Friday, July 4th, 1997

“Independence Day,” Heather corrected her mother testily.

“What’s that, dear?” Mrs. Meinders asked distractedly.

“The holiday is called Independence Day, not the Fourth of July,” Heather repeated.  She breathed out a sigh of exasperation. She had argued this point with countless people over the years.  It was a major pet-peeve of hers. “Do we call Halloween, October thirty-first? Do we say ‘Happy December twenty-fifth’? No!  This is the only holiday that people refuse to call by its real name.”

Her mother didn’t seem to be as interested in the debate as Heather.  “Well, whatever it’s called, we’re supposed to take these baked beans and this pasta salad to the cookout this evening.”  She pointed to a large Pyrex dish, and a sealed Tupperware container on the counter. “Would you be helpful and take those out to the car for me?  Make sure they don’t spill.”

Heather reluctantly took up the pan of baked beans in both hands.  It was still warm and she could smell the vague aroma of brown sugar and—and—well, whatever else it was that her mom put in baked beans—that was the only ingredient she was sure of.  Whatever else was in there, it smelled delicious.

Heather had always enjoyed Independence Day.  Every year, her little town held a town-wide cookout in the evening.  It typically featured lots of food, lots of adult beverages, and then the whole thing wrapped up with a nice fireworks display.  Nothing spectacular, but not bad for a little town of about a thousand people.

However, this year, she was not really looking forward to the event.  She had just turned twenty years old, and had just completed her sophomore year in college.  She remembered all the questions from last year’s event. “How’s school?” “Picked a major yet?” “How many more years you got?” and on, and on, and on.  She was so sick of those questions. She had already resolved to simply find a nice quiet table someplace and ride out the evening.

“Are Tracy and Mitch going to be there this evening?” Mrs. Meinders asked distractedly, as Heather returned to the kitchen to retrieve the Tupperware bowl filled with pasta salad.

“No, they’re both out of town this weekend,” Heather explained, a note of regret in her voice.  She checked the lid on the bowl, to make sure it was secure, before lamenting, “I sure wish they were here.  It would make tonight go a lot faster.”

“Well,” her mother started, “don’t just mope around all night.  Try to mingle. Meet some people. Talk to people you haven’t seen in a while.  Have a good time.” As Mrs. Meinders picked up a bottle of Italian dressing off the countertop, she stated, “You know, Jimmy got a divorce this past winter.”  She opened the refrigerator door to put the dressing away before adding, “I always thought you two made a nice couple.” The tone of her voice was a clear indication that she was trying to drop a hint.

Heather was just about to explain to her mother that she would rather tongue-kiss a horse than spend one more minute with Jimmy, when her father burst through the door.

“Aren’t you gals ready yet?” he complained.  “We should have been there already.”

Without another word, Heather picked up the pasta salad and followed her parents outside.

It was a sweltering July evening.  Heather knew it would be, so she had chosen her outfit for the evening very carefully—the shortest pair of jean shorts she owned and a red spaghetti-strap tank top.  Okay, so it was actually the second-shortest pair of shorts she owned, but it was the shortest pair she felt like she could wear outside of a nightclub and not get arrested—especially in her hometown.  It was a nice little pair of cutoff jean shorts that had once been a pair of jeans, ruined by a barbed wire fence.

Despite her attire—or lack thereof—she was still burning up.  She ran a hand through her short-cropped, spiky black hair and realized she was already sweating.  The heat, however, had not satiated her appetite. As she stepped into the park, she was instantly greeted by a thousand wonderful smells, especially the hamburgers and hotdogs cooking on the oversized grill.  Mmmmm, meat. It had been a long time since she’d had a good thick piece of meat in her mouth.

Like a lot of girls in college, she’d been experimenting with becoming a vegetarian.  She’d started in late April, and had made it a solid two months without eating meat. But as soon as she smelled those hotdogs, and heard those burgers sizzling, she knew that her willpower would come crashing down in just a few moments—she just couldn’t resist.

Half-an-hour later, Heather eagerly took her place in line, with a slotted, Styrofoam plate in hand.  It was an enormous spread with twice as much food as the entire town could eat. Everyone had brought something different.  As she glanced down the table, she could see about five different types of baked beans, and several casserole dishes she couldn’t quite identify.

