) Does he have a girlfriend? (definitely negative) Mark, of course, proceeds to bust his stones over this, playing it all up as his little sister's friend's girlie crush back for its revenge. "Though," Mark admits, sipping his beer, "I have to say she's got a kickin' bod, for a k**. She came with Em and I to the beach once this summer and...man!"

"And what?" Rich asked, not wanting to look like he is probing, or interested in the least.

"Well, she was somethin'..." His friend, more serious now, continues, "You’re not, like, going to call her or anything, are you?" Did he hear a hint of jealousy in his Mark's tone?

"Naw, no way," Rich replies quickly, throwing another dart, "I'm not a cradle robber." Still, the thought stays with him, and he spends much of the night thinking about her. He's never been too good with girls; a few relationships here and there - some serious, some not. But none, he admits to himself, with a girl that looked like Traci. To his chagrin he finds himself fantasizing, imagining her peeling off that clingy white top, imagining the two of them fooling around together. She seducing him with that hot little body. Jeez, that would be so cool. That's it, he decides as he lay in his bed, emboldened by the several beers he's had, I'm calling her tomorrow night.

The next evening, sobered a bit and definitely less brave, he resolves rather to call over to Mark's house, knowing full well his friend will be out working. "Oh, hey Emily," good, his sister answered, "it's Rich. Mark home?"

"No, he's bartending tonight at Steak & Sword."

"Oh, yeah, right. Hey, how'd you like the show last week?" God, he feels stupid. Why are his palms sweating?

"Pretty good. I just got their album."

"The new one?"

"Yeah."

"You like it?"

"Yeah, it's okay. You want me to burn it for you?"

"No, I have all their music already. You want any of their others? Their first album?"

"Sure, give a copy to Mark..."

"Yeah, sure, whatever..." Okay, he has to get to the point. "Say, Em," he pauses awkwardly, trying to come up with the right words, "did...your friend...like the show?"

"Traci?"

"uh, yeah."

A pause. "I think so. Why?"

"I dunno. she said she really liked the band and I just hoped she liked the show 'cuz. well, you know how bad it is if you like a band's music but then they put on a crappy concert..." he’s babbling, he realizes, and had lost the nerve to ask any more about Traci. "Well, whatever, you know what I mean."

"Uh, yeah, Rich, I think she liked the show." Did he hear a hint of amusement in her voice? He has to end this now, before he comes across like a total idiot.

"Uh, okay, just have Mark call me later."

"Later tonight? When he gets in?"

"Uh, no, it's not important. He can call, uh, tomorrow."

"Sure. Bye Rich."


The next night he comes home from an early night out, dinner with some friends, to find a message on his machine from Emily, but the caller-ID links it to "Graham"...Traci's house. "Hey, Rich," Emily's abrupt message begins, "Traci wants you to call her. Here's her number. Anytime tonight is fine." He writes her number down on his hand before he realizes that - duh – it’s on the caller-ID. Okay, his brain isn't working at full tilt, his heart racing a bit. Emily is obviously over at Traci's house. He realized he is nervous. What should he do? Call her? It is after ten...he didn't want to wake her parents. But, she did say anytime. God, what is he - back in high school again, playing these stupid games? Just freaking call her, dork.

She picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, uh, Traci?"

""Yeah?"

"This is Rich...from the concert? Last week?"

"Oh, hi! How are you! Did you like the show?"

"Yeah, it was good...real good..." a pause, "What's up? Emily said you wanted me to call you."

"Oh, yeah. Can you make a copy of 'Signs'? Em said you had it...It's the only album of theirs I don't have."

"Sure, no problem," he agrees, searching for small talk, a way to continue the conversation, "So, you really like them, huh?"

"Oh yeah, they're awesome!"

"And I thought you were just there to see the singer's abs."

"Shut up! I was not! I really like their music!"

"I dunno, Traci, you squealed pretty loud when Brandon took off his shirt."

"Shut up!" she titters with girlish giggles, "You jerk!"

Emboldened, he decides to take the plunge. "Hey, what are you doing this weekend?"

A pause. "Nothing much, really." Suddenly she is quiet, more serious "Why?"

"I dunno, you want to do something on Friday? Get something to eat, catch up on old times?"

"Like what old times, when you and Mark used to, like, totally ignore us?"

"Uh...yeah...oh, c'mon, you guys were just k**s back then..."

"I know, I know, I'm just k**ding...Oh, wait...I can't Friday. I'm going out with my parents."

"Hm. And I'm busy Saturday night," he says, remembering his old friend coming into town. Could he blow that off..? No way; Mark is coming with them. "How about Thursday?"

"Uh, sure…" She giggles, and pauses. Did he hear another voice in the room behind her? "That'd be cool."

"Okay, I'll come get you around seven. Do you still live over near the high school?"

"Yeah, white house."

"Great, I'll see you then. Bye." He puts down the phone and exhales a deep breath. So, he did it. Now, if only he can keep his friends from finding out. Yeah, right. That's pretty much an impossibility. Whatever. He doesn't care at that point. He’s going to dinner with a freakin' hot chick; so what if she’s technically jailbait? He'll be happy to take all the shit in the world from his friends just to have the chance to look at that body all night - and what if she wants to do more than just let him look? Though he knows himself: he has too much of a conscience, he'd be too polite, too big-brotherly to ever take advantage of any youthful infatuation on her part. Or, rather, is he just chicken shit? Nonetheless, his mind swims with the possibilities as he makes his way to bed, grabbing the box of kleenex on the way.

He's prompt to show up at her house on Thursday night - a little early, in fact, so he drives around the neighborhood a bit. Nice houses. When he finally pulls into the driveway, she immediately bounds out the front door, as if she's been waiting, looking out for him. His eyes widen as he watches the sight, her full chest heaving up and down in a tight, white, midriff-bearing top, sleeves off the shoulder. Her long, bare, well-fleshed legs carry her down the front walk quickly on thick heeled, black sandals. A short, floral patterned, black silk skirt flows midway up her tan thighs. She flashes a bright white smile as she waves to him on her approach, bending over slightly to look in the car window. Is that cleavage? Look away!

