My name is Jeff and I had a live-in girlfriend named Cynthia. I was twenty-six, six-two and people said I resembled a young Jeff Bridges, but with more muscle. Cynthia was twenty-five, five-six, pretty, with a golden tan, like a late sunny afternoon. She had long blonde hair, the color of wheat, flowing down to the lower hollow of her back. I loved the way her muscles rippled under her skin when she moved-her flexing quad...