Ron Taylor
High school hot pants
CHAPTER ONE
"It really isn't fair, you know," Jill said, wiping her leg dry. "I mean, Mom doesn't enjoy it. She's more or less told me that, and whenever Daddy starts getting over friendly, she comes up with a headache. Sometimes I can even hear them at night. And she never moans and whimpers and cries aloud with the ecstatic joy of it, the way ladies do in books and movies. But I know for a fact that Daddy makes her do it two or three times a week, at least. And here we are. I want to do it, and you want to do it, and we can't. If it wasn't so pathetic, it'd be funny… How does this look?"
She stood up and did a slow turnaround for me in her new bikini. The effect was dynamite. I really envied her that suit, not to mention parents who'd let her buy it in the first place. Strings and patches – that's ail it was, and the strings were stretched tight across the smooth reaches of bare skin between patches. Jill's nipples were primly covered, but not the rounded curves of her boobs, and the fabric was clingy enough to let her nipples stand out visibly against the taut material. Under it, I knew, she was creamy, tanning flesh with delicate blue veins rimming her pale brown nips. Her belly was long and flat, the navel puckered and demure; below that stretched the bottom half of her new suit – what there was of it.
In the back, the bikini was cut low enough to show off the upper third of Jill's ass crack, and in front – well, if she took a deep breath and made her tummy suck in just a little bit, everyone on the beach would know by the slippage that her beaver was just as fluffy auburn as the hair on her head. Long legs below, slim and tight and young, not to mention freshly shaven because I'd made a little joke about them just a few minutes ago.
"It looks good," I said, swallowing my jealousy, "but you kinda forgot something." I pointed to her crotch. On either side of the narrow strip of cloth which ran between Jill's thighs and protected her cunt from undeserving eyes, there were bits of that auburn beaver poking out – and more whenever she moved. Jill had a full bush, and the bikini pants were too skimpy by far to contain all of it.
"Oh, shit!" Jill griped, sitting down. She eyed the hairy exposure. "It really looks gross, doesn't it?" I didn't think so. I thought it was cute. But I knew what she meant. She picked up scissors from her vanity and started to snip away at the offending hairs.
"You'd better let me," I volunteered, slipping off the bed and onto my knees beside her. Jill surrendered the scissors, then untied her bikini pants to give me better access.
I pulled softly at the clumps of tufted fuzz, dipping where it seemed necessary. She felt like spun silk to my fingers and I had a hard time taking my eyes off the center of her auburn delta, where a very ripe, very pink ravine peeked vertically through the curls. Once upon a time I'd have touched her there. I'd have tickled her gash with my index finger, tracing up and down the puffy outer works until the tight space between them was just beginning to dew over with a coating of mist, and then I'd have started to work my way inside while she chewed on her lip and squeezed her boobs and patted my head once in a while, and I'd hear her purr and make sudden little groans that could have been anguish or joy-groans that made a matching dewy moisture spring out of my own depths and coat the lips of the love trap I carried between my thighs.
And in another moment Jill would have her hand in my panties, petting me as I petted and played with her. But where I was always so soft and gentle, she was usually frantic and frenzied, and she'd have her middle finger jammed up me before I'd even finished the preliminaries on her clit. As if it mattered. Because when she thrust up me, I'd go all glassy-eyed and round-mouthed, and I'd giggle, and then I'd start giving her pussy bloody hell. Once upon a time.
Jill is Jillian Cynthia Pettit, which I think is a beautiful name. She's my best – just about my only – friend. For the record, I'm Diana Dawn Sayers, Didi for short, and we've been tight since fourth grade, when we got into a hair-pulling, kicking, biting fight about something neither of us can recall, exactly. While we were waiting for the principal to give us a reprimand, we started chatting and found out that we had the same birthday. It was incredible. I'd never met anyone born the same day, same year as I, and neither had Jill. From that time forward, we were inseparable. Together we set out to discover life.
We did discover a lot together. All the usual growing-up things. I found a lost joint on the school bus and we shared it in the girls' toilet that day. It wasn't as much fun as the gin that Jill was able to sneak out of her daddy's liquor cabinet. We had brief acne scares which fizzled out, and we both got our periods and started blossoming body-wise in sixth grade, and once we didn't speak for two or three days because we both had crushes on the same boy at school, only it turned out he didn't like either of us.