Bedazzled, he almost doesn't notice a woman - her mother, it must be - standing in the shadow of the doorframe, peering out apprehensively. He waves up at her and thinks of getting out to politely introduce himself, but Traci is quickly in the car beside him. Caught off guard by her sudden appearance, her mane of blond hair, her toothsome smile, he instead smiles to greet her. Gushing a little too eagerly, "Wow. You look great," he asks her if he should get out to say "hi" to her mother.

"No way. She almost didn't let me out of the house. She doesn't like the way I'm dressed."

"Really?" Well, I certainly like it, he thinks.

""Yeah, but when I said I was going with a friend of Mark's, she let me go. So, quick, just take off."

"Uh, okay." He is a little relieved, feeling a bit embarrassed to be out on a date with a girl ten years his junior. Having to meet her mother would have been awkward. He smiles wanly and waves again up at her as she drifts away from the doorway and he backed out of the driveway. He looks over at Traci as he pulls off down the street, careful not to speed too quickly in case mom is still watching. She is certainly dressed up for a Thursday night - that outfit, make up, hair done out to there.

"So, what is it your mom wants you to wear?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think she thinks…well, she doesn't want me showing off...my, well..."

"Your what?"

"My figure. She, like, thinks I'm still a k**. 'Don't you think that's a little too revealing?' she says, 'Don't you think that makes you look too busty?' Ugh! I mean, c'mon, mom, face it. I've got legs now. I've got hips. I'm built like a...well, like a woman." And, obviously, he thinks, she wants everyone to know it.

He swallows dryly. "Well, I think you look really nice," he says matter-of-factly - too shy, suddenly, to say anything that could be interpreted as even slightly lecherous.

He tries to keep his eyes on the road as he felt her smile broaden in the seat next to him. "Thank you, Rich," she says demurely, "that's nice." Who does she think she’s k**ding? She knows she looks good.

As they banter he thinks seriously about changing his plans for dinner. Could he bring her to the restaurant at which he has reservations with her dressed like that? This is a place he remembers his parents taking him to on special occasions. White tablecloths and all. Most of the clientele will probably be senior citizens - he doesn't want to cause any heart attacks.

What's the big deal? he finally decides. Mostly because - with her sitting next to him - he can't think straight enough to come up with an equally nice place with a looser dress code. He is self-conscious, nonetheless, of the looks they get as the hostess walks them through the restaurant to their table. The sidelong, admiring glances of the men are painfully obvious, following Traci's figure as she saunters, seemingly oblivious, several paces ahead of him. He feels also the judgmental attention of the room pass over them, and for the first time in his life feels a bit like a dirty old man with his young date. He sincerely hopes there isn't anybody he knows here.

All apprehension quickly lifts soon after they are seated at their table in a dark, private corner. Dinner goes smoothly. She is much chattier than he and carries conversation easily. She talks about school, about starting her senior year, about running for class vice-president, about not getting into many of the AP classes she had wanted. She is surprised, she says, to learn that he hasn't had a girlfriend for quite some time. She also admits to not be seeing anyone, claiming to be "sick of boys, guys my age are such idiots." He takes this for what it’s worth - she isn't actually admitting a desire to date him, he has to tell himself. But is she hinting along those lines with her playful glances, by laughing at his corny jokes? He is a little befuddled, having expected this outing to be mostly him entertaining an overgrown k**. Rather, Traci is surprisingly poised for a s*******n year-old girl - and seems quite adept in the use of her feminine wiles. She is, he comes to realize in time, actively flirting with him. A bit dazzled by the attention, he catches himself beginning to respond in kind, however clumsily. It’s very hard not to, with those big, bright eyes batting their long full lashes, smiling at him across the table. And her skin is so smooth, so perfect - sun-kissed to a light tan over her long neck and bare, graceful shoulders. She;s so young, though.

They defer dessert, taking his suggestion to grab some ice cream at a local parlor. They sit outside on the hood of his car near an overhead light, watching k**s and families file in and out of the store. As he licks at his cone he remarks on her extra-large milkshake. "That's some big ol' shake...Do you know how much fat that thing has?"

"Why, should I be worried it'll go to my hips?" she asks teasingly, taking a long draw at her straw and smiling, looking into his eyes.

"Oh, uh, no...I mean," he stammers, "You have very nice hips. Go ahead - drink up."

"That's right, I have to keep my curves, don't I?" With that she takes an exaggerated, long pull on her shake, moaning in mock pleasure as she sucks hungrily at its heavy, calorie-laden thickness.

"Wow...watch it, or you'll have more than just curves..." he jokes, feeling bold, talking about her body.

"Yeah, hopefully it all keeps going to the right places!" she giggles, obviously referring to her ample womanly charms.

They sit in silent thought for a moment before she speaks again. "So, Rich, you don't think this outfit makes me look too trashy?" she asks coyly, coquettishly swinging her feet, sandals dangling at her toes, and sucking again at her milkshake.

"No, no way. I think your mom's crazy," he responds, aware that this is perhaps the third time tonight she has sought his praise of her appearance, "You look fine. She shouldn't hassle you like that. I mean, you're a grown...well, you're s*******n and you should wear what you want."

"Yeah, well," Traci continues, "I think she's been uncomfortable, jealous maybe, since I got...bigger than her."

"Bigger? What do you mean? Taller?"

"No," she replies, lowering her voice furtively, as if to share a secret, "y'know what I mean..." She sticks out her chest to demonstrate the size of her impressive assets, "...bigger."

"Oh, uh...yeah...really?" Yikes.

She smiles mischievously, noticing how quickly he’s become uneasy, watching him stumble over his words. She loved how, if she wanted, she could make guys so nervous, so awkward. It’s always a thrill for her. And maybe this guy’s no different, she thinks, even if he is, like, almost thirty. She decides to try playing with him some more.

"Yeah. My mom, like, refuses to buy me new bras. She can't believe that I'm bigger than a 32-D. I'm like, c'mon, mom!" Her eyes twinkle eagerly, seeing that she has his interest. Rich, the older boy who once wouldn't give her the time of day, hanging on her every word. My, how things change! "But she's all like 'The one's you have are big enough, you just got them.' I mean, c'mon, look at this..."

With that she presses back her shoulders, tightening the already overstretched top over her breasts. The outline of her obviously too-small, halter style bra is evident, as is the swell of flesh rising over the top edge of its cups. "So, this is a 32-D, and I'm, like, bulging out of it," she states, smiling at his bashful stare, studying her chest. She can't believe this is the same guy! Times change...I'm not a little girl anymore, huh Rich? With mock exasperation, she continues proudly "I've been wearing a D-cup for a year, but do you see how small that is on me now?"

