Jessie 8217 s First Sandwich
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Jessie And The TornadoChapter 3 free porn video
Two months earlier
On a Tuesday in March, I began doing some work on the outside. There were three very large flower beds in the front yard that had become completely overgrown and filled with weeds, and one warm day in mid-March I put on a pair of gloves and started pulling all the weeds out.
I was wearing an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, along with an old pair of sneakers.
I also had on my customary “USMC” cap I almost always wore if I wasn’t working.
One of the things I was quickly learning in Georgia was that the weather was extremely changeable.
On Mar. 5, it had been 64 degrees and people were wearing short sleeve shirts and shorts.
Two days later, we had six inches of snow.
Six days after that, it was 67. So you had to take advantage of the nice days.
I was learning the truthfulness of a statement I’d heard as soon as I moved to Georgia: “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a little bit and it will change!”
I had nearly finished the second of three flower beds when I heard someone yell “Look Out!”
Instinctively, I jumped up and swung my head toward the voice.
Just in time for something to hit me right in my temple and send me crashing, face first, into the now de-weeded flower bed. I went in one direction and my cap went in another.
I wasn’t actually knocked out, but I was definitely stunned.
Whatever it was that had hit me, it had hit me HARD! It probably didn’t help that after kneeling for so long I was also a little dizzy when I jumped up so quickly.
I just lay there for a few seconds, until I felt someone grab my shoulder and heard a female voice say, “Are you alright? Are you alright?”
I pushed myself up some, spit out the mouthful of dirt I had, then rolled over, flat on my back.
Suddenly, I was just inches away from a pair of breasts.
Very nice, very full female breasts.
The female breasts were attached to a female, naturally, who was on her hands and knees, hovering over me.
She was wearing a low cut t-shirt that was probably a couple of sizes too large for her.
From the position she was in, bent over, just in front of my face, I had an eyeful.
An incredible eyeful.
“Are you alright?” I heard her again ask.
I couldn’t stop staring.
“Well I can see your eyes are alright,” she finally quipped, “how about the rest of you?”
I could feel my face turn red with embarrassment, but I finally managed to tear my eyes away from the delightful display.
“What ... what happened? And who are you?” I finally asked.
A huge smile transformed her face.
When she was asking if I was alright, she was very serious.
My initial impression was tomboyish, cute in an athletic sort of way, and ... well more attractive than outright pretty.
Okay, that might be a little harsh.
Sort of pretty, but not necessarily what you would call beautiful.
Her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup.
Her smile changed all that.
When she smiled, even her blue eyes smiled with her.
When she smiled, she suddenly became very pretty.
Again, not really beautiful, but very, very pretty.
This mystery woman had the most incredible, intense blue eyes I think I had ever seen.
She also had a very faint white line along one eyebrow, and I could tell that at some point her nose had been broken since it was just a little crooked.
As I was to find out much, much later, both the faint white line on her eyebrow and the broken nose came from playing soccer.
She had actually gotten four stiches in her eyebrow after taking a soccer ball directly in her face.
Not only that, but she refused to come out of the game even though her nose was broken and blood was pouring from the split eyebrow and broken nose.
“Well, my name is Jessica,” she said, “but my friends call me Jessie.
“We actually met – for about five minutes – the day you moved into this house.”
I vaguely remembered, but to tell you the truth I was so busy that day I could have probably met the Queen of England and not remembered any details.
“My parents own the house next door, and I was just leaving to go back to the University of Georgia that day.”
I remembered a little more.
Winston and Gloria Johansson owned the two-story house next door to mine, and I did, sort of, remember meeting their daughter that day. To tell you the truth, though, I could not have told you her name, or even described her.
“Okay, Jessica (I was deliberately using Jessica, since she said her friends called her Jessie), what happened? All I remember is something hit me in the head.”
Now it was her turn to flush.
“Well, that was my fault. I’m on the soccer team at the University of Georgia, and I was demonstrating some kicks to some of the younger kids in the neighborhood.
