Jenny and I nestled in a beanbag after strenuous dry-humping on our first Saturday night together.
Then, our repose encountered an unforeseen moment as we heard a loud noise — the unexpected return of a housemate. Initially, I thought my flatmate Paul was dragging his surf gear inside. Jenny and I paused; we listened. But I heard Verity's voice, my second housemate, telling her boyfriend to shh it. Jenny and I poised on the beanbag. Ready to rise faced with being caught making out.
We noticed a footfall; the lounge door remained closed. Jenny and I recognised a door click shut. I surmised Verity's room off the hallway. Jenny suggested we go to her place, and I agreed, even at a late hour. We desired pair time.
Jenny drove me to her unit, her space, and our privacy. She suggested we share a blanket on her lounge room floor as it ticked close to midnight. A woollen rug covered her carpet. She intended to lie down, to be close, cuddle, and sleep. Though she left these words unspoken, the signals emerged. Jenny yawned; I missed alertness to the impact of an extended day and a long drive. A snuggle and embrace ought to have sufficed me.
As we nestled in the darkness, I started petting her breasts — content outside of defined limits as Jenny removed her top and bra beneath the blanket, accepting my attention. I started caressing her left breast, though her right breast occupied me, too. As my tongue licked her left nipple, my fingers pleasured her right. Next, I reversed my attention. Her nipple firmness provided a prominent point of enjoyment. I couldn't see anything of Jenny's body in the darkened room; I felt it. My memory shaped her breasts beyond the need to see them.
"You certainly know how to stop a girl from getting her sleep," Jenny said, satisfied.
As a pair, we doze off, my hand resting over her breast. We slept on the floor, comfortable enough. The following morning blends into a routine—the daily habits of perfunctory bathroom stuff and hot white coffee. Habitual and automatic patterns are only broken on special occasions when someone else prepares breakfast for you or you eat brunch in a hotel. Then, distinct bacon and egg aromas waft through your head.
Jenny's breakfast offering remains a mystery. I remember sitting in her kitchen at her table and its light-yellow laminate top. I sat on a grey plastic chair over a steel frame. The style I recall, the late seventies, sliding towards the eighties, practical furniture.
Sunday morning in my adult life formed a day of rest. Whilst growing up, a day of church. Sunday for Jenny ripened as an added day to do.
I unpacked in observation. Jenny, I learned, started everything as an action.
"We should do something?" she invited after breakfast.
Any contributed suggestion by me idled as Jenny described a maze complex as fun, and we headed off.
Last night, I noticed Jenny drove an unfamiliar car. So, I asked as we started our Sunday drive. The car she drove belonged to her dad; it was a stylish automatic, while her vehicle received auto gearbox repairs. We whiled the trip to the maze, listening to a cassette tape — Perry Como. Neither of us selected the tape; the glove box contained no alternative options. So, it provided background music on a clear blue day. The tape looped until we arrived at our destination, a lively spot.
We purchased tickets and entered the main maze. To our delight, we confronted high vertical hedge walls—bottle green, leafy and manicured. Tight turns spawning to generous passageways and junctions. Jenny and I chose the meander choice, strolling on a whim, heading to the middle, in a gadabout. Being lost did not matter. Eventually, we whipped together educated guesses using the sun's position and reached the centre when we were ready.
"That's a surprise," exclaimed Jenny, circling a small statue.
A cupid on a pedestal aimed an arrow straight at us. She stopped and scrutinised the statue's face.
Jenny turned and quizzed, "No blindfold. Doesn't Cupid have a blindfold?"
"Sometimes," I said, "he also has different arrows."
"The arrows-" she quipped, standing next to the statue, posing an imaginary bow.
Then, aimed at me, playful, "How different?"
"Well, Cupid used two types," I explained as I levelled an imaginary bow back at Jenny.
"Blunt-tipped arrows; love duds," I started.
Jenny's smile dimpled.
"And shiny pointed darts that hit and stoke unceasing passion."
I held my imaginary bow firm.
Jenny dropped her make-believe bow and smiled.
"No other type of arrows?"
Not sure what she meant, I said, "Look, the statue has one in his quiver!"
My make-believe bow and arrow evaporated as I pointed.
We could see the arrow's fletching, but the arrowhead lay buried in metal.
"Mmm, which dart was in his bow?"
Jenny pondered this because the arrow lacked a tip.
It did not strike me as a deliberate act of vandalism; instead, it posed the question to anyone reaching the centre to decide the arrow tip for themselves.
Jenny looked great in faded jeans and a light-fawn, short-sleeved blouse.
I refrained from asking: What arrow are you pointing at me?
Equally, I lacked the confidence to verify my arrow tip. Jenny and I kept company at the start of 'together.'
My gaze held blank thoughts as rays of sunlight swept her face. Her eyebrows arched, and I delighted in their natural charcoal hue.
"Okay, let's spice the journey out," she said.
Jenny's eyebrows peaked, and she pushed her hair behind her ears. This exposed pierced lobes, unnoticed by me prior, as her hair hid her ears. She glanced at her watch. I admired her slender wrist, slim fingers and polish-free nails.
"I will go; you stay and follow in two minutes. We'll see who gets out the fastest."
"Sure," glad to see Jenny spark.
She bounced, itching to start.
"Wait," I said, "Couldn't I count to one hundred?"
