A lot of this story, you already know. It played out in your head a million times, in the back corner of your mind during math class, or behind squinched eyelids in the middle of the night, maybe even right in the middle of the act with a woman other than the one you were thinking of. You know those stories you tell yourself, your "what if this happened" stories, your "and then she took off her blouse" stories, your personal Penthouse Forum.

I've got em in my head too, have since before I really knew why, so the thing is, if what I tell you comes off a little "and then she took off her blouse," if some of it doesn't quite ring true -- forgive me. Memory's a funny thing, and it's easy to read it a little better than we lived it.

I was 17. She was 36. Either you're nodding and going, "OH yeah, I remember that one," or you're about to move on.

She was the next-door neighbor, and had moved in with her husband and two little kids a few years earlier, one of the many families to move to the area when Digital opened its new plant. I was definitely old enough to notice her, and started spending more time shooting hoops in the driveway, where I had a perfect view of her working in her garden, just across the cobblestone path that separated the lots from back when the place was all horse ranches.

I remember it startled me how cool she seemed for an "adult." She brought a radio out to the garden with her and listened to the adult contemporary station, a mix of classic rock and the less-poppy mainstream stuff -- a station I listened to, when there was too much Paula Abdul or New Kids on the Block on the other stations. My parents? They listened to Bing Crosby at Christmas, and Sinatra the rest of the year. This was a woman who knew who Aerosmith was.

Mrs. Cramer -- "just call me Amy" -- wasn't the kind of woman I would call my "type" these days, but as a teenager, let's face it, I didn't have a type. She was petite, a good five or six inches shorter than me, with short black hair, dark blue eyes, and a figure still good enough for her to tie her shirt up over her stomach when it was hot out. I know she must have owned other clothes, but I can only picture her in one outfit: a pair of denim shorts, much shorter in memory than they possibly could have been in real life, short enough to show off those long, smooth, tanned legs; and a pink rugby shirt, the shade of pink they only made in the 80s. You know the color I mean.

The Cramer kids got along great with my little brother, who was a few years older than them, so I never ended up babysitting -- no tales here of going through her dresser and stealing a pair of panties, or rummaging through the video collection hoping to find dirty home movies. For three years, nothing but watching her in the garden, and polite "how's school going?" small talk when the gourmet club she and my mother were part of met at our house.

Ahh, but then there was -- tell me you didn't see this part coming -- "that summer." That summer my brother spent at overnight camp because he'd suddenly become interested in archery. The summer the Cramers rented a timeshare at a lakehouse up north, for three weeks. The summer they asked me to feed their two cats for them, change the litter, water the plants -- for the princely sum of twenty dollars a week. Not chump change.

The first day was exciting. I'd never been upstairs in the Cramer house. I hadn't fully realized just how attracted I was to this woman -- how much I liked, even while I felt guilty about it, looking around the bedroom (where there were plants needing to be watered, after all), seeing where she slept, where she undressed, the large bathroom where she showered. That pink rugby shirt hanging in the closet.

But the novelty wore off quick. I didn't jerk off on her pillows or anything like that. There was no homemade porn in evidence. I just wandered around, watered the plants, fed the cats, and realized that the whole nature of taking care of her house while she was gone pretty much meant I was just being deprived of seeing her in the garden for those three weeks.

"Feel free to watch television if you want," Mr Cramer had told me. The Cramers had cable -- my parents didn't see the point of it. It was summer, so there was nothing on MY television ... and I ended up hanging out there a lot, playing with the cats, enjoying the air conditioning (our house was built before central air existed, so it's always been an almost fetishized luxury for me), and bringing over six-packs of Cherry Coke my health-fanatic mother would never let me drink at home. Teenage decadence.

And then everything got kicked up a notch.

A week into the three, I unlocked the door, closed it behind me, and went about the usual routine: emptied the litter box into a trash bag, put it by the door, cleaned out the water dish and refilled the food, and started going around, watering each of the plants. The shower must have turned off just before I went upstairs, or I would have heard the water running -- and it must have been on when I closed the door, or she would have heard me.

For about five seconds that felt like forever, I was standing in the doorway of the Cramers' bedroom, water pitcher in hand, staring straight at a completely naked Amy Cramer. Her breasts were the size of peaches, small enough that gravity and age had caused very little sag; her nipples, the color of the darkest blush on peachskin, stood up hard from the air conditioning; her legs shone with shower-water, little beads clinging to the smooth skin, and Christ, she was shaved. Freshly, recently, smooth-as-you-can-imagine, every detail laid out for me, shaved. It was the first time I'd seen a woman's sex completely shorn like that.

