I can't believe I aced Mr. Kirby's final. Actually, yes, I can. Studied my butt off for it and that's the one I was worried about. Wonder how Roxanne-Doe-Eyes fared; she probably got the same grade even though all she does in class is admire her latest manicure. It's so obvious she has Mr. Kirby wrapped around her airbrushed pinky finger from the way his face lights up as if her boobs are about to pop her blouse every time she raises her hand. No matter. After this week, I won't have to set eyes on either one of them. Sunday is graduation and then I'll be free of Van Cortlandt High and its unfair-advantage class flirts forever.

My phone beeps with a text from Vonnie. She wants me to come over and take a look at her term paper. I text her back and we agree to meet Diandra at her place afterward.

There's also a message from Bryn that bears a photo of a half-naked couple in heat. The June sun of my mood recoils behind a thundercloud's black breath.

Like a masochist, I look.

Marc and Vicki are all over each other, competing in a mutual who-can-grab-the-most-booty contest. Must be from the Winslows' pool party last weekend.

Vicki's bikini pattern is Hideous Jungle, her behind is about eight sizes too big for the seat and her profile angle reminds me that, somewhere in cyberspace, there has to be a side-by-side montage of Vicki and a turkey vulture bearing the caption 'Separated At Birth.'  Rumor is, she blew the choir director to get her slot in the soprano section, a rumor everyone pretty much believes because she's tone-deaf. And no, that's not jealousy talking. None of the girls around her can get through a performance without wearing earplugs.

None of my friends can believe that after six months together, Marc would dump me for that face-to-stop-a-clock cow.

But Marc is grinning at her, not the camera. He's besotted. There is no cure for that.

After deleting Bryn's bad news--and nearly deleting its bearer--I can't put away the phone just yet. From my screensaver smiles the revitalizing jet stream that flings Hurricane Vicki out to sea. Anton Sivrett's iconic Midori-melon gaze is my instant high. Even though we've never met (and, at twenty-seven, he's got nine years and twenty-four days on me), his mouthwatering lips part expectantly for mine. His first hit song is my ringtone and the ticket stub from his White Plains concert adorns my dresser mirror.

I blow Anton a kiss and tenderly tuck him into my backpack.

Geez, too bad I'm not going to be able to use my phone when I leave for vacation next week. Aunt Denise's summer cottage is up near Quonnicut Light in Moose Bridge Harbor, about four hundred miles or so from us but on another planet technologically.  I mean, there's no internet provider in the region and the cell service is such crap you have to drive half a day to Brunswick for a decent signal. The only way I'll be able to keep in touch with Vonnie or anyone else back home is via Aunt Denise's ancient landline and rotary-dial phone. Oh, joy.

Before I leave, I'm going to have to find another way for Anton to keep me company while I'm in the back of beyond.

***

"Bryn can be such a bitch," Diandra declares, setting a bowl of farm-stand pears on the sun porch table. "Forget them. Chaz Stewart seems pretty interested in asking you out. I could have Duane drop a hint if you like." 

I'm beginning to regret this stop on the tour. Vonnie rolls her eyes. Chaz is terribly smart--got accepted for pre-law at Northwestern--but boring, and if I want immature, the 'Gong Show' is more entertaining.

"Give it up, Dee, " I sigh, exasperated. "Last week, Chaz drove a group of us from choir practice and what does he do when I'm the second to last to be dropped? Starts going back and forth with Steve Frawley, making up nicknames for Mr. McNamara after they caught him picking his nose during 'Face The Wind.' Utterly hysterical. I'd rather be single, thank you."

Not that I'll claim a MENSA membership or anything, but my sights are set higher than for someone stuck at that level of social buffoonery, a fact apparently lost on Diandra since she's been hooking up with Duane. In her own mind, she's become an expert on everyone else's sex life or lack of. How often do I have to tell her that I'm the one who is going to decide when I'll share that part of myself, and with whom?

Vonnie comes to my rescue. "Teri's saving herself for her Adonis...spelled A-N-T-O-N," she recites with histrionic flair. We all laugh, the tension broken. They know full well I have no desire to meet him in person, ever. Why risk ruining the mystique?

The mention of his name sends backstage-groupie ripples of excitement where I haven't touched myself in ages. Neither the time nor the place. Cool it, Teri.

