Summer Of Addictive Saturdays – Part I

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Amidst the flower beds one Saturday afternoon, the phone quivered in my pocket. When I saw the sender’s name, my legs followed suit.The text simply read, 7:30 .The gardening gloves came off in a rush.Yes, I texted back after drying sweaty, unsteady hands on my cutoffs.I returned to the mundane task of spreading new mulch, sneaking a glance at the neighbor’s immaculately manicured lawn. There was a long way to go before the yard work was finished, and even longer until the time I had just memorized.***The kitchen clock read 7:25pm. Freshly showered with wet hair bundled casually atop my head and toting a small bag with extra clothes, I called to Mom that I was going to use the Westons’ pool for a while. I barely heard her, “That’s fine; be careful and don’t stay too late,” before crossing over to the next yard, where I slipped off my flip flops and padded with relish across the cool luxuriant grass.Behind the traditional saltbox-style residence sprawled a wonderland which was completely out of view from my own home. At its center shone an inviting pool, lit from below with a brilliant blue spot and reflecting the flames of a half dozen tiki torches along one side. Scattered about the deck were several chairs of different styles, all upholstered in summer pastels. A vine-covered trellis offered shade from the mid-summer sun.I dropped the bag, wriggled out of the plain sweatshirt and shorts to reveal my skimpiest bikini. I stepped onto the Arnavutköy escort springboard and dived in, shattering the surface tension of the twilight-tinted water. The momentum, amplified by a vigorous kick, propelled me nearly the full length.Only after I stood up in the shallow end, shaking my head, water coursing over my sun-bronzed skin, did I see the source of the text that had launched a thousand butterflies. He stood under the trellis, clad in his customary weekend khakis and polo shirt. His arms, tanned from what must have been a day on the Sound, folded assertively over his chest in a way that made my knees weak.For most of my eighteen and a half years I knew him as Mr. Weston, but since we’d begun meeting like this he’d asked me to call him by his first name.I couldn’t hide the open, uncomplicated smile. The spontaneous grin I received in return emboldened me to raise my hands to the back of my dripping neck and untie the tiny bikini top. The flimsy panels fell easily, not that they had covered much. Pulling at the bow knot in back, I ducked shoulder-deep into the water so that the top fanned out and bobbed away over the ripples. Nearly naked, I eased onto my back and floated with my arms to each side, a combination of the evening air and my confidence in his undivided attention hardening my nipples as they pierced the gently sloshing surface like proud tourmalines.He sank into a lawn chair Avcılar escort bayan and began to rub a palm across his lap as he watched me slip out of my briefs, leaving them to drift after their discarded mate, and sluice through the blue-lit depths in authentic mermaid attire.***Mr. Weston had always intrigued me. He was about Dad’s age but I found him quite appealing. The few times our families socialized, he was always the affable good host, but his congeniality was balanced with a reserve that piqued my curiosity.The evening when I had worn a new pair of too-high heels to one of the Westons’ summer parties and stupidly tripped while navigating the stairs, a pair of strong arms kept me from tottering to the floor.“Careful, Fiona.” Mr. Weston’s authoritative voice was much closer than it had ever been and I realized he was the one who’d caught me and was now guiding me back to my feet. “Are you all right?”From somewhere in the rubble of my demolished vanity, I nodded mutely.“That was a close call,” he winked. His gaze searched my reddened face and I could smell the crisp scent of his aftershave. “Come on, let’s get you some juice.”He guided me to the refreshment table, an arm curled protectively around my waist as if I might take another tumble, then ladled out a cup of punch I could hardly taste before he vanished into the next wave of guests.I didn’t sleep that night. Those few minutes between Escort Bağcılar the stairs and the beverage kept looping before my eyes. My curiosity had developed into a full blown crush.***He crouched by the pool’s edge, offering a large white cabana towel when I emerged nude from the water. I couldn’t help but see where his khaki trousers had tented, and it was all I could do not to reach toward the evidence of his excitement and perversely darken that proper, preppy cotton with eager wet hand prints.With his arm across my towel-draped, shivering shoulders, he led me into the house, up the stairs and into the spacious modern bathroom, where he ran the hot water for me.Our parallel dance escalated on either side of the shower’s glass enclosure. He tugged his shirt up and over his head and stepped out of the khakis, letting me appreciate the results of a disciplined workout regime. It was easy for me to admire the musculature that said its owner preferred good maintenance over egotistical display.I lathered my breasts with languid, suggestive cupping motions and let a soapy hand dive down the slippery lane over my belly until it parted and quickened my most sensitive folds, encountering a slickness that was more than a match for the shower gel in my palms. The sensation weakened my knees and they nearly buckled.He had perched himself on the edge of the whirlpool tub, sliding a hand below his navel and into the waistband of his already bulging boxers to create a rippling, sheathed sculpture of fingers playing over a protuberance for me to ogle through the spray as I rinsed.I felt myself moistening ever more profusely at the memory of what we had done in that tub the previous Saturday, and how we had lost ourselves in its churning currents..

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