Her towel was in her hand, like she'd been about to dry her legs off. Neither of us said anything for a long time -- I'm sure it could have been only an instant, but I saw so much, and so clearly, that when it finally occurred to me to open my mouth, it felt like hours had gone by. So what did I say? How did I turn this situation around and to my erotic advantage?

"Shit, sorry!"

And I backed right back out of the bedroom, standing in the hallway because I couldn't bring myself to just leave. What's the etiquette for walking in on your next-door neighbor? Do you send a card?

I stood there for a long time, saying God knows what, along the lines of "I didn't know you were here, I was just watering the plants, sorry about that," at a mile a minute, not once mentioning "Goddamn, you look hot" but not thinking of anything except exactly that.

"You can come in," she called finally, cutting me off. Back in the doorway, I realized I'd dropped the water pitcher, and she was on her knees, blotting the carpet with a towel. Fully dressed now, of course: blue jeans and a white Digital T-shirt, the ones with the blue trim on the collar and sleeves. And she didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as I was -- but then, she was the older woman, I was the teenage boy.

"I should have left a message for you or something," she said, while I tried not to look like I was staring at her. "I didn't realize you came over so early!"

"Oh, you know," I said. "Yeah, sorry about the water -- I could have cleaned that up --"

And she smirked at me. "You were a bit distracted, Simon." And her eyes wavered down, just briefly -- not something I was meant to see.

I hadn't even stopped to think about the sweat shorts I was wearing or the fact that I was as hard as granite.

"I didn't see your car in the driveway or anything, or, you know, I would've rung the doorbell..."

"It's in the shop -- I took a cab. That's why I'm home, it's still under warranty, but only if we bring it to the dealership."

"Ahhh." I was profound back then. "That's a shame, having to miss your vacation."

Amy shook her head. "It wasn't really my thing. A lot of laying around in the sun, playing Othello, antiquing, hanging around with Jim's parents ... I don't mind. Besides, I missed working in the garden."

She was still sitting on the floor, eye-level with my crotch, which wasn't getting any less visible. I bent down to pick up the pitcher, wobbled a little, and did my best to nonchalantly hold it in front of my shorts. "Hey," she said, and she had that look like she was trying not to smile. "It's okay. It happens. Nothing you can do about it. No ... hard feelings."

"Yeah ... anyway, uh, I fed the cats and all. So, I'll see you another --"

"No, it's all right." She stood up, finally, but I was standing so close to her now she almost brushed against me. Almost. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and I could smell her shampoo. "You can watch some TV if you want. And I'll pay you for the whole three weeks, it's only fair. You want some lunch or something?"

"You don't have to, it's okay."

And it went like that for awhile, until I grudgingly agreed to stay for lunch and help myself to the cable and the remote -- all the while just wanting to go home and jerk off. The fact that she didn't seem offended by my seeing her -- or my reaction -- just made me harder. Stupid, but true.

She'd already eaten, so after fixing me a sandwich, went about her business in the garden. I ate, watched television, got comfortable on the couch I'd taken a liking to, and was starting to think that maybe we'd be able to put the whole thing behind us and it wouldn't be awkward every time I saw her, when in she came: hot and sweaty from working outdoors, her shirt clinging to her back and breasts. It was like one of those Diet Coke commercials: she washed her hands, got a drink from the fridge, and stood in the doorway, taking long sips until she'd cooled off.

"Anything good on?"

I shrugged. I had it on MTV, which still played videos at the time. "Videos. No big deal, though, I can head home. Thanks for lunch."

She sat down on the arm of the couch and put her hands on her shins, stretching her legs out. "Well, you don't have to go. I thought I'd take a break from the garden, watch some TV with you. You can tell me about these bands I don't recognize. As long as you don't mind hanging out with an old fogey."

I grinned. Was I going to argue with this? "Geez. You may be older than me, but you're not old -- and I've heard your radio, you listen to good music."

She sighed a little as she nodded at the television. I don't remember what was on, the B-52s or something. "It's strange for me, that's all, not being up on everything. I don't take the time to keep up with music and movies, the way I did before the kids. Not that I mind them, but it does make me feel my age."

"You certainly don't look it." I said it before thinking of how it would sound, considering I'd just seen her naked, but she just smiled at me.

I told her what I thought of the various bands for awhile, and an Aerosmith video she hadn't seen came on, the one for "Angel." She got more comfortable after a bit, sitting on the floor between my feet so I didn't have to keep turning to my side to talk to her, just pointed over her shoulder -- and that short black hair would brush against my arm when I did, or her head would come >thisclose< to leaning against my bare leg.

She started touching me, innocently. Putting a hand on my foot or lower leg to get my attention or emphasize a question. Shifting her position to accidentally press the side of her head into my thigh. We kept talking about music, and in a lull, out of nowhere she said, "It's nice to know I'm still attractive to someone your age."