"..mmmm..uh, yeah, I guess...s-so...what, uh, size do you need now?"

How adorable, she thinks. He’s trying to act cool, almost clinical, disinterested. But he wants to hear more, she can tell.

"I dunno, I guess I'm a 32 double-D," she replies, and continues with extra emphasis "but that's like, so huge!"

"Uh, is it? I-I wouldn't know...couldn't you just be up to, like, a 33 or 34?"

"Oh no, no, no...Here, look," she begins to explain, as if correcting a small c***d, as she places her milkshake down on the car's hood. She draws his attention back to her chest by turning her large left breast to him in profile, while at the same time raising her arm and tossing back her dark blond hair. "Do you see the band here under my arm?" It’s plain to see, taut beneath her shirt. "That goes around my ribcage. I'm a thirty-two like that, it's thirty-two inches around my chest, underneath my boobs."

"Uh huh," he mutters dumbly, absorbed.

"Now, that fits pretty good, don't you think?" She finds this fun, tutoring this grown man on bra sizing. And she always liked talking about what she knows are her best assets. Guys, she found, would become rapt with attention whenever she mentioned her breasts.

"Oh, uh, yeah."

"And around the back?" she asks as she rotates at the hip and hunches her shoulders forward, turning the back of her shoulders to him and tightening her top about her. He studies the single, sturdy strap of her bra as it passed under her shirt and tautly across her back. That a girl her age would need a brassiere of this caliber excites him. He can see its clasp, admire her firm flesh and muscle tone.

"Mmm. Yeah. Fine." He can feel an erection hardening in his khakis and hopes to god she hasn't noticed.

"But now, look at this," she instructs, as she turns back so he can see the fullness of her left breast again in profile. With a touch of drama she sticks her chest out slowly, presenting it for more easy viewing. "My cup size is, like, how much my breast sticks out from my chest, at the farthest point, along the bottom." She arches her back a little more, for emphasis. "You see? That's big, huh?"

God, he thinks, look at that tit. So big, so round, so plump and firm…on that thin body. It looks so heavy. Oh, to squeeze it, to put a cheek up against it.

She tries to keep a straight face as she watches his expression, unabashedly intent on the weight of her left breast. "And you see how I'm, like, overflowing over the top, kinda coming out the sides?" To accentuate her point, she adjusts her shirt, pulling it more taut over her breast. She hears him swallow, nervously. "Do you see that?" Once again she feels like she is tutoring a dim c***d and tries to keep from smiling in amusement.

"Oh, uh, yeah...I s-see..." Though above all else he is still trying to act cool, he makes the conscious effort to try to burn this image to memory, as a photograph in his brain. So he can recall the image of her huge, young breast straining against her overworked brassiere. His mind and heart are racing, incredulous of the situation, the conversation he’s in with this overdeveloped teenage girl. He really had no idea how big she had become over the years. He crosses his legs, hoping to hide the erection which now presses hotly against his thigh.

"So, I think I'm a double-D now," she continues matter-of-factly, "which is the next size up from a 'D'. On a thirty-two inch bra." She straightens her shoulders, and moves to pull her hair up into a pony tail, raising her arms. Embarassed to find himself still staring at her chest, he looks away abruptly, taking a lick at his now-melting ice cream cone.

"I mean, I don't know anyone with cups this big, on a thiry-two inch band. Do you?" She is now acutely aware of him definitely not trying to look at her chest, of paying a little too much attention to his ice cream. How cute!

"Oh, I d-dunno...I don't really-"

"Old girlfriends?"

"Oh, uh...no....No way..."

"Hmm. Yeah, well, I guess guys don't really have to think about that sort of thing, huh? Just us girls," she comments, picking up her milkshake once again and taking a purposefully long pull at the straw. She sees his face redden. Why is it that guys always get sort of embarrassed talking about bra sizes? Seems sort of silly, to her. She looks at her watch and starts. "Oh, jeez, Rich," she says, hopping from the hood, “I have to get home. It's a school night and my mom will freak if I get in after ten."

The quick ride home is relatively quiet. She sucks at her straw distractedly, finishing off the remainder of her shake as he tries to make light conversation. She seems a bit lost in thought. Pulling into her driveway, he notices the car Mark's parents had given to Emily parked in the street. "Oh, uh, yeah..." Traci explains, "she had to use my computer for a project. Still here, I guess." She thanks him for a nice evening, apologizing that she had to be back so early. "But, hey," she asks, "it's s'posed to be nice weather this weekend. Do you want to come over and hang out by the pool?"

"When, Saturday?"

"Yeah, come over for lunch. And bring your suit!"

Oh boy, is he positive he wants to do this? But, if he’s going to wear his suit, maybe she'll be wearing hers..."Uh, sure."

"Great! I'll see you then!" As they both lean over to politely hug goodnight, he is aware of her breast pressing into his arm. "I should go," she says, parting from him, "my mom's probably looking out the window, checking her watch. But here, let me get this for you." She takes hold of a paper napkin sitting crumpled between the seats and surprises him by leaning in and dabbing his lips with it. "You had a little ice cream still, in the corner..." Flashing a brilliant white smile, she climbs out the door and waves goodbye, napkin in hand. That was sort of odd, he thinks as he watches her bounce up the front steps, but also curiously arousing. God, he is such a horndog!

Driving home, his heart is racing. Man, she is so fucking hot! He can't remember ever having any girl with even remotely as nice a body actually wanting to talk to him, let alone describing her damn bra size in intricate detail. Did she know what she was doing? Was she trying to drive him crazy? Jeez, if only he was younger, back in high school now. Because he doesn't feel right about actually pursuing this girl, starting any sort of relationship. She’s so young. He'd catch crazy heat from his friends, her parents would probably think he is a lech. But, if he could be s*******n again, oh man. Boy, that was ten years ago. And...what is he thinking? If he was s*******n she wouldn't want anything to do with him, of course. All that interested her about him is that he’s an "older man". "So mature". Yeah, he thinks, real mature, alright. Living in his parents' house, rent-free while they're away until the spring. No job. A bunch of underachiever friends. Does she realize I'm such a loser? Well, whatever, I'm going to get the chance to see her in a bathing suit, he thinks guiltily. God, those breasts. Still incredulous, he replays their conversation at the ice cream shop over and over, the image of that big breast vivid in his mind, until he gets back to his place.