Conversation shifts to where it belongs--summer plans. Vonnie has two more courses to finish before starting at Brookhaven College, and Diandra is joining Duane and his family in Dennisport for a month. As for me, I'm looking forward to a summer at the beach, my last one before starting my new job in the fall.

"Girl, I won't be envying you one bit." Vonnie gives me a sympathetic twist of her curly head. "Out in the middle of nowhere, dodging moose, water cold enough to turn you into a popsicle, no streaming movies or internet porn..."

"And Aunt Denise still has over-the-air tv, can you believe it?" I chime in cheerfully, remembering the cute weatherman on the Bangor station who brightened last summer's forecasts.

Diandra scowls. "I'd say that's a prison sentence, but even prisoners get cable." She buffs and bites a ripe Bartlett, and her eyes close in contentment. "Mmm, these are so good. My sister gets 'em at a stand on the way back from Newport. You've gotta try one."

"Oh, I couldn't. That's too long a drive. You enjoy," I protest before continuing, "I love Quonnicut Beach. It's within walking distance of the cottage and it's not costing me anything to stay there. So I can make a few allowances."

And I'll be away from Marc and Vicki's makeout selfies too, but Vonnie and Dee have already heard enough of that.

Vonnie snatches another pear from the table. "I'll have yours, then." She carves and samples a dripping slice. "Mm-mm-mmm."

"You might meet someone up there," Diandra slurps, in matchmaking mode again. "Have some fun for a change. You work too hard. Experiment a little before you have to settle down."

I have no plans either to settle or settle down. All I want is to explore the scenic outdoors, dig into a paperback during the rainy days and find a place near my bed for Anton's most simmering photo. Whatever this holiday brings, I plan to make the most of it.

While Vonnie isn't looking, I snatch a wedge from her plate, pop it in my mouth, and let its succulent freshness melt between tongue and palate. Dee's right about one thing--these are worth the trip.

***

For us seniors, this is our last day, which means early dismissal. On the walk home I tell Vonnie I'll call her later this afternoon, then we part ways at the usual spot.

I pick up the pace and break into a run. The stress of exams and choral programs has kept me from indulging certain other, um, impulses for nearly two weeks. Now those neglected desires are piling up like the Friday-night feed at a Thruway tollgate.

The driveway is empty and my insides give a jubilant kick. I turn the key in the back door and am greeted with a soundless vacancy on the other side--tacit permission to do what I need to do about this crazy horniness log-jamming my teenaged loins. I make a beeline for my room, drop the backpack and practically leap out of the light blue capris, leaving the hi-cuts in place. On the edge of the bed, I spread a doubled beach towel to keep the duvet in its pristine state.

Next, I hunt for the not-so-little helper to subdue the randiness. I pull the dresser drawer open and inhale spiced orange and balsam while rifling stacks of folded, faded t-shirts. In seconds, the secret weapon is lifted from its laundered-cotton nest. It resembles an oversize vocal microphone, a parody of something Anton wielded onstage in White Plains when his headset failed. He hadn't missed a beat. I was so proud of him.

Anton's Mic. Perfect. Yes, that's what I'll call it.

My older cousin, Sharyn, got it for me as an eighteenth birthday present. This is only the third time I've used it. The first time, I came in less than a minute and it didn't feel nearly as satisfying as using fingers. It's such a turn-on to try different methods, though. Perhaps more practice will yield better results.

Miniature handsprings run tumbling passes between my legs as I grasp the smooth, tapered shaft in my hand and remember it pressed up against my...oooh. These straining hormones need to be let off the leash, and soon.

With the click of a switch, the large white bulb protruding from the thick end whirs into a whipped-cream blur. I perch on the toweled bed edge, feet on the floor, knees an open invitation. It's a safe bet the ignored dresser mirror is catching my face looking downward with intent, hair tumbled forward, shoulders tense with concentration. Carefully I aim the shimmying protuberance over the taut triangle of white cotton and apply it just above where below-the-belt cleavage would begin.

Wow. Right away it feels...wow. Electric. I lean back onto the bed and reap instant sensory benefits. Oooh. What a delicious invention. If the ceiling had eyes, it would see a nearly-naked girl with an oscillating microphone pointed at her panties...and the gleefully bitten lip the new toy inspires.

