Sandy Ch. 02

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Martha left for Fire Island, and my parents returned, and I was at work, feeling deprived, and thinking about possible alternatives for the rest of the summer. The girl from the firm who had been in the bar the previous Friday night – the one staying in the apartment with an airline hostess – was being friendly, and I looked forward to the next Friday evening.

But at night, I had plenty of material for fantasies, at first repressing those involving my sister and concentrating on those with Martha. But images of my sister kept creeping in – it had been too delightful, much too delightful. I gave in to the temptation; she wanted to remember me – a weak excuse for reviving my recollections. I tried to start at the beginning and keep the episodes in order, not all of them every night, of course, picking up the next night where I had left off, now parallel episodes with Martha creeping in occasionally. It didn’t help, that sometimes during work one of them would flash before my eyes.

But that is getting ahead of the story. While I was still repressing images of my sister, we had arranged that I could spend the weekend with them, itself a source of speculation for more and different fantasies, especially after my sister let me know that she and Martha had slept together. That recalled images of Pam and Sukie, who had been neglected in my most recent fantasies, but now provided food for speculation and curiosity about the coming weekend, which meant that I would miss the Friday evening meeting with the summer help, especially with that girl, Sandra, “Sandy.”

I wondered about mentioning to her that I couldn’t be along, but the situation to do so didn’t arise, and I rationalized to myself that it was better not to explain why I wouldn’t be there, no doubt, with a bit of guilty conscience about what I was anticipating might develop, and then thinking that it might be good to find out if she had noticed my absence.

She had. Monday morning, while I was still wondering how things would go at home, she asked why I hadn’t been with the group. My explanation that I had to pick up my sister and “the Norwegian girl who’d stayed with us over the winter” on Fire Island was accepted, indeed, impressed: “from Fire Island!” I wondered how old she thought my sister might be, but she didn’t ask, luckily, and I said that I wished I could have joined the group and was looking forward to the next time. She liked that, and I liked her interest, having been wondering if someone else might have chatted her up.

That sort of made it a date between us, when we saw each other, she not letting me forget.

At home, Martha, my sister and I really did seem to manage to forget, maybe going a little out of each other’s way, but that wasn’t difficult, and my sister had learned to be her bitchy self again, maybe from her period, maybe from our mother’s comments about her bikini and being spoiled. When I mentioned that I would be going out with the group Friday evening, the night before Martha left, Mother said that I should really be home for dinner with her, but Dad agreed with me that it was important to make contacts. They agreed then that I should drive Martha to the airport. Martha and I could hardly repress our smiles at this solution, that was supposed to be an imposition on me, and I tried to accept it as such.

So Friday evening, Sandy and I and the others went to the bar, she sticking closer to me than necessary on the way. Once there, it appeared that a couple of other pairings had developed, but for the first round of drinks, the group stood together at the bar. When some others decided to have dinner, Sandy didn’t object when I suggested that we do so, seeming glad that in the restaurant area we had to be seated with an unknown couple. After we had briefly greeted the other couple at the table, she immediately began to talk to me as though we were old friends instead of on a first date, no asking about what I did or telling about herself.

When she took off her jacket and draped it over her shoulders, I noticed that she didn’t have a bra on, and she notice that I had, making it more obvious for a moment, but with a slight smile she called more attention to it:

“You know how uncomfortable they are in this weather.”

“Well, not actually, I never wear one, but I can imagine.”

We both chuckled at this shared intimacy, and I thought I could continue the subject:

“I thought you always wore one at work.”

She snorted silently with a grin, seeming to appreciate that I had:

“Oh, yeah. The woman in charge of the girls told us the first day: ‘Bras and stockings, young ladies; this is a summer job, not a vacation resort.'”

We both chuckled again, more openly this time, and both seemed to feel that things were off to good start. The other couple only had eyes for each other, which exuded a romantic aura and avoided any need for conversation with them. By the end of our dinner, we were indeed a little closer to being old friends. When I insisted on taking the check, escort ataşehir Sandy said that the next time she would pay, but then offered:

“Oh, if you want, next week, I can cook supper for us. My roommate will be away … hmm, … Tuesday to Friday. Which night? … It won’t be as good as this, though, thank you.”