"Fine," she agreed, her smile broad, "You are such a boy!"
"Go, Jenny, go!" I encouraged.
"Don't look back, or I'll catch you."
And she raced off in a burst, leaving Cupid as my company and the statue absorbed my attention. I forgot counting or my watch as I guessed; thirty seconds passed. More or less?
I warmed to the chase as I calmed myself, tapping my thighs, and then started counting. I did one to ten, skipped to the nineties: ninety-nine, one hundred. A fair boy count, and then I dashed as the seeker pursuing Jenny.
My mind engaged the unwritten maze rule: keep left, touch left, at least mentally. I expected Jenny to do the same. The passageways extended and angled more than I remembered. Entering, we meandered; it became a more complex maze in my exit urgency. The junctions appeared to narrow. I brushed the hedge, rushing a tight turn, and nearly fell over a kneeling Jenny. She knelt, comforting a young girl who wiped dry, reddish eyes. The young lass, maybe six, rubbed her cheeks. Her high, neat ponytail reminded me of Ruby.
Jenny informed me of the young girl's name, Imogen, as she guided her forward. She found her alone a minute ago. Jenny swung the little girl's hand. Then, as a pair, they walked in front of me. I enjoyed watching Jenny's dark hair bob. At the exit, which paralleled the entrance, gathered anxious staff and a dad ready to enter and search.
Jenny knelt and told the young girl, "Lost is found, okay."
The dad gave a quick thank-you as his daughter raced to her mum. The rest of the family waved alongside their van in the car park.
I asked Jenny if she wanted lunch here or elsewhere.
"Here is fine," she said, and we enjoyed the afternoon sun and each other's company.
Until Jenny volunteered, "Sorry, we need to go. I've got to clean my dad's car to give it back tomorrow."
"It's fine," I replied, "Let's go."
At her dad's sedan, Jenny opened my side and halted.
"Oh, the music won't do. Give me a minute in the gift store, okay?"
Excitedly, she bounded off whilst I tapped my fingers on the bonnet until Jenny breezed back, waving a new cassette tape.
Later, driving along the highway, she inquired, "What do you think?"
I tilted her a smile as we enjoyed Beethoven's Piano Sonatas. The trip home provided insight into Jenny's love of classical music.
Arriving at her apartment, Jenny indicated it was OK if I headed home because her responsibility changed to washing and returning her dad's car.
"I'll help," I condensed broader hopes.
"Go, I can manage the wipe and tidy," she said as she gathered a bucket and clothes.
"I've plenty of time; see you tomorrow afternoon."
My standstill alerted her to my ulterior motive, my desire to be nowhere else. Jenny tossed a cleaning cloth toward my face. We shared the cleaning effort; it wasn't a chore. She appreciated my staying while I savoured her presence. I can't remember our goodbyes, lost in the afterglow of her company.
That Monday, I skated through it as an organised calendar day. Jenny and I met in the afternoon outside her apartment. In the driveway, her Ford. Then we drove to my share house. The sunshine lingered low, a delightful spring afternoon, bright light sharpening every shape. Her hand in mine, I led Jenny to my bedroom. The large room bathed in light through open curtains. We snuggled and kissed, sharing my bed.
Jenny removed her blouse, bra, and jeans, not her panties. I resumed my affair with her breasts, soft and inviting. I doted in the green light sex zone even if her panties remained in place until my fingers traced over her navel to the thin elastic edge of her underwear.
"No," Jenny stated.
I stopped.
The 'no' surprised me.
I liked her panties, allured by their nude colour and frilled lace edge.
Okay, I told myself, there are limits.
I accepted Jenny's boundary. Breasts are fantastic; breasts are inspiring.
Later, I recall Jenny musing, "Are they okay? They are small."
"Yes, they are fine," I said.
I smiled at her, adding, "Besides, a guy can only ever suck one mouthful at a time, regardless of their shape or size."
This comment brightened her amber eyes — how I wished for Coral's drawing skills to sketch Jenny's breasts. The only pair of breasts I desired. Perfect for me because Jenny shared them.
Her breasts made me think of Tiepolo pink in my room's natural light. I associated Tiepolo's Apelles with her. The artist poised at his canvas, holding his paintbrush at his wife's portrayed nipple. The artwork exudes intimacy. As Jenny's body attendant, I, too, apportioned close attention to her breasts. And on this particular Monday, my tour itinerary roved above her navel.
My mind skates ahead to the following afternoon. The resin hues of her eyes, courtesy of the extended afternoon sunlight, lured and inspired. Jenny relaxed in my bedroom, laid back. Again, my raven-haired girl disrobed to underwear. I licked and nibbled her earlobe and twigged to an agreeable murmur. Next, I caressed her breasts as if in a daydream before moving back and kissing her delectable lips. But my right hand ventured deep south, risking edging inside her panty line above her pubic precinct.
"Please, no."
Jenny was firm yet quiet, trusting me to stop.
She nipped my foray.
I mulled a bit of a tease, Jenny!
The signs and signals, I believed, welcomed heavy petting. Her hesitation puzzled me. Yet the thought, Jenny teased, passed as I indulged the invitation to share her breasts. Mental images of her panties waft from that Tuesday afternoon. Her navel indent provided a delightful pit stop.
As she murmured approval, a finger of mine moseyed around Jenny's cute oval innie.