The Anchor of a Love
A college freshman falls in love with a high school freshman and is amazed at the depths of her passion.
An excerpt:
He visited Tewksbury on the next six weekends and each weekend he spent about fifteen hours at her house. Her parents left them alone in the living room for all of that time, except during dinner with them on Saturday evening. He and Faith always had a good time, singing, joking, chatting. He was amazed at all her school activities. She played sax and clarinet in the orchestra and jazz band, she sang in the glee club and the choir and an a cappella group, she was in drama club and Latin club, and on the staffs of the newspaper, literary magazine, and yearbook.
Their intimacy grew gradually. Art moved cautiously at first but found Faith increasingly responsive, even passionate as time went on.
He always brought a book so they could study together and they usually did for a while. On the last Sunday in March, he couldn't help looking at her when he was supposed to be studying. She was intent on her book, reading and making notes, and from time to time he looked at his book, read a paragraph or two, pretended to write a note, usually nonsense of some kind, and then he'd look at her again. At first out of the corner of his eye, but after a while he began leaning back, turning his head, directly looking at her. Her hair was blonde, but he couldn't decide what shade it was, maybe ash blonde? He'd never been sure what that color looked like, but he thought maybe this was it. Not golden, certainly, and definitely not platinum. . .
She leaned back and smiled at him. "What?"
"What color's your hair?"
"What?"
"Ash blonde?"
"Oh—I guess." She fondled it, bringing strands in front of her ear, trying to look at it sideways. "Never really thought about it."
"Come on, you must know what color your hair is."
"Must I?" Her sexy-ironic voice, a voice he liked. "But you're not even looking at my hair."
"No." He was looking at her breasts, small but obvious, sharply pointed. He lifted his eyes to hers, smiling to her smile, touched through her blouse one of the sharp points, watched her close her eyes and lean her head back against the couch cushions. He put his mouth on hers and his hand went to her leg, to her knee, moving her skirt up as it moved up along her thigh to the wonderful triangle that opened, changed, was no longer a triangle but all curves, all softness, changing constantly under his hand and beneath the fabric, yielding to him and then thrusting back against his assault, round now, all roundness, but something hard and sharp inside, and she eased down to the edge of the couch so he could slide her panties down, looking up between her legs at the soft round triangle, at the hair there, at the soft roundness inside and the hard sharpness protruding, and as the panties slipped down over her feet his mouth went there, into that softness, the hair there was harsh and brittle against his lips for a moment but then he was past that, his tongue was inside, finding lovely wet softness, and Faith was moving, turning, lifting her legs onto the couch, and he followed, his mouth followed, as she opened herself to him, and her lovely soft wetness surrounded his tongue.
A few minutes later, they sat quietly side by side again, readjusting clothing. Faith plucked at a moist curl. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy. "There was a little girl, and she had a little curl," she said.
"Mmmmm."
"You know the rest, right?"
"Of course."
"When she was bad, she was horrid."
"There's nothing horrid about you."
"You would say that. But—"
"What?"
"Why do always end up making out when we're supposed to be having a study date?"
"Because we both like it. Don't we?"
"Yes. But—oh, I don't know—"
"What's the trouble?"
"I shouldn't like it so much. But—oh God, I love you so!"
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Next: The Boy Lover