“I’m afraid I kicked one ball a lot harder than I meant to, and it hit you and knocked you out,” she stated.
“It didn’t knock me out...”
“Did too,” she argued.
“No, it did not...” I tried to say.
“Yes, it did! Or do you always fall face first into flower beds?”
“Look, Jessica...”
“My friends called me Jessie!”
“Look, Jessica...”
Her lips curled down, her eyes developed a helpless puppy dog look and her shoulders slumped.
“Jessie,” I grudgingly said, and again her entire appearance transformed as a smile lit up her face, “it just stunned me for a few seconds. It didn’t knock me out.”
“If it didn’t knock you out, then can you explain why you started saying, “Mommy, Mommy,’ when you came to?”
I was too stunned to say anything in response to that!
“Got you!” she cried out, then started laughing.
Despite myself, I had to join her in laughing.
“Well, this has been an interesting break, but now I really need to get back to work,” I said.
“Since I am responsible for delaying your work by knocking you out (I rolled my eyes at her, she smirked), I think it’s only fair if I help,” she said.
“Jessica (helpless puppy dog look) ... Jessie (big smile) thanks, but that’s really not necessary,” I said.
“No, I insist,” she declared, “I am not leaving until I have helped you with the other flower bed.”
I just shook my head.
Women!
I stood up, and she raised her hand with an inquiring look on her face.
I sighed ... and stuck out my hand to assist her in getting up.
My God! She was almost as tall as I was!
As I have mentioned, I am just under six feet tall, and Jessica had to be at least 5 foot, ten, maybe eleven inches tall.
Jessica bent over in front of me to pick up my cap and ... well I started staring again.
She was wearing an extremely short pair of shorts that barely covered the upward curve where her butt and thighs converged.
And that was while she was standing up!
With her now bent over, the shorts pulled up into her crotch and I could see more than a little of her obviously firm butt cheeks.
Before she straightened up to hand me my cap, Jessica looked back at me and caught me staring at her butt.
“Yeah, the eyes are definitely okay,” she joked.
I blushed again.
She led the way to the third (and largest) flower bed and I couldn’t help it.
I continued to stare.
I think Jessica had just about the most muscular legs I had ever seen on a woman – topped by what looked like a beautiful, very firm butt.
She walked with the most amazing hip action, and her legs rippled with muscles.
She walked with an easy grace that was incredible.
Halfway to the flower bed Jessica glanced back, and again caught me looking at her legs and butt.
And again made a comment about my eyes.
I blushed for at least the third time in the last few minutes.
This was anything but the shy, retiring type of women I seemed to usually encounter.
And, even more disturbing to me, anything but the petite women I usually found myself attracted to ... and I had to admit (just to myself) that I was finding myself being attracted to her.
Jessica (okay, Jessie) probably had to weigh at least 140 pounds, maybe more.
And not an ounce of fat.
Again, watching her walk was like watching a panther glide across the ground. You could sense the immense power in those legs.
Once we reached the flower bed we both dropped down and started pulling out weeds.
Jessie seemed to be constantly doing one of two things while talking non-stop.
And I mean absolutely NON-STOP!
Either she was directly across from me, facing me on her hands and knees, or she would move to one side with her butt pointing more or less in my general direction.
When she was directly across from me, I had an incredible view down her loose t-shirt. I think I could probably have seen her belly button if her breasts weren’t swaying back and forth.
When she was to the side, the shorts would pull up and I kept getting glimpses of her beautiful butt.
In either case, I could not stop staring.
And she kept glancing at me and catching me staring.
And kept making little comments about how my eyes seemed to be working perfectly.
“If you want to see more, just let me know,” she quipped at one point.
I blushed, she laughed.
When we finally finished pulling the weeds, we both stood up.
“I know you are wondering, so it is 36-29-34 and I wear a “C” cup,” she said.
I blushed again and she laughed.
I don’t think I have ever met a more ... exasperating woman in my life.
“By the way,” she added, “I am 22.”
Then with a big grin, “You are what? 45? 50?”