Though trying to distract his thoughts with television, he finds himself unable to stop thinking about her. She is so immature in many ways, narcissistic as teenage girls tend to be, and obviously impressed with herself. But, man, does she have enough to be proud of! She’s becoming built like a wet-dream and she knows it, he thinks. She was obviously teasing him with her body all night, and he just ate it all up.

Soon he can help it no longer and is in his bed, jerking off to the vision of her heavy tits in that tight shirt, the line of bra. Oh, to see what was underneath that top, underneath that bra. To be underneath that bra. He guiltily imagines how firm, how warm it would be, to be small, up against her full, young body, her ripe softness, her big new breasts. Underneath her bra, the bra she needs to support, to contain, those teenage double-D's.

As he becomes more and more stimulated, closer to climax, he is dimly aware of an unusual feeling. Unsettling. Almost as if he’s being watched. The sensation becomes acute enough to make him look around the darkened room, checking if his shades are closed. Satisfied that he’s alone, he continues to stroke himself to thoughts of Traci's bosom. "Thirty-two double-D," he moans to himself, "thirty-two double-D." Sitting in the car next to him, pressed against his arm. Thirty-two double-D. God, that's so huge.

He imagines himself being tucked into Traci's bra, slid in next to her flesh. But as he feels the first hints of his orgasm shiver to the surface, another vision visits him alongside that of her body. Eyes. Feminine eyes, aware of him, watching him, studying him. Though not usual in his masturbatory imaginings, this feeling of being watched - though unnerving - arouses him even more. Not able to shake the image, he imagines it is her, Traci, aware that he is fantasizing about her, knowing it’s her that he thinks about when he touches himself. She would like that, wouldn't she? Knowing that guys jerk off to her, knowing the power of her body, knowing that he imagined himself helpless as a baby at her huge breasts? Oh god, she would like that, she would.

And suddenly, it’s too much, and he is overtaken by his orgasm. His loud moans echo through an empty house. He beats himself hard, trying to concentrate on the pictures swimming through his head of himself as a tiny little man trapped in Traci's bra, between her breasts, in her huge cleavage. Still those eyes watch him, narrowing, crinkling as if in...amusement?

Soon his pulses begin to wane, and the visions fade. He brings himself back to reality, breathing heavily. Lying in bed, he realizes that he is nagged by a faint hint of embarrassment, almost as if someone now knows something about him that would shame him. Don't be paranoid, he thinks as he cleans himself up and crawls back to bed, you're just overtired. Nonetheless, he hopes sleep would come quick.


____________________________________________________________________


"Ewwwww! So you could actually see him?" Traci squeals, with barely suppressed giggles, "As he...y'know...! Did it!?"

"Whacked off? Oh yeah...well, sort of." Emily's voice is hushed in the candlelit shadows of her friend's room. "I could kind of see what he was seeing, or more like what he was...imagining."

"Like, what he was...fantasizing about?" Traci's interest is keen, palpable.

"Yeah, I guess." Emily had used this spell several times before, on boyfriends of her own. Though always entertaining, its novelty had worn off a bit for her.

"What was it? What did you see?" Traci asks hurriedly, "Was he thinking about...me?"

"Oooooh yeah. That's an understatement." Emily replies dryly.

"Really!" Traci blushes as she continues her interrogation, "What was it like? Tell me! Tell me!"

"Well, how can I say this..." Emily speaks slowly as she searches for the right words, "he really....I mean REALLY...likes your boobs."

"Really? Really?!" Traci squeals, hugging a pillow to her chest, to the oversized t-shirt she uses as a nightgown, "He was thinking about my boobs?" She tucks a stray strand of hair behind one ear and continues "In what way? What about them? Tell me more!"

"All I can say is that...well, he likes them big...really big." Emily begins to fall into giggles herself, remembering the visions. How embarrassing for him!

"Okay, I can manage that!" Traci proclaims as she drops the pillow to her lap and playfully thrusts out her considerably healthy chest, demonstrating its bounty. "Here I am!" she announces, "Come to mama!"

"I don't know, Trace..." Emily adds, laughing, "maybe for this guy you should get implants!" The girls have to hush themselves in their laughter, not wanting Traci's parents to know they’re still awake.

"Omigod! Could you imagine?" Traci muses, "I'd be huge!"

"Face it, girl, you're already huge."

"Yeah, huh?" Traci looks down at her own chest, smiling in pride. Her friend, she can't help but think, looks flat in comparison.

"But I think I can maybe still help you out. There's a spell in here somewhere, I think, that can, like, bring his fantasies true, make it so you're like his...I dunno, his dream girl."

"What do you mean? It'll make my boobs...bigger?" Traci asks innocently, as if in disbelief. Incredibly, Emily notices, she didn't seem totally against the idea.

"I dunno, maybe..." Emily continues, "It's different depending on who it's used on. It's a powerful spell, I've never tried it. But I think it works mainly on him, not you. Here, it's in the book, let's see what it says exactly." Emily thumbs through the pages of a well-worn paperback. "Okay....this is it. In the section on Sex Spells. 'A curse to entrap him slowly in mind, body and soul: What he imagines of you to bring him to passion'," Emily recites, "'will become his reality in its own fashion.' Hmm. The rest is all in Latin. Do you want me to translate it for you?"

"No, that's okay..."

Emily's eyes scan over the spell as Traci looks on in silence. "I don't know what it'll do exactly. Sounds like it'll make him see you the way he imagines...bigger? Maybe?"

"Okay, well...do you think it's safe? It says it's a curse..."

"Who knows? I guess so...how bad can it be? Don't you want him to like you?"

"Well," Traci says, looking down at her chest, admiring its size almost shyly, "it sounds like he kinda likes me already."

"But don’t you want him to...y'know...really like you?"