“I’m telling you, it’s Independence Day!” she heard a vaguely familiar voice blurt out.  Her eyebrows raised, and she turned to see her father’s best friend, Wilbur Wilberforce. No shit, that was his real name. Heather always assumed his parents must have given him that name because they hated him.  As she reached for a hotdog bun, she listened to Wilbur repeat her exact argument, nearly word-for-word.

“We don’t call any other holiday by its date do we?” He asked with a thick redneck drawl.  “We don’t call Groundhog Day, February second, do we? Or St. Patrick’s Day, March seventeenth?”

Heather couldn’t resist.  “I have been telling people that for years!” she exclaimed, catching Wilbur’s attention.  “I just told my mom that an hour ago!”

“See, this girl here knows what it’s all about,” Wilbur said as a way of acknowledging her.  He then did a double take as he seemed to realize who he was talking to. “Woo! Is that you, Heather? I hardly recognized you with your hair all chopped up like that.”

Heather smiled and felt a strange mix of being flattered, and uncomfortable, as one of her father’s closest friends clearly ran his eyes up and down the length of her body.

“Well, don’t that beat all,” he said, “I haven’t seen you since you graduated high school.”

Both of them started working their way through the line and Heather momentarily forgot Wilbur’s presence.  She started piling her plate with a hotdog, baked beans, deviled eggs, potato chips, and a number of other items, when Wilbur caught her attention once more.

“See here, Heather,” Wilbur commented, motioning her towards one of the tables.  “We got twenty different kinds of potato salad to choose from. There’s mustard potato salad, mayonnaise potato salad, Amish potato salad, potato salad with onions, and potato salad without onions,” he paused and scratched his nose with his fork.  “And if none those are up your alley, we got fifteen different kinds of macaroni salad, three-bean salad, spinach salad, pasta salad, fruit salad, Jell-O salad, taco salad, carrot salad,” he stopped, and took an overly-dramatic deep breath, “and if none of them floats your boat, they got just plain ol’ salad-salad too.”

Heather genuinely laughed.  That was what she had always loved about Wilbur.  Every time he was around, he made her laugh. She reached for a spoon and plopped a large helping of the ‘mustard potato salad without onions’ onto her plate, and took it over to a table where she felt she would be removed from the large mass of people.

She had just sat down when she threw her head back in frustration.  She had forgotten to get something to drink. “Now I’m going to have to get up and leave my food sitting here for the flies,” she moaned quietly to herself.

However, before she could even rise from her seat, she once again noticed Wilbur drifting in her direction—with the clear intention of sitting at her table.  He was holding two bottles of beer in his hand.

“You look like someone who forgot her drink,” he said knowingly.  “Have one of these. I was planning on drinkin’ ‘em both myself, but I can get more later.”

Heather accepted the bottle and started to twist open the cap.  “But I’m only twenty,” she said sheepishly.

“If anyone asks, you’re twenty-one, but you couldn’t fit your ID in them shorts you’re wearin’,” he said with a wink.  “I’ll vouch for you.”

“Thanks,” Heather said again meagerly.

“No one will ask though,” he added with a coy smile.  “I don’t think anyone really cares too much if you’re drinkin’ a beer.”  He pulled a chair away from the round table and sat down caddy-corner from Heather, settling in and stretching.  He wore a dingy, tan mechanic’s shirt, which was untucked, and a bit too short for his torso. As he stretched, the shirt lifted up, revealing his hairy stomach.

Heather couldn’t help but glance.  She’d never given a second thought to Wilbur’s appearance before, but now she realized that his stomach didn’t have an ounce of fat on it.  Hell, he damn near had a six-pack—and well-tanned too. It was the stomach of a man who spent hard hours outside, fixing fence and working on his machinery, without his shirt on.

He seemed to notice her gaze and tugged at his shirt a little, in a halfhearted effort to cover himself up.

Heather came to her senses and blushed.  She sipped at her beer, half-expecting the town police officer to pop out of the shadows at any second and arrest her for underage drinking.  But that never happened, and as she finished off the first bottle, Heather began to realize that Wilbur had been right, no one cared.

The two sat and ate their meal together, making awkward conversation.  At least, it was awkward to begin with. As they got used to each other, and Heather relaxed a little with her second beer (which she retrieved herself out of the large ice-filled metal tub), she laughed at his corny jokes, and told a few of her own.  Once she even caught herself fiddling with her hair—the way she always did when talking to a guy she really liked—or at least, so her friends claimed.