I was 29, and would turn 30 in a few months.
A fact I quickly informed her of, then threatened to turn her over my knee and give her a spanking for insulting her “elders AND betters!”
“Oh, spanking!” she purred, “I’ve never tried that but I read 50 Shades of Gray.”
I rolled my eyes at her again and she smirked.
“I guess you just look older while lying face first in a flower bed ... after being knocked unconscious!”
I rolled my eyes again and shook my head.
This was absolutely the most exasperating woman I have ever met.
“So ... do you have any plans for us for the rest of the day?” she asked with a big beautiful smile.
Jessie had the most beautiful lips and they looked so ... soft ... and ... tender ... and ... kissable... (stop it, stop it and don’t even think about it!).
For some reason I had an almost irresistible urge to just softly rub my thumb along her eyebrow, to lightly touch that faint white line, then slowly move my hand down along the side of her face to her waiting lips.
I could almost feel her lips against my fingers as I imagined caressing her upper lip with my thumb.
In my imagination I saw her open her mouth, take my thumb inside and start gently sucking on my finger... (STOP IT, STOP IT AND DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!)
I was sweating a lot more than the day actually called for, and for once I was very happy to have my weird fire department schedule!
It was now about 4:30 pm, and I would begin my 24-hour shift at 6 pm.
“Jessica (puppy dog look) ... Jessie (big smile), I have to get ready to go to work.”
Disappointment etched her face, “Oh, my parents told me ... you work 24 hours, and then you are off for 48?”
I nodded, “Normally, but sometimes people will ask me to work for them, to cover their shift or part of their shift, so sometimes I might work for 36 hours, or 48 hours.”
“Well, I am on spring break from UGA, so I’ll be here for the rest of the week,” she said.
“I am sure we’ll be seeing MORE of each other,” she smirked, emphasizing the word “more.”
I blushed again and she laughed.
Then, totally unexpected, Jessie walked up to me and put her arms around me and gave me a very hard hug.
I could feel her firm breasts pushing against my chest.
“It was very nice meeting you, I’m just sorry it started with my knocking you out,” she said.
“You DIDN’T knock me out,” I tried to say.
“Sure, you just keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better,” she said.
I rolled my eyes!
Although my arms had been at my side the entire time, Jessie was still hugging me.
I could really feel her breasts pressing up against me.
Hesitantly, shyly almost, Jessie brushed her lips against mine just for a fraction of a second and this time she was the one who blushed.
Then she quickly turned away, but not before I saw some tears in her eyes, and Jessie started walking back to her house.
I knew I should have turned away also, but I stood rooted to the spot, watching the incredible sway of her hips as she walked back home.
Several times she would glance over her shoulder at me and smirk, so she knew I was watching her incredible legs and butt.
Even after she went inside her parent’s house I stood rooted to my spot, staring at her front door.
And kept thinking about a pair of beautiful blue eyes, soft, soft, tender lips, a slightly crooked nose and that little white line in her eyebrow...
I’m not sure just how long I stood there before I literally shook myself almost like a dog shedding water.
I slowly walked inside my house, but kept glancing back over to Jessie’s, I mean her parent’s house.
I don’t really remember getting ready for work.
I don’t remember taking a shower.
Don’t remember putting on my uniform.
And don’t remember driving to work.
When I found myself in front of the fire station, I reached up and felt my chin and knew I had shaved, so I can only assume I must have showered as well.
All I can really remember was that incredible feeling for that tiny little split second when her lips met my mine, before she turned away and walked to her house.
And the feel of her firm, full breasts against my chest.
After I arrived at the fire station for the beginning of my shift, I started calling the people scheduled to work the next day, volunteering to work their shift if they wanted off, and arranging for someone to cover my next scheduled shift.
I actually ended up working two consecutive 24-hour shifts.
At the end of that, I drove to Wal-Mart (I was afraid to return home), bought some clothes and drove to Savannah for three days where I stayed at a Bed and Breakfast.
And managed to convince myself that what I thought I had been feeling really wasn’t anything ... wasn’t anything at all.