Traci sits in reflection for a moment, with thoughts of Rich, the guy she had a crush on as a k**, as her boyfriend. Wrapped around her little finger, even...that would be so cool! He is so much older, more mature. She could make him buy her things. But could something bad happen? Does Emily really know what she’s doing? She’s been, Traci has to admit, always good at this witchcraft stuff in the past. Though very smart, Emily had, as she became more proficient over the years, come to rely on charms more and more, for landing boyfriends most of all. Though not unattractive by any means, Emily was never the most popular girl in school but always seemed to be dating the cutest guy in class, the best athlete, whoever she fancied. Traci, on the other hand - though at times using the benefit of a spell - needed to rely on magic less and less. Her natural charms, she was finding out, were becoming plenty powerful enough to attract the boys and generally get her what she wanted. So, her magic, such as it was, had fallen a bit into disuse. She never really had the discipline for it anyway, and would usually rely on Emily if she needed a simple charm or suggestion here or there. Though what Emily wants to use on Rich tonight, she knew, is much more serious. "Couldn't we just do a little charm..." she asks, "those work okay-"

"But this would be so much more fun!" Emily responds quickly.

Traci takes a deep breath, thinking things over again, and makes her decision. "Okay. Let's do it!"

"Excellent!" Emily claps her hands in delight, but then quickly turns serious. "Now, this is a new level spell for me...let me see..." Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Emily thinks carefully about what she is planning to do. Although the more powerful spells she's been using have been working well recently (the seeing spell she had used earlier to spy on Rich's fantasies is a good example) - she is about to try something even more forbidden. "Huh...it looks like this is a potion...no, it's some sort of powder. Yeah, a powder - each of you will have to get some of the batch. You can eat it or sprinkle it over yourselves. Do you think you'll be able to do that? Okay, good. I think I have all the ingredients here...is there still some of that napkin around? Great."



As Traci watches, Emily sets about putting together the concoction, which involves - among other things - ashes of the remains of the napkin that had been used to wipe Rich's mouth, a bit of Traci's hair, and a few more arcane herbs and such that she had brought over in her kit. For Emily, making the powder is easy; it’s going to be getting the incantations right that worried her. She can see, also, that Traci is tiring.

"Hey, Trace, why don't you go to sleep?" Emily suggests, "I can finish this up."

"Okay, good idea, I'm beat. Just try not to make too much noise. It's bad enough that it already smells like we've been smoking in here. If my mom finds out were not asleep she'll freak..."

"Yeah, okay...goodnight."

____________________________________________________________________


On Saturday he shows up around noon at her place, parking his Corolla in the driveway and walking around back to the pool. Mrs. Graham, a tall, attractive woman herself - if perhaps a bit prim and conservative, a bit matronly - is seated in a deck chair, reading the newspaper. She looks up from her paper as he rounds the corner of the house, and shields her eyes from the sun with her hand until she recognizes him. Rising from her chair, she removes her sunglasses and smiles a bit apprehensively as he approaches. He can't help but notice her figure - she's not built badly herself, for a woman her age, filling out her black one-piece bathing suit and drawstring white cotton shorts quite well.

Rich offers his hand in greeting, introducing himself politely. He makes sure to leave out the part about "I'm the one who's here to sit around your pool and ogle your daughter's body." Mrs. Graham is pleasant enough, reserved, certainly probing him with questions about college, his job situation, blah blah blah. He tries to make his recent "down time" sound less pathetic than it actually is. He doesn't want her thinking that her daughter is hanging around an unmotivated loser, certainly. She talks about her daughter like she’s a k**, he thinks, criticizing her frequently and making it a point several times to mention that "she is only s*******n, you know." He’s a little uncomfortable, the situation being a little awkward, and is relieved when Traci steps out of the house onto the sunlit patio.

Traci is barefoot, clothed up top in a cropped, zip-up hooded sweatshirt of thin cotton, black with white piping and form-fitting to her ample chest. Below she wears only a brief, powder blue bikini bottom, leaving her long, tan, shapely legs and hips nearly bare. He can't help but admire the muscle tone of those legs, the tautness of her flat midriff. Afraid of his gaze being caught in some place it shouldn't be, he struggles to keep his eyes on her face as they exchange smiles. Her dark blond hair, highlighted by a summer in the sun, is pulled up in a ponytail, exposing her long neck and delicate jawline.

"Hi, honey," her mom intones, "your friend Rich is here. We've been getting to know one another a little bit." She reaches her hand out to smooth a stray lock of hair on Traci's head.

Traci pulls away from her mother. "Great, mom," she says, rolling her eyes.

"So, it looks like you two have a nice day for a swim. Is that your blue suit you have on?" Her mother asks, with a hint of disapproval in her voice.

"Yes, mother," Traci replies curtly, not even trying to hide her impatience.

"What about the nice swimsuit I bought you? The one with the flowers? I never see you-"

"Mom! C'mon!" Traci nearly hisses, under her breath, embarrassed and exasperated.

"Okay, okay," her mother responds, backing away. She is obviously accustomed to being dismissed by her daughter, "I'll leave you two alone. Would you like me to make you some sandwiches?"

Traci's tone changes quickly. "Oh, uh, I already made a couple. Tuna. Tuna salad sandwiches. They're inside, on the counter..."

"Well, come help me bring them out, honey. Rich, why don't you make yourself comfortable - get yourself a towel, over by the shed - and we'll be right back with lunch. Is lemonade okay?"

"Sure, Mrs. Graham," he replies as the ladies turn and head back inside. Grabbing a towel and removing his shirt, he chooses a lounge chair by the pool's edge and sits back to enjoy the midday sun, strong for September. Feeling the rays wash warmly over his face, he can't believe his luck. He is, he hopes, about to see the body of this girl - a body to whose mental image he's been jerking off almost nonstop since Thursday night - in her bikini. He silently kicks himself for not bringing his digital camera. He could have, he thinks, found the excuse for a few snapshots somewhere. Nah - he figures he wouldn't have found the courage to actually try to take a picture of her, and the image of her mother grabbing the camera from his hand and tossing it in the pool made him chuckle.

Before long he feels a shadow fall over him, blocking his sun. Raisng his hand against the glare, he opens his eyes and sees Traci's hourglass silhouette, standing over him with a tray of food. "Sorry about my mom," she apologizes as she bends into a crouch to place the tray on a low side table, allowing him to admire the voluptuousness of her hips and fine bottom as she set up the plates. Her rear, because of the contrasting thinness of her waist, might be seen by some as a bit on the big side. To him, it’s perfect. A round, bubble-butt, firmly muscled. "She can be a pain."

