Breakfast at Walter’s

Breakfast at Walter’s.

She called herself Kansas. But she was really from Pomona. She was tall and perfect. Her hips were wide. Her shoulders thin. Her tits small and firm. Nipples dime sized and could bring her to orgasm by only lips, tongue and teeth.

It was summer and she was 19. She was a lifeguard at the public pool. It was a summer job. She sat above us all in her white painted perch. She wore a red one piece swim suit. Her hair was dirty blonde. Her face freckled. Her nose and cheeks. Even her green eyes were freckled with gold and browns.

I was ten years older than she. I was far more interesting than the boys that she knew. She told me about the first time she’d gone down on a boy. Even though it was only her first time, she could tell it was his too. She tried to do me as she’d done the boy. I had to stop her. I took her hands and held them behind her back and told her to do all the work using only her mouth. She worked and worked. With my free hand I reached down to find how she dripped from my fingers. I shot thick and heavy into her mouth. She jerked back but didn’t stop or break contact. She rolled with it like a pro. She would, from that point on, always be a pro. When she finally came up for air, her nose and eyes watered. She laughed as she wiped her mouth and her tears.  Then she fell asleep in the nook between my arm and shoulder.

It didn’t take long before she was too busy to come see me anymore. We’d talk on the phone. I’d tell her dirty stories. I could hear her smile on her lips as she talked to me over the phone. I wanted to kiss her mouth mid-smile and lick her teeth with my tongue.

I’d spent that summer combing over every part of her, over and over again. She might have been laid better, but never more complete. Nothing missed. Head to toe and everything in between. She had thin golden blonde fuzz on her forearms and tiny firm ass cheeks. And I would kiss that fatty diamond shaped spot at the base of her lower back.

The summer ended and a new semester had began. She stopped calling and stopped answering my calls.

I knew where she lived. I knew the fur from her bunghole to her ruffled dark pink snatch. I knew where to kiss. Where to rub. And when she’d come. But I’d never be there again. What was left of her, was for the boys that spent the summer learning as she had. They’d all meet again, sharing what they’d learned.

I’d be left with only remembering spending that summer in Kansas.


About magnumturtle

I write fiction.
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