She smiled, raising her eyebrows with a questioning, hopeful look.

“Oh, that would be nice, thank you,” I replied, very much liking her suggestion.

“Wednesday, then?” she suggested.

“Fine, Wednesday,” I agreed.

“Great. … Well, it won’t be ‘great,’ … just simple, …something, I don’t know yet.”

“Whatever, I can eat everything.”

I paid and left a nice tip. When we parted on the sidewalk, she almost looked like she expected a kiss, her tongue between her lips, suddenly reminding me of the evening with my tutee in our library. But we didn’t.

Saturday morning, Martha was packed. My mother was still not pleased that I had missed her farewell dinner, that apparently had been very enjoyable. I wondered how my sister had behaved and wondered if she would suggest joining us for the drive to the airport, but she didn’t. My parents bid Martha farewell with more hearty good wishes for her future than I expected, and then we were off.

When I had the car out of the garage and on the street, she relaxed visibly, sighing, and said:

“Did it really happen? Did we really do it, … and they didn’t notice?”

She looked at me, questioningly, and then smiling, as though she knew the answer.

“Um-hmm, it really did, … thank you; and I sure hope they didn’t. It certainly seems like they didn’t.”

“Um-hmm,” she agreed: “I hope so too. … And thank you, too. … It was just too good. Tell your sister, too.”

“I will, but I expect she knows”

“Um-hmm, but still … do.”

“Um-hmm,” I agreed, and then we were silent together till we got to the airport.

And we were silent except for practical matters until Martha had checked in, and we were at passport control and had to say final farewells. We didn’t say much, but our embrace and kiss said it all as we pressed our hips together.

After we parted, I wished that I had asked for her address, but then on the drive back home, I reconciled myself to the fact that it was all over, and then wondered how soon she would find someone else, or whether she would tell her brother about us – and my sister?! No, of course she wouldn’t, but would she find a girlfriend? Then it occurred to me that she could be wondering the same things about me, and I already had a date for Wednesday evening. I had no grounds for being jealous or even curious.

Then it occurred to me that I needed a reason to miss supper on Wednesday – maybe on other evenings, if things with Sandy developed. By the time I was home, I had decided that training at the NYAC would be the right excuse – and a good idea. By then, I had given up hopes for the national team, so year-round training had stopped, but a little training would be a very acceptable reason to miss suppers in my parents’ eyes – and to avoid my sister. Things had gone well the previous week, but …

And that is the way it worked out, a plan for two or three evenings of training each week, starting that Monday, and ostensibly on Wednesday. I recognized that I already had Fridays free, either with the crowd or just with Sandy – if that was what she wanted. Obviously, if I was going to be training, I couldn’t be away too late, maybe a little, with eating with friends afterwards.

So Monday evening I went to the club, training as long as I could, and staying longer for something to eat. At work, Sandy didn’t let me forget that we had a date, and I didn’t let her forget that I knew about her feelings about wearing a bra. Not directly, of course, both of us just flirting discreetly. Wednesday, before lunch, I called her and asked if I should bring a bottle wine, which she thought was a fine idea, suggesting that we meet after work around the corner. So I went out instead of eating in the cafeteria.

When we met – we hadn’t seen each other during the afternoon – she again looked like she was almost expecting a kiss, but after greeting each other, she asked if we should walk or take the subway, telling me that it was just about as fast to walk. I explained that at home it was assumed that I was at training, and that walking would have to be my training for the evening. She grinned at my explanation, and we set off.

During the warm walk, I recalled Martha’s more athletic striding, as Sandy was telling that she had most of the meal already prepared, just the minute steaks needing to be cooked. I was curious about the apartment, never having seen how single girls lived in New York. When I mentioned this, she replied:

“Nothing great, but it has air conditioning and a doorman; one bedroom; I sleep on the sofa-bed.”