If she only knew. I was hard again, from being so close to her, still thinking about having seen her, wondering why she was talking to me as though we were friends instead of casual neighbors. The back of her head had almost touched my erection, more than once. "You're attractive to people of any age," I said. "I mean, come on."

She shook her head. "You say it like it's obvious, but -- maybe you're not old enough to understand, no offense. You start to realize boys are looking at you the way they look at teachers, and doctors, and -- I don't know, parents. You're not a woman anymore, not the same way. Or you are, but you're not a girl."

I was leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, mostly to put that distance between her head and my hard-on, and she took my hand in hers, squeezing it, and looked up -- nervously. "I like being married. I like having kids. But I don't want to think about either right now. I just want to feel young."

The next thing I knew, she had squeezed my hand against her breast, her T-shirt still damp, no bra underneath. I could feel the warmth of her skin, the bump of her nipple, the beat of her heart in both her chest and her grasp, and she groaned, watching me closely as if afraid I'd pull away. I didn't. I turned her towards me, so that she was kneeling in front of me, and kept stroking that firm, soft breast through her shirt as I guided her hand to my cock, wrapping her fingers around the outline.

Her eyes widened -- don't get me wrong, it's not that I was huge or anything like that. I think she was honestly surprised that I was hard already. It had probably been awhile since she'd been with a 17 year old. But she knew what to do with one. My shorts were pulled down over my cock as fast as I'd ever pulled them, and her hand slid into my boxers, her fingers circling the base of my cock and rubbing it against the tented fabric. Not stroking me yet, just feeling me.

I bunched her shirt up over her breasts, feeling her skin under my palms, the transition from smooth to crinkled where my fingertips found her nipples waiting for me, the shivery goosepebbling as the air conditioning hit her. She rubbed her thighs together and leaned forward, pressing her breasts into my hands, nuzzling my cock through my boxers. I could feel her breath, warm and moist through the cotton, spread out over my shaft as she rubbed her cheek against its silhouette, pressed her lips against the base where her fingers were clutching, and then she was tugging them off, I was lifting my hips, and before I could sit back down again her mouth was surrounding me, the slick muscle of her tongue gliding over me as my cockhead pushed against the inside of her cheek.

I'd never had a blowjob before. It was all I could do to keep from coming in her mouth right then and there, but I kept it under control, leaning back to make it easier for her and get a better, fascinated look at what she was doing -- the swift disappearance of my cock between her lips, the way her tongue would flick out against the underside, the movement of her fingers over my balls -- while I squeezed her tits together, spreading my fingers out to gather up as much of the warm flesh as possible.

Amy started humming, or maybe it was more of a moan, and she lifted herself up on her knees in order to bob her head down, until her lips were pressed tight around my base, her nose buried in my pubic hair, and I gasped -- by the time she was halfway up her withdrawal, those delicious lips stroking along me, I couldn't take it, and I came, the pent-up load taking her by surprise and filling her mouth. She recovered quickly, swallowing around my cockhead and sucking unbearably hard to squeeze out those last drops.

As blood began to seep back into my brain, I realized I was sitting in Mrs Cramer's living room and had just come in her mouth, that the tits I had fantasized about were in my hands and she was lovingly lapping at my cock to collect every bit of come she'd missed.

"Oh my God," I groaned.

She grinned at me, pulled back, and pulled her shirt off over her head. "Let's go upstairs, Simon. It's okay ... I think you'll be ready again soon enough." She led me back to the bedroom, her breasts bouncing subtly as she walked up the stairs, and peeled off her jeans when we reached the doorway, bending down to give me a close view of her pert, heart-shaped ass. She wasn't wearing any panties, and I found my hands on her hips, pulling her backwards to caress my limp cock between those smooth, biteable cheeks.

We'd both lost all our hesitations, and she stayed bent over for a moment, as she stepped out of her jeans, sliding her ass from left to right against my cock, playfully stroking me with it before standing back up and flopping onto the bed.

"Tell me what you like about me," she breathed, as I finished taking my clothes off and crawled across the bedcovers towards her. Her hands locked together around the back of my neck, pulling me in for a hungry, tonguey, messy kiss, and by the time she let go, by the time I could gasp for a breath and wonder that it was possible to be kissed so hard your lips hurt and you still liked it, I'd forgotten the question.

I started to kiss her neck, experimentally moving my tongue and teeth across her skin to see what she liked, when she tugged at my hair and asked again. "What do you like about me? What makes you so hard for me? Do you think about me when you jerk off?"