Following the natural dip, I slide the bulb down a couple of inches. Whoops, too much. I wince and hastily reconnect it as before. No two ways about it; my button will have to be stalked with much more subtlety than the manual approach requires. Bathed in pleasant ripples of battery-powered wavelengths, I plot other ways to refocus the device's powerful needles of stimulation without causing a Game Over moment.

Little by little, I drag the wand over to the right and down onto the vanilla-Milano cushion between my slit and inner thigh. Oh. There. Yes, that's right. Oh, wow.  It feels as if I'm connected by humming wires to a perpetual arousal machine that's blending all points south of the border into a single quivering sweet spot. Countless tiny, teasing, tingling frequencies wriggle through the soft fabric hugging my sex. Soo good. My toes tighten their hug of the hardwood floor.

Omigosh. I start to imagine wand-equipped seats in the seniors' classrooms, in cinemas, on trains...and their mind-blowing effects on all occupants.

What if Mr. Kirby's chair could be outfitted to give him a deviant surprise? What would he do if the magic switch were thrown while he was in the midst of grading papers? I picture his pen skidding to a halt in a moment of disbelief, followed by a discreet shuffle of attempted evasion. He can't get up though; he's already starting to bulge. In this fantasy, the vibrating modification is equipped with cock-detecting sensors that adjust and pinpoint with ruthless purpose. My former teacher doesn't stand a chance.

His consent is marked by a telltale flap of his tie as he repositions for more effective contact. What would the device look like for the male anatomy? A sleeve can't really be employed while the user is clothed, can it? But a knob like this one...oh yes, that would work just fine...

The stalked button stiffens at this and accepts more of the remotely applied resonance.

Could Mr. Kirby remain quiet under the secret spinner's most acute influence?

I lower the mesmerizing marshmallow puff a bit more. Oooh. The tingling is tugging at my inner lips and tapping into their lusty little aquifer.

Ohhh...he's desperately trying not to let on...clenching his jaw...sucking in his lips...all he can do is hope he can hold on...hold on...until at last, the bell rings and launches an outgoing stampede that covers his intoxicating rupture and uncontrollable gasps.

He keeps Roxanne-Doe-Eyes after class to kneel out of sight. Violet nails glitter along his zipper; gazing-ball backside juts the seat-faded jeans planted obscenely between his polished, parted loafers. She peels back his briefs and licks away the sopping evidence before it can finish soaking through.

She keeps going. Kitty-cat tongue prods overheated manicotti into leaking Louisville Slugger all over again...causing another mess...

Or I could do it for him...

The idea is outrageous.

Outrageously arousing.

My teased skin beseeches me to remove its cloth barrier. It craves direct contact and the very idea makes me even hornier. Bare lips, big bulb...imagine how sexy that duo would look in the mirror, except it feels much too good to get up and move one. The decision has been made for me--the panties need to go. I sit up, wriggle them down until they coil softly over my feet, and lie back on the bed once again.

Ohhh! What a difference! So much...I don't know...naughtier? With nothing (and I do mean nothing--the landscape is smooth) to buffer the too-sensitive, narrow oasis from overstimulation, I have to keep the monster marshmallow pressed to one side, riding the outer lip's protective dune.

Anton's Mic might need to stay right where it is, but it's not going to let me shut it down until its dirty little seismic mission is accomplished. I can feel my button popping up like a date palm as if it's trying to reach for even more attention than it's already getting. My wrist obliges and tilts the bulb, increasing pressure.

Wow. High-velocity RPMs reverberate closer to their intended target. I feel daring and rock the wand slightly. Crazy good. I do it again. The aquifer seethes; its juices start to lick their way out of the untouched inner lips.

The perpetual arousal machine is having its way with my fluting in more ways than the obvious. On an unseen level, the conscious, tight-lipped virgin is masked and anesthetized, and free to rise in her place is a wide-open slut ready to take on all hard-ons in need of instant gratification.  

Strap me into a glory hole and line 'em up, the wide-open slut pleads. One at a time, fellows.

What is going on here? What is this thing doing to me?

No questions. Just shut up and let yourself get fucked.

What?!

I close my eyes. The angle of view broadens.

There are strange men waiting. They've already loosed stiff cocks from nuisances like belts and buttons and don't care how absurdly exposed they look with pants dropped around knees or ankles. They're fondling themselves as they watch the first take his turn. Alpha-male leans forward, glutes brutishly flexed, and plunges seven inches of man-horn deep out of sight between my secured thighs and flailing calves.