I mean, it couldn’t have meant anything, could it?
I was still grieving for my beautiful Debs.
Still missing her so much that some nights I cried myself to sleep, or some mornings I would get up and my pillow would be wet where I had been crying while sleeping.
At the end of the three days in Savannah (I had now been gone for five days), I finally returned home, very, very early on Monday morning.
There was a letter taped to my front door.
I was almost afraid to open it.
Dear Sam,I owe you several apologies.
First, I want to apologize for the way I acted.
Believe me, I am never that forward when meeting someone for the first time.
In fact, most of my friends always complain that I am usually a wall-flower, and they have to force me to talk to guys.
Can I claim that I was a victim of heat-stroke?
I know you are an EMT and have a lot of medical training, so is that a valid defense?
That I had gotten too hot playing soccer with the neighborhood kids, and was not in full control of all my faculties?
Second, I want to apologize for knocking you out. (Here, I rolled my eyes.)
And stop rolling your eyes at me. (I laughed.)
There, I like your laugh much better.
At the end of the letter is my email address at UGA.
I sincerely hope that you will let me know that you accept my apology for the way I acted.
I understand if you can’t accept my apology for knocking you out. (I rolled my eyes again.)
And stop rolling your eyes at me.If it makes you feel more comfortable, you can call me Jessica.
Your (I hope) new friend,
Jessie
P.S. I hope your eyes are still okay! And stop rolling your eyes at me!
I must have read the letter a dozen times.
Finally, I went inside my house, fired up my computer and tried to compose a response.
A friend was a concept I understood.
A friend was something I could deal with.
To tell you the truth, I had had very few female friends over the years.
Really, just Debs, but I could handle being friends with this slightly, or maybe more than just slightly wacko woman.
I began the letter, “Jessica,” backspaced over that, wrote “Jessie,” backspaced over that, wrote “Jessica,” backspaced and finally wrote, “Miss Johansson.”
I finally decided to hell with that, and wrote all three.
Dear Miss Johansson (Jessica) (Jessie)First, I do accept your apology for the way you acted, although I am not sure if your actions can be fully blamed on something as simple as heat-stroke.
It may have been a combination of several factors.
Yes, you were hot.
Yes, you were running a lot.
But I couldn’t help also noticing that you are a blonde, so that – in and of itself – may explain everything. (And stop rolling your eyes at ME.)
Add to that the fact that you are a student at the University of Georgia and I have no choice but to accept your apology for the way you acted, since everyone knows UGA students have trouble behaving themselves in normal situations.
Second, I CAN NOT and DO NOT accept your apology for knocking me out, since at no time did I lose consciousness.
It would take a lot more than a weakly kicked soccer ball to knock me out.
In fact, last week I helped deliver a baby.
After the baby was born, he kicked me as I was holding him.
That kick had more impact than your feeble soccer kick.
The parents actually named him Samuel, after me!
Your (very old) maybe new friend,
Sam
I read, re-read, re-re-read, re-re-re-read and re-re-re-re-read my letter before finally hitting send.
It couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes before my e-mail program “pinged,” indicating I had a new e-mail.
Dear Mr. Walker (not just very old, but ancient) (Sam),“weakly kicked soccer ball”???????
“feeble soccer kick”???????
“blonde” REALLY????? “blonde” SERIOUSLY??????
But thank you for your kind words about how “hot” I looked. (Yes, I am smirking, but it is nice to know that your eyes are still working.)
The only thing that is saving you now is that, because of your insipid e-mail, if I don’t leave now I will be late for a class, and I HATE being late for anything.
But after I get out of the class, and after soccer practice, I will respond to your highly insulting, juvenile response.
Oh, I can’t BELIEVE you are insulting the University of Georgia!!!!
You are going to find out that Bulldogs BITE – hard!
Count on it, Oh Ancient One!
Your young and incredibly HOT friend,
Jessie
P.S. Oh, I almost forgot. After soccer practice I have promised I would help one of my teammates move to a new apartment so it will probably be very late before I get back to my dorm.
