Ron Taylor: High school hot pants

For one thing, neither of us was exactly a raving beauty, face-wise. Nothing gross or ugly, see, but they weren't asking me or Jill to do magazine covers, either. Jill's features are sharply-defined; if she does her makeup just right, it's a striking effect, but I was about the only one who ever noticed. As for me, my face was the last refuge of my baby fat, and only lately had the puffy outlines begun to take shape. Maybe by the time I was twenty-five or so… But nobody except my parents thought I was cute.

That was unfortunate, because Jill and I were very normal for our age, and we thought about boys most of the time. Occasionally we had dates, and we'd both been kissed and felt. But nothing more than kissing and feeling. We were both interested – very interested – but very afraid, too. What if we got pregnant? What if we got caught? I suppose every girl goes through that whole routine of doubt and dread before she finally says "To hell with the consequences!" and ties it on with some hard-tooled young stud. Well, we hadn't gotten to that point yet.

Partly because we didn't get too many chances. Jill's parents and mine weren't averse to our having dates with guys, but there weren't many guys. We're both very tall – almost flve eight barefooted, so you can imagine how we look with shoes on – and guys our age seem afraid of our height. It isn't fair, like Jill said. If the right guy asked me to do it with him, I'd probably weep with joy and pull down my panties, asking him to be very gentle. But so far I finished trimming Jill's fur with the scissors, and her pubic triangle looked a bit more like a triangle. She pulled the bikini panties into place. "There," I said. "Now you won't get arrested for obscene hair showing on the beach."

Jill's long legs flashed as she strutted across the bedroom. I knew what she was thinking. Her body was really getting there, with plump, round tits and a high, jiggly ass. If them were guys at the beach, they'd be noticing her for damn sure.

"It's too damned bad your parents won't let you go with us," Jill observed, lifting the curtain aside and peering down from her window. "I feel awful about going off to the beach and leaving ya here alone."

"Not half as bad as I feel," I agreed, going to join her. I looked down, toward the backyard pool and patio, and my heart did a little fandango behind my left breast. Jill's brother was down there lifting weights beside the pool, and I could feel my saliva's flow increase fantastically.

Remember what I said about the right guy a little bit ago? Well, maybe it was only a teenaged crush – maybe it was just the kind of infatuation you get when you're young and susceptible – but as far as I was concerned, Greg Pettit was Mr. Right, with a capital R. Everything. He's tall and he's built, with sunburnt hair and a Pearl Drops smile and the bluest eyes a boy ever had. When Jill and I were much younger, it was great pretending that Greg was my big brother as well as hers, but the last couple of years he's seemed so much more.

As if he noticed, he's going to college this fall, and most of the time he keeps on treating us like the little kids we used to be. He's nice, and he always has a smile for me, but I can tell that as far as he's concerned, I'm just his sister's playmate. Last spring I began to get these really hot urges for him, if you know what I mean. I'd lie in bed with the lights out, and I'd see his face gleaming in the darkness, brightening the whole room with his desire for me. And I'd shiver and shake under the covers, positive that any day now he'd look at me in real life and see the hungry, yearning woman hidden inside my ripening teenaged body. And he'd know. His arms would enfold me, he'd bathe my face with his eager burning kisses, my breasts would harden – not to mention his pecker! – where our bodies rubbed and pressed together, and he'd lay me down upon a bed of silk where I might surrender to him the pleasure of my virginity.

Dream on, Didi! He didn't even think of me as a girl, I was positive, let alone as an available, willing girl. And how could I settle for the kind of nerds who were available to me? It was like craving meat, but eating a Big Mac.

"Isn't he beautiful?" I asked Jill, heart throbbing in my throat. Oh, he was! He did his exercises while we watched from above, and if I moved my legs just the pressure on my pussy would send me bubbling into a cream like you wouldn't believe.

Jill shrugged. "I wish he was Elton John."

"Why?"

"Because I can ball Elton John. He isn't my big brother."

Greg was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of very snug, form-fitting trunks. He had the best ass I've ever seen on a guy, and the hunks clung to it like a layer of green skin. And when he turned around to re-weight his barbells, I could see that the trunks fit him just as closely in front. The shielded, but definitely revealed outline of his cock made me ache. It looked like a snake inside his pants, and I wished that it were inside mine instead. I've touched guys' dicks – once I even rubbed a boy off, though he didn't like it out of his pants; I just used my hand on the big hard lump until he groaned and his jeans got all wet in front and he stopped groaning – but I'd never seen one that I wanted to touch as much as I wanted to touch Greg Pettit's.

"What would be wrong with balling Greg?" I asked her, our bodies were very close as we peeked out the window, and I could feel the smooth warmth of her leg, even through the jeans I was wearing. "God, why aren't there guys like him around for us?"

"It's incest when you do it with somebody in your family," Jill pointed out. "No matter how cute he is. It's against the law in this state, I think."

"I'd be willing to take a chance."

"You're sex crazy, Didi."

"And you're the one who brought up the subject in the first place."

"I did not!"

"Did too! You sat there shaving your legs and moaned about how your mom doesn't like to get laid, but has to a dozen times a week, and how we'd really dig it, but can't get it at all."

"Maybe I did. But it seems sick, even to think about doing it with Greg."

"Not to me. Sometimes I think about him when I'm playing with myself. I close my eyes and pretend it's his hand on me, and that he's kissing me and stroking me and all of a sudden my fingers are very wet and they smell like fish."

Jill giggled, turning to fix me through and through with heavy-lidded eyes that are a kind of slaty gray that makes me think of a later fall sky breaking up to rain. "Want me to put in a good word for you? He's not going with that juicy Robin any more, or did you know?"

I didn't, and my heart danced faster just to hear it. One of the great pangs of my life was coming over to see Jill and noticing Greg and his dainty blonde sweetheart laughing and talking together. I used to fantasize about her getting hit by a send. Who knew? Maybe with her out of the way, he might be in a mood to see what a precious jewel had been at arm's reach all this time. But she was only kidding about putting in a good word for me. Greg wouldn't listen even if she did, because as far as he was concerned, Jill was only a kid. Like me. Damn it. I didn't feel like a kid, especially when I stood watching him tone up his already superb muscles. "Listen," I said, talking really fast because the idea excited me, "if you really need it the way I really need it, Jill."

"Hi, Greg," I said in my milkiest, silkiest voice, stepping onto the patio. Jill had lent me one of her bikinis, a last year's model, nowhere near so revealing as the one she'd bought for this summer, and my titties jiggled in the loose-tied cups as I walked toward him.

He paid little attention, which was par for the course. He stood there, lifting the barbell over his head and tensing, then lowering it to chest-height, then up again. It was poetry, the way his body flexed and rippled as he exercised, and I couldn't repress a sigh of admiration. I sprawled on the tiles about a yard from his toes, twisting my body this way and that to let him see how splendidly I was filling out the bikini. I stretched my legs, which are long and, I like to think, a trifle more shapely than Didi's, and I curled and uncurled my toes, smiling at him.