"No, no, that's okay," he reassures her. She’s just being protective, he knows. "So, what do we have here?"

"I hope you like tuna salad," she says, as she sits on the edge of the adjacent chaise, facing him, "here's your drink, and some chips..."

"Wow, thanks," he says appreciatively, as he pulls his plate towards him, "You didn't have to do all this."

"No big deal," she replies, as she gingerly picks up her half-sandwich and takes a small bite. She swallows purposefully as he, in turn, takes hold of his own. She watches him carefully as he takes one bite, then another.

"Mmm..." he remarks, swallowing, feeling her eyes on him. "This is...good. Kinda...smoky. What's in it?" While living in the city he had prided himself on eating all sorts of foods, being a creative cook himself. He had never thought of doing...this...to tuna.

"Oh, some seasoning. Barbecue, I think? Cajun?" She takes another bite herself. He can't help but notice she seems a bit nervous.

"Hm. Spicy, too...almost tingly."

"Do you like it?" she asks, still watching him.

"Oh, sure..." he responds, trying to ignore the hint of burnt hair, "it's great."

As lunch goes on she becomes less apprehensive, more confident - relieved, likely, that he enjoyed her sandwich enough to finish it. She titters at his jokes, bats her long eyelashes at him as she finishes her half-sandwich but leaves most of her chips untouched. "You didn't finish your plate," he quips as he lay his head back again to enjoy they sun, beginning to shut his eyes, "and there's no ice cream. You're watching your figure a little more than Thursday night, huh?"

"Actually," she says, as he notices, through lidded eyes, her shifting position, off to his side, “I think it's your turn to watch my figure."

Yikes. What did she say? A strong man, a smart man, he thinks, would shut up, keep his eyes closed and ignore her very forward comment. She must be joking around. But he is neither a strong nor smart man. Ever so slightly he tilts his head towards her, allows his eyes to remain open a fraction, and watches her unzip her sweater. If he could see her face he would see her trying not to smile as she looks off to the distance, across the pool, seemingly unconcerned with the task at hand. Go ahead, she seems to be saying, look all you want, I won't notice.

As she is leaned over, slightly, towards him, he first sees the shadow of her cleavage appear as the zipper parts across her chest. God, that is beautiful. The shadows so dark, the swell of her breasts so full.

She pauses for a moment before undoing the fastener. I feel kinda weird, she realizes, taking off my sweatshirt, showing off my chest. He's been fantsizing about these breasts, she thinks, not without a touch of pride, Jerking off to them. My breasts. My really, really big breasts. But, she is interested in his reaction.

He allows his eyes to open a bit wider, thinking that her attention is turned away from him. As she peels the thin cotton material away from the curve of her chest, she begins to arch her back to remove her sweater, revealing the matching top of her blue string bikini, which struggles to cover her plentiful charms. How cute, she thinks, he actually thinks that I don't know he's watching.

As she presses her shoulders back to pull the sweater first off one arm, then the other, her heavy breasts stand out firmly from her chest and seem to swell before his eyes. She smiles, noticing him clamp his eyes tight and flush as she turns back towards him, dropping her sweater onto the back of the chaise.

As the moment passes in silence, he can feel her gaze on him, watching him. He opens one eye, squinting up at her seated form. She has leaned back in towards him, breasts gathered between her arms, cleavage spilling over the cups of her top copiously. A devilish smile is on her lips. He quickly looks up into her eyes, which are twinkling with merriment.

"Very nice," he admits curtly, as she begins to laugh teasingly and sit back. He hopes she can’t see the erection building in his trunks; he props his knees up just in case. He'll try to make a joke of this, too, he decides. "You're quite pleased with yourself, huh?"

"Oh, no," she giggles as she reclines, settling into the lounge chair and turning her head to look over at him, "it's just that I find it funny that guys can't help but stare, sometimes."

"I was not staring." He can feel himself redden, again, and turns away from her, pretending to be intent on his sunbathing.

"Oh, yeah, okay," she says, "you didn't see a thing." Is she actually mocking him? Well, he feels all of about two inches tall, caught ogling a girl, a situation which in most circumstances would cause him to just sit and stew in quiet embarrassment. For better or for worse, he instead tries to defend himself. This girl is just a k**!

"Well, with a suit like that...I, uh...I think I may agree with your mother. Doesn't leave much to the imagination, huh?"

"Oh really? You agree with my mother?" Her tone is skeptical, as she closes her own eyes and turns towards the sun, "So you think I should cover up a little more? Maybe a wetsuit would be more appropriate?"

"Sure. As long as it's not too tight."

"Right. Can't be showing off too much, can I?" She continues, joking with him, "So, now, what would I wear to school?"

"Hmm, I don't know, a parka maybe? And snow pants?" He likes this, having lightened the mood, his embarrassment eased.

"Oh, but it would be so hot...okay for the winter. How about a mumu for the rest of the year?"

"Sure, you can get them in several fashionable styles and patterns."

"Perfect. You and my mom can sleep easy, then. The world will be safe from my giant breasts." She giggles in amusement. "But, now, what if I just need a little something extra one day, like...I have to give speech next week, to the whole school, for the class election. Can I dress up for that?"

"What do you mean, something extra?"

"Well, who's going to want to listen to me talk in my mumu? If there's nothing to look at? If I wear a tight sweater, all I'll have to do is stand up there in front of everybody and smile pretty. No doubt I'll win, then."

He tries to sound appalled. "You mean, you think you'll win for class vice-president because you're, what? Prettier than the other k**s that are running?" He knows her plan, of course, is flawless.

"Definitely! The two girls I'm running against are both field hockey jocks - nice, but kinda plain. And the guy is some chess club fatty. I could just, like, recite the lyrics from 'Circles' from the podium and still win. As long as I'm sure to take nice, long, deep breaths and stand up straight." Her confidence is bordering on arrogance. But that, kind reader, is the cruel reality of high school life. She learns quick.

"Why not just run for president, then, if you're so sure of yourself?"

"Who wants that? That job has actual responsibilities,” she retorts, "and, anyway, Emily's running for president."

"Emily, huh?" He sounds surprised. Emily, though doubtless a smart girl, is not the most socially active of teenagers and certainly doesn't possess the...qualifications...of her friend Traci. "How does she plan on winning?"