Anton is nowhere to be found in this queue or within the workings of the perpetual arousal machine. Neither is Mr. Kirby. This is about something different, something much cruder. There are no faces, only strategic ramrod nakedness.

Where is all this coming from? Anton, where are you?!

One guy with trousers off jumps the line and barges behind the glory hole's wall. He climbs over my face and all I can see is the massive, ruddy muscle of his short but super-thick boner which he shoves past my astonished lips. It feels as if I'm being gagged with a tennis ball.

I told you--no questions!

In my present predicament, I want it. Have to have it. They can do as they please.

The men watching stroke their erections with greedy fingers, their impatience marked by bulging glossy crowns and rigid, streaked shafts. The isometric of trying to open my legs for their wicked hardness is enough to allow the off-centered bulb to unfurl its most devious tentacles over my uncovered, trembling slit.

Done with passivity, I thrust upward into the bulb. Ohhh...yesss...feels...oh yes...do it do it DO IT...

The long-dormant inner fireworks are on the verge of exploding. Just as the first raging cock bottoms out inside me and bursts into cream-strewn relief, triggering the next one in line to blow his load all over his own hand, they blast off in a searing flash.

I suppress the sounds boiling in my throat--the houses are too close together for dead-giveaway vocal outbursts--and in silence, straddle the superheated rockets that roar through the Climax Zone.

It's an all-too-short spin. I wait for the sparklers to fizzle.

This time feels different. Anton's Mic directs me to ease up rather than shut down altogether. For a lull of uncounted seconds, the mollified desire simmers, then I feel it regather and surge toward critical mass. My wrist obeys and guides the bulb to where my pulse points are screaming.

Ooohhh...ohhh...rrrhhh...it's happening again...ohhh yesss...

A different anonymous thrust penetrates to the hilt; a raw confession escapes from its perpetrator that he can feel me coming all over his cock. The earthiness of that admission breaks another guy who's looking and wanking. It's too late for him to pull his hand away and his cum ejects in vigorous streams that Pollock-paint the shirttails and bared buttocks waiting ahead of him. Astride my shoulders, the line-jumper jams his thickly muscled tool toward my throat until his balls are prickling my chin. The fuck-urge overtakes, mounts and ravishes virgin-Teri-as-wide-open-slut yet again, and my lower belly shudders through another mechanically tongued climax.

Only after that do the waves lengthen, then flatten. Somewhere beneath the imploded date palm, a sensory appestat registers 'enough.' I switch off Anton's Mic and sever the perpetual arousal machine's dirty dominance.

The filth of the hardcore queue dissipates, the room returns to sanitized sunlit brightness and the tight-lipped virgin awakens with no memory of her shameless alter-ego. My legs drape limply off the bed. Only the huff of breathing can be heard in the midday suburban hush.

Wow...my first double-orgasm. Ever. The concept was always nothing more than lore and legend, printed promises unrealized, until now. I feel as if I've gained membership to some exclusive erotic club whose gated cabana I've been trying to figure out how to crash...and I've not only been handed the key but escorted to the swim-up bar.

Dazed and elated at my breakthrough, I momentarily forget that Anton's Mic will be yet another electronic device I'll be forced to do without for the summer.

***

A few days and a shiny diploma later, Mom is driving me and my duffle bag to Aunt Denise's retreat. Secure with a little pocket money saved from an after-school job and flush with euphoric expectations of a summer by the sea, I need nothing more.

We arrive at the silver-shingled cottage as the northern twilight phases into sapphire depths. Aunt Denise welcomes us with strong hugs on the porch and still-warm wild raspberry cobbler around the Formica table. After cups of rose-hip tea are consumed, she encourages us to get settled, as Mom will be returning home day after tomorrow.

Parallel twin beds line the tiny guest room where I'll be staying. I set my duffle on the one I won't sleep in, and excitedly begin to unpack. The plain oak dresser and compact clothes rack soon thrive with the colors of occupancy. Best of all, Anton half-smiles at the perfect angle from his digital frame on the nightstand.

I'm glad I've closed the thin door against the chatter from the sitting room as I unfold my travel-cramped limbs onto the soft bed, gaze into my favorite fellow's eyes, untie the drawstring of my cotton shorts, and with practiced hands, inaugurate my new quarters in a way that will be repeated as often as I can get away with it.

To be continued...