“You should have seen that fuckin’ badger!” Wilbur wailed as he told her a story about when he and her dad were kids.  “It was so cotton-pickin’ mad! Ol’ Jim ran like I never seen ‘im run before. Didn’t stop ‘til we was all the way back to the house.”

Heather let out a full-fledged belly laugh.  It felt so good to laugh, and more importantly, it felt so good to be treated like an adult again.  While she was at college, her friends, classmates, and professors all treated her like an adult. But as soon as she came home, her parents, her old high school teachers, and everyone else, still acted as if she was a little girl.  But Wilbur was different. Wilbur didn’t talk to her like she was still a child. He was talking to her the same way he would if she were “one of the guys.” She appreciated that on a level she couldn’t fully comprehend.

After two helpings of food, and a six-pack of bottles between the two of them, Heather eased back in her chair and pushed away from the table a bit.  It was still smoldering hot, and she raised her arms up over her head in a stretching fashion. She felt a breeze tickle at the perspiration on her underarms, momentarily making her feel cooler.

This time it was her turn to show off her tummy.  She didn’t do it consciously of course, but as she stretched, her shirt lifted up, displaying her own, tight abdominal region.  The cast of Wilbur’s gaze was unmistakable. His eyes became solidly fixed on Heather’s tummy, and then drifted down to her bare legs, which were now visible since she had scooted away from the table.

Earlier, when he had so obviously checked her out at the food table, she had found it slightly uncomfortable.  But now, as his eyes lingered longer than they should have, she discovered that she didn’t mind in the slightest.  In fact, she couldn’t resist the temptation to spread her legs ever so slightly, just to tease him. He clearly noticed and seemed to suddenly feel the need to readjust himself in his seat.  She rested her hands behind her head, purposefully leaving her bare tummy exposed.

Wilbur seemed to realize that she had caught him staring, but neither one minded.  They sat there a moment, exchanging glances for a few more seconds. Wilbur seemed to be trying to decide whether he wanted to continue checking out her tummy and legs, or lock onto the intense gaze she was now fixing him with.

They had momentarily fallen into an incredibly comfortable silence, eyeing each other up—as if both of them were deciding what their next move should be.  Unfortunately, the moment didn’t last long. Heather’s father must have had an internal warning sensor activate, because he suddenly materialized from nowhere, and occupied a third seat at the table.  He glanced at the beer bottles in front of Heather, but seemed to choose to ignore them.

With the unexpected addition of Jim Meinders, the vibe at the table changed completely.  Wilbur and his old friend started yucking it up, and, despite Wilbur’s obvious efforts to keep Heather involved in the conversation, she could sense that the moment—whatever it had been—was over.  Her father had succeeded in relegating her back to ‘little girl’ status, complete with a story about a time when she had gotten sick at school when she was seven years old, and Wilbur had picked her up and taken her home, because Mom was busy working and Dad was at the cattle sale.

Heather decided to dismiss herself from the table, but as she did, she couldn’t help but grin mischievously at Wilbur, and politely whispered, “talk to you later,” as a way of parting.  As she stood up, she could have sworn that he had subtly winked at her—or was that just her imagination.

Heather sat down at the table her mother was at, but found herself glancing back towards Wilbur and her father.  She realized that the two men had graduated together, meaning that Wilbur must be forty-one, same age as her father—give or take a year, maybe.

As she studied him, she took in the man for what he was—a man.  He had sort of floppy, curly blond hair that always seemed to be dirty.  In fact, everything about Wilbur always seemed to be dirty. His hair. His clothes.  His hands. About a week’s worth of facial hair covered his cheeks and chin, and a tuft of chest hair was clearly visible, protruding from the neck of his short-sleeved button-up shirt.  He was not particularly attractive—she thought—but he certainly wasn’t ugly either. He looks sort of like a grungy and less well-manicured version of Bo Duke from the Dukes of Hazzard, Heather thought to herself uncertainly.  One thing was certain though, he exuded masculinity from every pore of his body.  She had felt it—sensed it, really—when they were at the table together.

Heather continued to watch.  He scratched himself. He burped.  He picked at the ear wax in his ear with his little finger.  A pack of cigarettes made the front pocket of his shirt bulge noticeably.  All these things would have repulsed her normally, but for some reason, all she could think about was how much she wanted to go back over to that table—without her dad there, of course.