I nodded against her shoulder, scraping my teeth against her collarbone in a way that made her shiver again and clutch at my hair. "All the time. I'm always watching you -- in that garden. Crouched over, so I have a perfect view of your ass ..."

She took my hand and moved it around her, pushing her ass back into it. "Mmm, so you like my ass? What else?" She buried her face in the crook of my neck, licking it wet before biting down hard enough that -- because I was 17 -- at first I thought she was fighting with me.

"God," I half-whimpered, my hand exploring her ass, tracing the curve, moving down between the cheeks. "Your long legs. Your neck. Your tits. The way you look in that pink shirt. And now that I've seen it, your cu-- your pussy."

Amy pulled away from my neck and grinned at me mischievously, wriggling against my cock as it started to stiffen again. "Pussy isn't the word you were going to use. You were going to say cunt." I just nodded, apologetically, still playing with her ass, and she nipped my lower lip. "You can say it. It's just a word. You like that it's shaved?" She pushed against me, her bare sex touching my balls.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her towards my face, kissing her hotly, stroking the edges of her tongue with my teeth when I heard her whimper, and sucked it into my mouth before releasing it with a wet slurp. "I love your shaved cunt. You can feel how hard it makes me." I pushed back against her, grinding into her.

She pushed me onto my back and straddled me, her legs around my midsection, ass almost touching my cock. "Tell me again. Tell me you want my cunt." It was right in front of me, and she leaned back, arching her back to show off her perfectly-shaped tits as she slid a finger down into herself, bringing it back up wet and rubbing her clit.

I gripped her hips and pushed her down along my body, letting my cock slide over her ass and spring up in front of that gorgeous sight. "I want your cunt, Amy. Look at how hard you're making me. I want to be inside you. Look at how much I want to fuck that beautiful bare cunt."

And she did that thing, that thing women do so gracefully when they know what they're doing, a lifting roll of her hips that looked effortless but had been subject to so much fumbling in my previous sexual experiences, and brought her cunt down over me, sliding around my cock as though the fit were memorized by flesh and muscle.

She groaned, lifted herself up, and slammed down again, her thighs and jaw clenching as she rode me hard, the sheets bunching up under me and the headboard bumping against the wall. I held on tight to her hips until I found the rhythm, and then changed it, pulling her into my upward thrusts, making her hiss through her teeth as she arched her back, displaying her tits proudly in front of her. I pushed my heels against the mattress, leaning up on the pillows and burying my face between her breasts, kissing and biting the sides, coating her nipples with my tongue and pulling at them with my lips, sucking one deep into my mouth and pressing its hard firmness against the roof.

She reached between us, her fingers slicking over her clit, rubbing it with a practiced gesture, periodically shifting down to stroke the sides of my sliding shaft before it sank back into her. She leaned down, hair against my face, sweat on my skin, and whispered in my ear, "You wanted my ass, why don't you touch it? Spank it. Smack it. Take me."

My hands left her hips, one of them pushing at the small of her back and the other smacking down hard on her ass, making her grunt and grind down over my thighs, bouncing on her knees, her breasts rubbing over my face as her cunt began to slowly and enticingly bob up and down on my cock. Amy wrapped her free arm around my neck, stroking my hair and shoulders, holding me against her as I slapped her ass again, feeling the whimper in her throat temptingly close, and leaving her tits to scrape my teeth against the lines of her neck, feeling the shudder beneath the skin as I spanked her, harder and faster.

Each spank sent her fingers working faster on her clit, made the whimper rise up out of her throat and against my lips and teeth, clenched her tight around my cock, made her fingernails rake down the back of my neck, and she started to groan against the side of my head, voice thick and almost incoherent, "Come for me, come for me, come inside me!"

My hand came down on the hot skin of her ass and gripped her tight against me, pushing my hips into hers hard and moaning as her voice in my ear, her nails on my back, her tits in my face, made me come, not as strong as when I'd come in her mouth but more prolonged, a drawn-out, rolling release. I felt her contract around me as I throbbed my last, and her wet fingers pulled away, thrusting into my mouth so quickly and surprisingly that her nail caught on my lip, cutting it. I sucked the taste and the salt from her fingertips as I fell back on the pillows, and she collapsed against me, tits slick against the sweat of my chest, her orgasm hitting in purring spasms and shaky whimpers.

I'd tell you that it was only the start, that this was the beginning of my summer of lust, that I had her every way I ever dreamed of and some I didn't know were possible, that she taught me everything I know, that we reveled in the addiction to each other -- but that part would be a lie. It was just the one afternoon, and if we smiled a little differently when we saw each other, if we were sometimes awkward at neighborhood gatherings -- so it went, but the sexual tension remained simple tension, unbroken.