When – the way – she glanced at me after saying that, I wondered: me too? us two? especially when kadıköy escort bayan she almost too nonchalantly added that it wasn’t very comfortable and that her flatmate had offered that she could use her bed when she was flying. Then we chatted about where she came from, and how she had been lucky to find the apartment through neighbors, whose daughter also flew with United and knew her flatmate. When I asked if she had a boyfriend, wondering about the sleeping arrangement, Sandy seemed to read my mind, glancing at me again with a little questioning smile before she replied:

“Well, not since I’ve been here, not in the apartment,” and she glanced at me again, as if to see if that was what I had meant before she added:

“I know she sleeps with a guy sometimes when she’s on trips.”

“Um-hmm,” I responded to confirm that that was what I had been wondering about, and Sandy glanced at me again, this time as though she were pleased that she had answered my unspoken question. When I nodded with a smile, she smiled back with a slight chuckle, and then we just walked on in silence.

After we arrived, I presented my bottle of wine, red wine, suggesting that it was probably too warm from the street. She offered to hang up my jacket and took it in the bedroom. When she returned, I noticed that she had taken off her shoes and pulled her blouse out of her skirt.

“Do you want a beer first?” she offered, and then before I could wonder about the “first,” she added: “I want a shower,” and then plucked at the front of her bra where the top button of her blouse was undone as she gave me an impish smile as she said: “You know.”

“Good idea,” I agreed: “Let’s share one, … uh, the beer I mean.”

Sandy looked like she appreciated my double entendre as she snorted slightly and replied:

“I think I need one just for myself, … the beer, I mean. Do you want a glass?”

I shook my head, and she went in the kitchen with the wine bottle, while I wondered if she had just picked up on my play on words or had wanted to leave the other suggestion open. She returned with two open cans. I took one and automatically offered: “Skaal.”

“Skaal,” she responded immediately, and we drank, but then she looked at me questioningly:

“But you’re not Scandinavian. Where did you learn that?”

“From the Norwegian girl.”

“”Norwegian girl? … Oh, yeah, that’s staying with your family. And you drank with her?”


“Oh, of course. … And just drinking?”

“What else?”

“What else?! … Skaal,” and Sandy smirked, and we both to took long drinks from our cans and looked at each other again as she repeated:

“What else,” then adding suggestively: “I thought the fathers were the problem.”

“What problem?”

Sandy just grinned and took another drink, and I did so too, and then after a long silence, just looking at each other knowingly, we both raised our cans and said “skaal” again and emptied them.

“Now, the shower,” she said: “You want one, too?”

When I nodded, she turned, starting to unbutton her blouse as she said that she would put out a towel for me. I watched her go to the bedroom, her blouse by then completely unbuttoned. After a while, she came out in a bathrobe, just holding it closed as she smiled at me and said that she had left the towel on the bed. Then she went in the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.

When I heard her close the shower curtain and then the water start, I went to the bedroom, finding the towel on the freshly made bed. It was obvious that she hadn’t slept in it the night before, and she hadn’t made any effort to hide her underwear. I started getting undressed, wondering if we had both really been joking about showering together. She had suggested that I use the bedroom, inviting me to see the bed – and her underwear – and had left the doors open, …? By now I only had my shorts on – my boxer shorts, for a date that might be like this. Did she expect me to wait for her to come back and see me in them, or with just the towel around my hips? If she had wanted me to wait in the living room until she finished, she shouldn’t have mentioned the towel, but she had – just unconsciously? – subconsciously making the suggestion – or intentionally? Either way, though, she had made it. How upset would she be, if I went in the bathroom?

Then I heard her humming under the shower, maybe to emphasis that the doors were open? Oh, I could use the toilet – I had to anyway, enough for an excuse. I slipped off my shorts and grabbed the towel, holding it around my hips as I walked to the bathroom, where she was still humming. Standing at the toilet so she couldn’t see my stream, I silently raised the seat and started, letting it splash in the bowl.

“Ohmygosh!” I heard her sudden cry of surprise: “What are you doing here, … and like that?!”

“I had to go, and you left the door open.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw her snatch the shower curtain in front of her body, leaving her face under her escort bostancı shower cap exposed. Her expression was more sheepish than shocked. I turned back to finish, pleased that I hadn’t missed. As I shook it, she replied more calmly:

“Oh, I guess so. You surprised me.”

“I noticed,” I answered, turning to her, seeing her eyes take in my figure, adding:

“And besides, I wasn’t sure if it was just the beer that you didn’t want to share.”