Mrs. Meinders managed to thoroughly distract her, encouraging her to help with clearing away plates, taking trash bags to the dumpster, and returning uneaten food items to the car.  After that, there was a community-wide softball game, for all those who wanted to play. Heather watched from the bleachers with her mother. When Wilbur came up to bat, the emotions she had felt earlier returned and she caught herself eyeing him up in the batter’s box.

By about 9:30, she had nearly managed to get the impure thoughts about her father’s friend out of her head.  The fireworks show was getting ready to start and everyone was making their way towards the grassy area of the park. Each year, families would fold out blankets, sit on the hill, and watch the fireworks.  Everyone had their own little spot—the same place where their family had sat for years. And of course, everyone believed that they had the best spot.

Heather’s mood had become a bit melancholy.  The alcohol she had drunk with her supper had worn off and, without the buzz, she felt strangely empty.  With her head down, she moped across the grass, blanket in hand.

“Psst! Hey, Heather!” she heard a loud whisper coming from behind a tree she had just passed.  She turned to see who was calling to her. It was Wilbur. Her mood instantly changed. She burst into a beaming smile and practically ran towards him.

“I’ve got a better spot to watch the fireworks from, if you’re interested?” he stated the last part as a question.

“Absolutely,” Heather replied without hesitation.  She quickly followed him away, glancing around to make sure her parents, or no one else, was watching, but everyone was too intent on finding their special spot to watch the display from.

Wilbur led her to his pickup.  It was an old, beat-up 1985 Ford.  As Heather gripped the door handle, she vividly recalled the day Wilbur had bought it.  He had brought it by the house to show her father. She hesitated for a moment, her hand still on the door handle.  She briefly wondered where he was taking her—but she decided she didn’t care. She was up for an adventure, of any kind.

Besides, she had already made a mental leap where Wilbur was concerned. She no longer saw him as “her father’s friend”.  Now, he was just a man. A man who seemed to be interested in her—at least for the night.

As soon as the doors shut on his pickup, and he fired the engine up, their conversation instantly returned to the level it had been at, prior to her dad’s arrival.  He started talking to her casually, as one adult would speak to another, and it made her feel perfectly at ease. He made her laugh and smile. She didn’t even pay attention to where he was taking her, nor did she care.

The drive wasn’t a long one.  Wilbur pulled the pickup into a pasture not too far away from town.  He stopped at the edge of a hill and they crawled out of the vehicle to survey the area.  They could see the town park from where they were. Small faint lights danced around like fireflies, but Heather knew they were children running around with flashlights, playing games in the dark.

“You can see the fireworks perfectly from here,” Wilbur said matter-of-factly.  “All them people don’t realize that they’re sitting too close. Gotta be back aways to truly enjoy fireworks.  Who wants to crane their neck like that?”

Heather unfolded her blanket and laid it out on the sloping grass in front of the pickup.  Wilbur produced an ice chest from the pickup bed, and set it down next to the blanket. He opened it and withdrew two cans of beer.  “Want one?” he asked politely.

Heather accepted it, without responding.  As she played with the top of the can, flicking ice off with her finger, she finally said, with a hint of flirtation in her voice, “I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk, Wilbur.”

Wilbur played innocent.  “Who me? I’d never dream of it.  Just being friendly, is all.”

“Sure, sure,” Heather responded as she popped the top.  Suddenly feeling a strong desire to show off, she pressed the beer to her lips and started chugging it as fast as she could.  All twelve ounces were gone in a matter of seconds and the look on Wilbur’s face indicated that she had succeeded in impressing him.

“Good God,” he said softly.  “Where’d you learn how to do that?” he asked.

Heather laughed.  “Out in a pasture, just like this one,” she said honestly.  “In fact, let’s see,” she thought about it for a moment, “first time I ever chugged a beer like that—successfully—was on the old McAlister place.  Right after harvest, three years ago.” Heather eased down onto the blanket, before adding, “Give me another.”

“Yes, ma’am,” was Wilbur’s only reply.

The two relaxed on the blanket, drinking beer and enjoying each other’s company in the fading dusk, with only the faint glow of Wilbur’s parking lights providing light.  The sounds of “Flowers on the Wall” by the Statler Brothers could be heard from the pickup stereo. They talked back and forth, told jokes, and exchanged stories as they waited for the fireworks to start.  Heather told Wilbur about some of the drunken adventures she’d had in pastures throughout her high school years.