I hit respond, and wrote a few more words:
Dear Miss Johansson,“if I don’t leave now, I will be late for a class”????
Time management, Miss Johansson, separates kids from adults.
And how can I be both ancient and juvenile at the same time??
Your not ancient, but just “old” friend,
Sam
P.S. Hope your friend is not another blonde, because if she is then halfway through the move the two of you might forget which apartment she is moving into, and which one she is vacating.
Almost immediately, I received a response:
Dear Methuselah,Up Yours!
Jessie
P.S. Jackass!
I laughed out loud, and then closed down the computer.
I spent the rest of the day working outside. First I went to a local garden center, explained about the three weed-infested flower beds, and bought some weed killer, then stopped at a rental place and rented a garden tiller.
I sprayed the weed killer in the flower beds, then plowed everything up, followed by another application of weed killer.
The guy at the garden center explained that after about two or three weeks, I would be able to start planting flowers. By then the weed killer would no longer be effective, but would have killed everything already in the flower beds.
I returned the tiller, then stopped at a local restaurant and ate.
During the entire day, I kept thinking about Jessie’s last e-mail and would sometimes laugh out loud remembering how she called me “Methuselah,” then wrote, “Up Yours!”
Then I would remember her face with the faint white line across her eyebrow, and how full and soft her lips looked... . (stop it, stop it, don’t even think about it!).
By then it was early evening so I returned home and checked my e-mail.
Even though Jessie said it would probably be very late before she got back to her dorm, I was still vaguely disappointed there were no e-mails.
I unpacked from my trip, started washing clothes and getting ready to go back to work the next day.
By the time I went to bed that night, there was still no e-mail from Jessie.
The next morning, however, I did have the promised response.
Dear Mr. Walker, Oh Ancient One (Sam)Okay, I will accept your hypothesis (for the moment) that you aren’t THAT old.
But someone did tell me you are old enough that you actually know which came first, the chicken or the egg! Is that true? And which was it?
Someone named a baby after you? Must have been really homely! (Grinning)
And I hoped he kicked you where it counted.
By the way, after he kicked you, did you fall face first into a flower bed and wake up (much later) with a mouth full of dirt and crying for your “Mommy”!!! (Evil grin)
You are seriously going to try to use the pathetic “blonde” excuse to explain my behavior?? Really, I expected something more from someone of your advanced age.
Now, as to your comment about “weakly kicked soccer ball,” and “feeble soccer kick,” I present this as a standing challenge.
I will play against you, one-on-one, anywhere, anytime, anyplace (your choice) in a game of soccer.
You can be the goalie, and I will let you see first-hand just how “weakly” and “feebly” I can kick a soccer ball.
Just be sure to bring your medical kit BECAUSE YOU WILL NEED IT after I start bouncing soccer balls off your head, and any other part of your anatomy I choose!
I do hope your health insurance is fully paid up.
I will be eager to hear your excuse as to why you will duck my challenge, because I know you aren’t really man enough to accept!
Again, I want to thank you for your kind comments about how “hot” I am.
At least I know that you aren’t so old that you have completely forgotten what a female body looks like.
Your friend,
Jessie
P.S.: Oh, I did a search on the Internet to find out what the “USMC” meant on your cap. The only thing I could find was “Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children.” Seems very fitting for you.
I knew Jessie was probably already in class, but I went ahead and answered anyway.
Dear Miss Johansson, Oh Ye Misguided Young One, Jessie,Question #1: What do you call it when a blonde dyes her hair brunette?
I have been sworn to secrecy, thus cannot reveal which came first, the chicken or the egg.
Actually, it was the cutest baby you have ever seen.
He kicked me in the chest.
I will just ignore your ridiculous comments about falling face first into a flower bed and crying for my Mommy. Really, that is beneath you – or at least it should be. But then again, you attend the University of Georgia.
I hope you do realize that there is, in fact, no such thing as a “blonde joke?” They are all documented case histories.