She snickered and then replied:

“Yeah, … well, … I heard that, … but I didn’t really think …”

“Think what?”

I flushed the toilet, inadvertently giving her time to reply, waiting for the noise to subside.

“Where’d you get all the muscles?”

“Gymnastics. Remember, I am supposed to be training this evening.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, … you must be good. I didn’t know men like you existed in everyday life.”

I snickered slightly with my thought of a reply and then said:

“Right here in your own bathroom, ma’am. You want to see the rest?” and moved my hand as though about to open my towel. I saw her eyes drop for a moment as she quickly replied:

“Gosh, no! Not yet. … I didn’t plan this.”

“‘Not yet’?”

“Oh, shit! Did I say that?” and she looked like she was maybe blushing as her eyes found mine, and I nodded slightly with a snort and smile, and then added as disarmingly as I could:

“I just wanted to take a shower, and it seemed that we agreed that it was a good idea.”

Sandy smiled with a little snort of her own and then murmured:

“Yeah, sort of, but I didn’t think …” and she seemed to remember that she had stopped at that phrase before.

“Didn’t think it could really happen?” I suggested.

She nodded silently and then added: “not like this.”

Oh, “not yet,” “not like this,” I suddenly understood: maybe showering together after making love. Hoping I was right, I ventured to respond:

“Why not? We need a shower now. And, … well, … if it is only a question of ‘not yet,’ … why not now?”

She looked at me for a long moment, while I tried to keep my expression non-committal.

Then she snorted again, and then smiled a little sheepishly, and finally replied:

“Jeez, I never did this, … did anything like this before, …”

“And never asked.”

“I didn’t ask. It was your idea,” she responded quickly in a tone that suggested that she just wanted to banter words now, adding:

“Have you?”

“Gentlemen don’t tell, … but maybe more what you meant with ‘not yet.'”

“Oh, …, maybe, … I guess,”

and she nodded with a soft chuckle as she looked in my eyes and slid her hand down the edge of the shower curtain from beneath her chin. I released my towel, and she let the curtain drop.

Sandy’s breasts were more conical than hemispherical like Martha’s or my sister’s – or any other girls’ that I could remember – but full enough so that her nipples were a little above the almost horizontal bottom line of her breasts. And her nipples were aroused protuberances in the middle of cup-shaped light rosy areas surrounded by pale skin outlined by a mild tan from a bikini. I knew my cock was just a little aroused for her gaze as my eyes dropped down to her wet pubic hair. Then our eyes returned to each other’s face, twinkling as we smiled.

Sandy stepped back to let me join her in the bathtub, and I closed the curtain, suddenly recalling my feeling with my sister about the increased intimacy in the small space. When I turned to her, she smirked and said:

“Well, I guess that settles it.”

“What?” I asked, knowing that I wasn’t being helpful.

“That we don’t have to worry about what to watch on TV.”

“I certainly hope not.”

She snickered with a nod and then offered:

“I was almost finished, but you can start over again; you have the experience,” and handed me her washcloth.

I did, soaping the cloth and handing the soap to her, starting with her shoulders and chest, and then one breast with the cloth. When she tugged at a corner of it, I let her take it from me and massaged both her breasts with my hands. She grinned at me with a pleased “mmm”, and then began to wash my chest with the cloth, so I just continued to hold her breasts while she found my armpits with the cloth and then did my shoulders and neck.

“Face too,” I murmured and closed my eyes.

The cloth dragged on my five-o’clock shadow. When she was finished, I asked:

“Want me to shave?”

“Good idea, … another good idea,” she agreed with a snicker.

Then I felt the cloth move down one and then the other side, and then on the sides of my hips, and then scrub across my stomach. Then it hesitated.

“I can do the rest, if you prefer,” I suggested.

“Yeah, maybe, … thanks,” and she glanced up at me:

“Give me your leg.”

I raised one and then the other, holding her shoulders as she bent down to wash my calves and then my feet. She stood back up with chuckle and smile, that I returned with the comment:

“You do that very well.”

“Thanks, … fun, not any different from washing myself, … except …. Now the back.”

I turned around, and she started again at my neck and shoulders. When I asked for the soap, she replied:

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