“Oh, you’re not the only one,” he admitted.  “Even back in my day, we would go out to the middle of nowhere.  Set up a bonfire. Get drunk. Make out. You know, just have fun.”

“Yeah,” Heather agreed simply, her mind wistfully remembering some of the more fun times she had in high school.

Just then, the first explosion lit up the sky.  Heather immediately knew that Wilbur was right. The view from this spot was breathtaking.  She’d watched the town’s fireworks display nearly twenty times, but never had it felt quite like this.

As she watched, she leaned back, to an almost laying-down position, but resting her elbows on the ground and propping her shoulders up.  A moment later, Wilbur did the same thing, and she found herself just inches away from him. It was easily the closest she had been to him since she was a little girl and used to sit in his lap.

He looked her in the eyes.  This time, their eyes locked on each other, there was no glancing anywhere else, just each of them, fixed on the other's eyes.

Trying to keep the mood light, Heather said, “Let me guess, you bring all the girls out here to watch the fireworks.” Their faces were moving closer together.

“Just the ones I really like,” Wilbur whispered as his lips met hers.

His lips were dry and cracked, but that’s how she expected them to be.  His tongue instantly found its way into her mouth, and his arm wrapped around her back.  The fireworks continued to go off in the distance, but Heather no longer cared—she’d seen fireworks before.  She could barely even hear them.

The dam had finally burst.  From the moment he had first checked her out, the sexual tension had been building.  That tension erupted violently as their tongues stabbed in and out of each other’s mouths.  Her hands worked under his shirt, feeling his firm stomach. She had it unbuttoned in no time.  For some reason, all she could think about was seeing him shirtless—an overwhelming thought that had plagued her since that moment at the table when she had seen his stomach.

Likewise, Wilbur’s hands had similar intentions.  They were big, manly hand, calloused in all the right places.  She could feel their roughness as he glided them up under her tank top, feeling her torso.  Then, he lifted her shirt off over her head.

He gently pressed her to the blanket, and she laid on her back, giving him full control of the situation.  He reached down and tugged off her shorts. With a start, she realized that she was laying out under the stars in her bra and panties, while a forty-one-year-old man took her clothes off.  It drove her wild with excitement.

He slipped a hand inside her panties, and she felt his strong fingers touch her between the legs.  Softly, he massaged the mound where her pubic hair would have been, had she had any.

“That feels good,” escaped her lips, as she spread her legs apart further.

A moment later, she felt the elastic begin to slide down, as he slipped her panties completely off.  She went ahead and sat up, removing her bra for him as well. She flung it away from her (a little further than she had intended).  She then eased back onto the blanket, letting the wind kiss her completely naked body. It felt glorious, without a stitch of clothing on, laying out under the glow of the moon and the continuing fireworks.  Suddenly, she realized it was not just the wind kissing her naked body. Wilbur’s lips tickled her tummy, then her breasts, as he sucked each nipple. A hand returned to her midsection, and she felt a finger casually slip inside her.

“Hey now,” she said softly.

“What’s wrong?” Wilbur asked.

“I’m stark naked, and you’re still half-clothed,” Heather explained.  “We should fix that.”

“Oh, I see, I see,” Wilbur responded.  He stood up and unzipped his jeans. Heather pulled downward, letting the pants fall around his ankles.  She gasped in shock, for two reasons. First, she discovered that Wilbur was going commando. As soon as she had pulled the jeans down, his cock sprung out in front of her—which obviously, she had not been anticipating.  Second…

“Oh my God, you’re huge!” Heather stammered through a fit of giggling.  It was an involuntary comment, she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It just sort of… came out.

Wilbur laughed.  “Well, thanks,” replied.

As Heather examined the cock in front of her, she felt the need to elaborate.  “I mean, you’re not like, ‘black guy, porn-star huge, but you’re pretty big. Like, biggest-dick-I’ve-ever-seen-in-person, big.”  She gazed up at him, a devilish grin crossing her face. “And I want it,” she added, licking her lips nervously.

She reached out and touched Wilbur’s member for the first time.  It was already rock hard, but Heather imagined it getting even harder as she took the shaft in her hand.  She leaned forward, she wasn’t even sure if she could take the entire thing in her mouth—but fuck, she was sure going to try.