And I am MORE than happy to accept your challenge to a game of one-on-one soccer.
First, however, I must say I am becoming really concerned about the youth of today, and their apparent lack of a proper education at our so-called institutions of higher learning. Actually, does UGA qualify for that sobriquet?
And I will stop typing for a few minutes while you look that word up.
...
Are you back yet, after looking it up? Or is Georgia still using coloring books for dictionaries? What was it that former Florida head football Coach Steve Spurrier said after hearing about a fire at the main library at UGA several years ago: “The real tragedy is that some of the books hadn’t been colored in yet?”
...
Well, I can’t wait any longer.
One thing you should realize is – and now seems to be a perfect opportunity to instruct you – that old age and trickery will ALWAYS overcome youth and skill.
So, I get to choose “anywhere, anytime, anyplace?”
Okay, I am a member of the local YMCA, so I choose the next Saturday you are home, at High Noon (just like in the old cowboy movies). The place will be the Olympic-size swimming pool at the “Y.”
My goal will be the shallow end, and you can kick from the deep end of the pool, in about six or eight feet of water.
Old age, and trickery, Miss Johansson, ALWAYS overcomes youth and skill.
And yes, I remember what a female body looks like! Do you know anyone who has a nice one?
Your friend,
Sam
P.S.: Answer to Question #1: It is called artificial intelligence.
P.P.S.: USMC, Miss Johansson, is the last, best hope for America. It stands for United States Marine Corps, or a group of people who write a blank check to their country that says, “For any amount, up to and including my life.” Although I will admit, at times, if you have ever been around any Marines, “Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children” does have some relevancy.
By the time I left for work I still had not heard from Jessie, and then I was so busy dealing with one emergency after another, plus trying to get some sleep at the fire station, that it was the next morning before I had a chance to check my mail.
Wow!
Dear Mr. Senile Old Man,You are the most arrogant, opinionated, chauvinistic, exasperating man I have ever met in my life!
Your e-mail is living proof that one of the perks of being OLD is that your supply of brain cells is finally down to a manageable size.
Notice that I said your supply of brain cells is finally down to a manageable size, NOT that you were doing a good job of managing them.
Yes, we BOTH know someone who has a female body.
A very NICE female body.
Based on how your eyes were nearly bugging out of your head a little more than a week ago from ogling me, it is now obvious that the blood flow has fled your brain and settled elsewhere.
Your invitation to play soccer in the swimming pool is nothing more than a blatant attempt to get me into a bikini!
Well I ACCEPT your challenge, and intend to wear one of my most revealing bikinis.
Chew on THAT thought for a while ... oh, do you actually have any teeth left to chew with??
If you have enough blood supply left in your limited brain to continue to read this, then I will accept the challenge, based on one proviso.
Oh, I forgot that you were a Marine.
Perhaps you should ask one of the neighborhood fifth-graders what that word means.
I have been told that only rarely do Marines or former Marines understand words with more than three or four letters.
In fact, at UGA, AFTER we finish coloring in the coloring books, we usually send them to the Marine Corps since everyone knows Marines can’t color within the lines, and usually can’t be trusted with crayons. They tend to stick the crayons in their noses and ears, and other disgusting places.
The one proviso (assuming you have now learned what that word means) is that after I bounce a few dozen soccer balls off your head, YOU have to take ME to MY restaurant of choice.
Assuming you have enough blood left in your pea size brain to make a choice, do you accept?
I will probably be returning home the last weekend in April.
Your friend,
Jessie
P.S.: Earlier today one of my friends told me that one of the nicknames for Marines was ... I don’t remember exactly (you know how much trouble blondes have remembering things) ... Leatherbrain, or Leatherhead or maybe Leatherface? I know it was Leather-something! So far, based on some of your idiotic comments, I would have to think Leatherbrain.
P.P.S.: I do hope you realize that I have nothing but respect for Marines, and the sacrifices they make for our country. Thank you Sam, for serving your country.
P.P.P.S.: How was the Marine killed while drinking milk? The cow fell on him.
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