"Oh," Traci muses, "she has her ways." She obviously does not want to expand on this any further, and instead works for a slight change of subject. "So, Rich," she asks, "Why is it, why do you think that guys like boobs so much?"

"What? Why? What do mean?" He is a bit taken aback by her bluntness.

"I mean, why is it that, like - the bigger I get, the more I...fill out - the easier things get for me?" He looks over at her to see if she is joking. With eyes closed, her expression is flat.

"Uh, what do you mean 'easier'? Easier in what way?"

"Oh, you know. Like, just the other day, I didn't do so great on a history quiz. So I went in to see my teacher, Mr. Stevens, because I need to keep a higher grade if I still want to move up to the AP class."

"Yeah...and...?"

"Well, I just told him how I really wanted to get into his AP class 'cause I know what a great teacher he is. And I sat up nice and straight in my tight little t-shirt and giggled at all his stupid little jokes. And he said that he'd look over my essay questions and see if he'd reconsider the grade. Next day, he gave it back. I got an A-."

"How do you know that it's-"

"Oh, c'mon...I didn't know what I was talking about in those essays! And he's constantly looking down my shirt in class, everyone knows that. So, now, I sit up front on purpose...betcha I'll be in the AP class by next month."

"That's...kinda creepy. He's an adult, and - your teacher...how old is he?"

"Oh, I dunno, forty-five? But, hey, it happens all the time," she says with a smile, "the only way I even passed Trig last year was because I stayed after school to help Mr. Phillips correct tests. He likes legs, too, so I always wore shorts or a skirt." Through slit eyes again, he looks over at her fine legs, imagining them crossed under a classroom desk, muscular calves shadowed and firm. "And I don't even remember that last time I wrote a lab report."

"Are you one of those girls that-"

"Oh yeah! Choose a smart lab partner in the beginning of the year. A boy. The dorkier the better. They're easy!"

"Hey...I think I was one of those lab partners, once..."

She giggles, and looks over at him to catch his eye. "Yeah, I can see that..."

"Hey! Be nice!" Though joking around easily with her, he is becoming aware of a subtle shift in the balance of power in their relationship, and isn't sure he likes it. She is supposed to be the k**, the little sister's friend, the girl that had a crush on him when she was ten. But he is realizing how confident she’s become in her abilities with boys. And not only boys; she seems to be coming full into the realization that the entire male race could be putty in her hands if she puts her mind to it. He doesn't want her thinking that he’s just Play-Doh himself.

"So, whatever. I mean, it happens all over the place. I've even seen the way my mom always gets my dad to do things. She still does it."

"Yeah, your mom’s hot stuff." She looks over at him quizzically as he says this, gauging whether or not he’s joking. "I mean, for a...lady. She looks like she keeps herself in good shape, for someone her age, I mean."

"Were you checking out my mom?!" she exclaims, incredulous.

"No, I just...well, y'know, I couldn't help but notice, 'cuz she was wearing her bathing suit, her, uh..."

"Her boobs? You couldn't help but look at my mom's boobs?"

"Well, uh, I guess-"

"God! Do you see what I mean? Guys are SO obsessed with breasts!" She sounds more than slightly annoyed. "Why is that, huh? Is it that...I dunno...bigger breasts mean more milk for a baby, would make a woman a better mother? Or is it that guys all just want to be babies again themselves? And big breasts remind them of mommy? They'd be a nice place to curl up? What do you think?"

"Uh, I don't know," he stammers. She could see that she’s making him uncomfortable, "I haven't, uh, really thought about-"

"Yeah, well, tell me: Are you, like, a boob man, a leg man, a butt man...what?"

"Oh...uh, I, uh-"

"You're a boob man, right?"

"Y-yeah, I guess..."

"So, then, what do you think about," she asks as she sits up and stretches her arms over her head, thrusting her chest out provocatively, "when I do this?" His mouth dries up, his eyebrows lift, as he stares at her display. "Or this?" He tries to keep his eyes in his skull as she leans in toward him. Striking a cheesecake pose, she presses her breasts between her arms and coos playfully, seductively. Forming what she knows must be a mind-numbing valley of lush cleavage, she purrs and mews softly, watching him gawk. A young girl playing with a woman's deadly weapons, she finds great pleasure in making him squirm.

To finish proving her point, she slowly pushes back her shoulders, causing her large breasts to blossom, burgeoning forward towards him, flowing through her arms. She turns her head away, pivoting it on her swanlike neck to allow him to stare unabashedly. Smiling devilishly, she hears him emit a low, stifled croak.

"I think," he replies, miraculously finding use of his tongue, "that, ah, I better close my eyes before my head explodes."

Meeting his eyes, she laughs mirthfully, lightening the mood. She had surprised even herself with the boldness of her display. He shakes his head in jest, as if to clear his vision, and notices that she hasn't moved. Her chest still hovers gravidly below the line of their gaze. Her smile becomes crooked, noticing that he hasn't closed his eyes, a smile daring him to look down again. Unblinking, she holds his eyes with hers for a pregnant moment until chuckling again and laying back into her chaise. Satisfied that he seems to have the proper respect for her body, she lets him off the hook and falls silent.

They sunbathe quietly for a bit, until Traci's mother appears with dessert. He is determined not to look anywhere near the vicinity of the woman’s chest, at least not while Traci could catch him. "Two bowls of ice cream," she chirps, "one for each of you. Rich, I gave you two scoops."

"Thanks, Mrs. Graham."

"Enjoy the sun," she quips, laying the bowls on the table and taking away lunch’s' detritus. As he turns to take his, Traci has already started eating. He looks at his bowl - one scoop of ice cream. He looks over at her. Sliding a heaping spoonful into her mouth, she grins broadly, her eyes glittering mischievously over her bowl - with two scoops. He shakes his head, smiling, and chuckles as he digs into his own dessert. She giggles herself, and takes another full spoonful. "What am I going to do with you?" he asks, making her laugh more freely.

He is at the pool several hours, chatting pleasantly with her, watching her get up every once in a while to cool off with a dip in the pool. What a vision it is, watching her dip under the water and then arise, water flowing over her flawless, lightly bronzed skin. Heaven is the few seconds between her breaking the surface, head back to straighten her hair, and the moment she opens her eyes. And watching her climb the steps out of the pool is like (forgive the hyperbole; our hero is not accustomed to such visions) watching the birth of a young goddess.