Heather’s tongue flicked out, licking at the head of his cock for a few seconds, before getting up the nerve to take it in her mouth.  She opened wide. Closed her eyes. Felt it fill her mouth completely. She moved her tongue and relaxed her jaw, trying to accommodate his girth as best she could.  She slurped it in and out of her mouth, and amazingly, she could feel it getting even larger and more engorged as she continued to suck.

She fondled his balls in her hand.  They were low-slung and swayed back and forth as they moved.  As she fell into a rhythm, taking his cock in and out of her mouth, his midsection filled her view.  She could see his hairy thighs, and his pubic hair.

A thought quickly crossed her mind.  How would Dad react if he saw me sucking Wilbur’s cock in the middle of a pasture?  But the thought was quickly washed from her mind as Wilbur thrust his cock a little further towards the back of her throat.  She nearly gagged, but managed to adjust. She gripped his waist, holding onto him firmly as she attempted to fuck him with her mouth.

“Are you ready for it?” he asked through panted breathing.

His question had almost not come soon enough.  She barely had time to register what he meant, when he erupted.  Her mouth was flooded with his salty cum. It had a strong flavor that was almost overpowering (with an aftertaste that she could still detect the next morning).  She’d tasted other men’s cum before, but there was something different about this. Somehow, it seemed more—there was only one word for it—manly.

After the final spurts of fluid landed on her tongue and slid down her throat, she slipped the cock back into her mouth and nursed him erect once more.  After his dick was once again aroused, he came back down to Heather’s level. He encouraged her to lay back down on the blanket, which she did eagerly.

As she lay on the blanket, feeling his sweet kisses on her breasts, tummy, and then thighs, Heather suddenly realized that the fireworks were over.  She had no idea when the show had concluded, nor was she aware of how much time had passed. The only sounds that could be heard were the buzzing of the insects and the sound of Wilbur’s kisses against her naked skin.

He began positioning himself on top of her.  Heather knew what he was ready for. She spread her thighs apart, and he pressed his member up against the folds of her labia.  She was so wet, she knew he wouldn’t need an ounce of lubricant of any kind. She felt the head of Wilbur’s cock push inside her, and then, very slowly, he thrust in all the way.

It was slow going at first.  He filled her completely. She could feel the walls of her pussy stretching to the limits to accommodate him.  She squirmed, her ass shook uncontrollably underneath him. It hurt, yet, felt incredible at the same time.

“Fuck!” she moaned.        

As he began fucking her, slowly, gently, she wrapped her arms around him.  She felt his strong back muscles. She stared up at his muscular, hairy chest and couldn’t resist bringing her hands around, and massaging it.  As her tight little box became used to his size, his strokes became quicker. In a matter of minutes, he was pounding her full force, thrusting every thought from her mind other than his incredible cock.

She dug her heels into the blanket and tried desperately to spread her legs apart even more, hoping to take him even deeper inside her.  Suddenly, a delicious thought occurred to her. With extreme effort. She raised her trembling legs and wrapped them around his torso, so that she was practically hanging from him.

This sent him into a tantric frenzy of fucking.  He grabbed her ass and started thrusting her in and out, up and down, rather than his cock.  Heather had never experienced anything like it before. Her chest was pressed against his—their bodies, one.

He eased her shoulders back down to the blanket.  He rested on his knees and started ploughing her at a downward angle—something Heather had only seen done in a porno she had once watched.  She looked up at him, unsure if she’d be able to speak, but finally managed to pant, “Take me from behind. Please. I want it.”

Wilbur pulled his dick out of her, and rolled her over, letting Heather get to her knees.  She had only just assumed the position, when she felt his huge cock slam back inside her. There’s the deeper penetration I’ve been looking for, she thought to herself as she rolled her hips and arched her back.  Her elbows began to tremble, and she allowed the front half of her body to fall to the blanket, giving him a better angle.  His strong hands gripped her torso firmly, working her back and forth on his shaft.

As he pounded her, she looked out and noticed she was facing the area where she had seen the flashlights earlier.  For just a split second, her mind raced back to when she had been one of those children, playing tag with the flashlights, before the fireworks show.  She’d known Wilbur back then. And now, here he was, behind her, fucking her doggy style in the moonlight.

The thoughts were gone in a flash though, as Wilbur once again changed positions on her.  He pulled out and repositioned her underneath him, returning to a more a traditional missionary position.  As he resumed his thrusting, she lost herself completely in his glorious lovemaking.  