Eventually the day wears on, the sun a bit low in the September afternoon sky, and he decides it is time to make his exit. She seems honestly disappointed, telling him how much she enjoyed having him over. He explains his plans for the evening, that he has to get back home, straighten up the house and get ready for a night out with Mark and an old buddy who's passing through town with his new girlfriend. "But hey," he chirps as he's packing up, pretending as if the idea just crossed his mind, "I'm having a party next weekend. Should be a good crowd. Why don't you and Emily come on over?" She agrees noncommittally as she stands, donning her sweatshirt once again, zipping it up the front. They walk together out front to his car, waving goodbye as he pulls away.

His evening out at the few local bars around town with his friends is fun, though he spends much of the time trying to figure out if Mark has any idea that he's been spending time with Traci. Nothing is said, but Rich gets the feeling that Mark is being a little more quiet than usual around him, trying to avoid an uncomfortable topic. They do, however, discuss plans for next Saturday's party for quite a while before Rich tires out and heads home around midnight, a little earlier than usual.

The coming week finds Rich excited about the party less and less. Since Saturday night he's been feeling drained, unmotivated for most everything. It’s his group of friends, all of whom still seemed to live with their parents, who convinced him to have the party in the first place anyway. The only thing he's really looking forward to, he's embarrassed to admit, is seeing Traci there. He hopes she'll come, hopes that it'll be a big enough party to impress her.

On that front, he isn't disappointed. Saturday night brings a bigger crowd than he'd expected; the house fills quickly. It's amazing, he thinks, how many people will come out of the woodwork in a little town when word gets out on a few kegs. He's so busy, in fact, playing host, greeting old friends and acquaintances, meeting new people, that he doesn't get to do much serious drinking himself. He is, however, as the night wears on, more and more aware of his growing disappointment that the girls haven't yet shown up.

Finally, around eleven-thirty, he spots Emily across the room, amongst a group of high school k**s he doesn't recognize. Must be friends she brought along...whatever. I just hope they don't do anything stupid, he thinks, not wanting to be caught feeding beer to a bunch of u******e drinkers. He strains his neck, peering over the crowd, to look more closely. Nope. Traci is not with them. He is caught by surprise, then, when he turns around and finds himself almost bumping right into her; she has found him herself.

She's giggly, overly talkative, and openly flirty. Obviously she's been drinking before showing up at the party. Her breath smells of peppermint schnapps. Her hand on his arm, she stands a little too close to him. He's nervous, concerned that others will notice their rapport. She wants a tour of the house, she says, asks specifically to see his bedroom when they approach the hallway. He balks, pointing to his room down the hall, and steers her back to the crowd. He doesn't want to be seen spending too much time with her, but on the other hand finds himself getting protective when he notices other guys watching her walk by, feeling jealous when asked "wow...who's that?"

She does look good tonight, he admits. She is dressed a bit more conservatively than he’s seen her recently, in another pair of low-rider jeans and a tight red t-shirt with maroon, mid-length sleeves. Kind of styled like those old concert shirts. Hard to hide the body beneath, however. Her hair is straight, her make-up subtle. Once again he finds himself checking out the hips poured into those tight, faded jeans, wishing he was maybe five years younger, or she five years older, so he wouldn't feel so apprehensive about lusting after her. She catches him looking at her several times throughout the party; he notices her watching him also. Their eyes meet frequently across the crowd; they each smile and go back to their conversations.

Obviously enjoying herself, she's drinking quite a bit, he notices. Every time he turns around it seems there's a different guy handing her a new wine cooler or plastic cup or bottle of something-or-other. She and Emily are still around, in fact, into the early morning, hanging around with the night-owls and friends of his planning to crash for the night at the house. The high school crowd, thankfully, has gone. He realizes, finally, that most of these remaining people may be up all night, huddled around their drinking games. He, however, can't seem to keep his eyes open and asks Mark - finishing up a game of quarters - to keep a watch on things so he can go to bed. Mark agrees, though he plans on taking off soon himself. "That's fine," Rich says, "I'm beat...goodnight."

He is aware of Traci's eyes on him as he leaves the room and heads off down the hall to his room. Closing the door, shutting off the light, he is quickly out of his jeans and under the covers. With a deep breath, he closes his eyes and waits. As he half expects, there is soon a knock on his door. His heartbeat quickens.

"Hello?" her voice calls in quietly as the door cracks open, "Rich?"

"Yeah?" he answers, "Traci?" He acts surprised, feigning half-sleep.

"I just came to say goodbye. Can I come in?"

"Sure," he answers, as she's already slipped through the doorway, "come on in."



She walks into the moonlit room, closing the door behind her. His heart flutters, he moves to sit up on the bed. "No," she insists, putting two fingers on his chest, "don't get up." She gently pushes him back down onto the bed and sits next to him on the mattress, to his right. His heartbeat quickens. "So," she says, peering down at him over the swells of her chest, "that was a really great party. I had a lot of fun."

Though his view is incredible, gazing up at her pretty face, her wide eyes, the curves of her hips and waist so close, he finds himself embarrassed to be staring up at the undersides of her plump, round breasts. Stop it, he thinks, she's just a k**. "Good," he replies, half turning modestly away, onto his left side, "I'm glad you liked it. Emily still here?"

"Yeah," she responds, reclining her weight on the mattress next to him, coming in close, "Mark is going to drive us home." He can feel her approach behind him, propped up on her left elbow, watching him.

"He's been drinking...is he okay to drive?" He asks.

""Yeah, I think he's fine," she replies, as she brushes a lock of his hair away from his right ear and leans in closer. His loins tighten in response as her voice appears, so close to his ear. He knows he should stop her, send her away, but he cannot. It all feels so good. "Thank you for being so concerned," she whispers, her voice now a breathy seduction, "you're always so nice." She hears him moan, almost inaudibly, and feels his hips shift next to her. In his boxers, his erection springs to life. God, man, this is bad.

She knows she's struck a nerve, that this feels good to him. Tipsy, her inhibitions relaxed, she breathes, exhaling into his ear a few times, feeling him try not to squirm. She's turning him on, she knows. "But, y'know," she continues softly, "I'd rather stay here." Her lips are closer now, almost kissing his ear. He