She stared up at him, and once again felt his hairy chest.  The chest of an older, more mature man. The chest of a grizzled man who had almost certainly had countless women. The chest of a much more experienced man than she had ever been with.

Just then, his breathing changed.  He thrust deep inside her and his strokes quickened.  She reached down and held him tightly, almost willing him even deeper inside her.  She knew he was cumming and, at that moment, all she could think about was how much she wanted his cum inside her.

He collapsed on top of her and she was quite helpless to move, even if she had wanted to.  She buried her face in his chest, smelling his sweat, and his masculinity. Those arms that seemed to be constantly dirty.  All she wanted now was to feel those arms wrapped around her. Those big, calloused hands. All she wanted was to feel them all over her body.

His dick grew limp and slipped out of her pussy.  On one level, she had no desire to move, but on another, she knew there was something else she desperately wanted.  “Wilbur,” she managed to whisper, her voice exhausted.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, with a note of humor.

“Could you—” Heather started, but she almost felt ashamed.  She’d never asked for it before. “Could you finish me? I’m so close—I mean, really close.  Please?”

Wilbur raised himself off of her, and drifted down between her knees.  Heather spread her legs apart once again, as she felt Wilbur’s soft tongue plow into her dripping vulva.

After a few delicate licks, he dug his tongue in deeper, amping her excitement up to an even higher level.  After a few minutes, Wilbur’s tongue found her clitoris and began probing it, flicking it with all the expertise that his years of experience provided.  Heather threw her head back against the blanket and moaned. “Oh my God, you’re a fucking pro,” she wailed.

Heather reached down and gripped the blanket with both hands.  Her knees quivered and she bit her lip as a long slow moan escaped her lips.  Her toes curled and her left foot cramped. Within just a few seconds, her trembling orgasm subsided, and she was certain Wilbur knew he had succeeded in his task.

He returned to her side and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.  She relished his strong grip, and once again, buried herself in his muscular, hairy chest.  As she breathed in slowly, she closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to cry. She had just fucked her father’s best friend, a man who was more than twice her age.  A man her parents had trusted to pick her up from school when she was sick. Yet, another part of her didn’t care. And that other part of her just wanted it again and again and again.  That part quickly won out.

After a few minutes, they released each other, and laid back on the blanket, both of them completely naked, merely gazing up at the countless stars in the night sky.

From the pocket of his discarded shirt, Wilbur produced a pack of Camel cigarettes and a lighter.  He removed two of them from the pack and tossed it on the edge of the blanket. “Want one?” he asked.  Heather accepted it. She wasn’t normally a smoker but, in this case, it seemed like a really good idea.  He lit it for her, and the two of them resumed their position, gazing out at the night sky, casually smoking.

They lay there on that blanket, deep into the night, drinking the remainder of the beers in Wilbur’s ice chest, smoking cigarettes, talking about God knows what, and yes, a lot more fucking.  Heather finally stumbled back into her parents' house, some time well after three o’clock in the morning, very drunk, and smelling like Turkish blend cigarettes. Her father asked her where she’d been.  She mumbled something about being out with friends. Heather never knew for sure, but was almost certain that her father knew who she had been with—but he never asked, and she never told.

Author’s note: 

In my own defense, I was only doing what my mother told me to do, right? I mean, she said, "Talk to people you haven't seen in a long time." Check.  "Have a good time."  Double check!

So, let me start with the sad note first, because I don’t want to end on a bummer.  Wilbur died just a couple of years ago, so I feel a little more comfortable sharing this story now.  I guess this is one secret he carried to his grave. Actually, hell, I don’t know who he told--maybe he didn’t keep the secret at all.

Wilbur and I never had sex with each other again, of course.  I think we both understood that what had occurred between us was a true moment of passion, a genuine one night stand.  I did occasionally see him, and it was always awkward—especially when my father was around.

Once, I even saw him at the Independence Day cookout.  I watched him as he schmoozed a woman a few years older than me, and then the two of them disappeared in his pickup, almost certainly to “watch the fireworks display”.  But this just made me smile. 

As I look back on it now, I can’t help but think “Damn! I am now OLDER than Wilbur was when we did this!"  Twenty-two years ago… jeez. But… Wilbur gave me one of the best nights of my life, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.  Thanks for reading.