Dana Burke, my next door neighbor, was a high school senior, three years older than me, and the most beautiful girl in the world. I was a freshman science nerd, so it goes without saying that Dana—a varsity cheerleader—barely knew I was alive. I mean, she knew I existed, but only as the kid next door, or the paperboy, or maybe as the dork who walked into the side of his garage because he was mesmerized by the sight of her sunbathing in a thong bikini. Actually, I don’t think she noticed that, but you get my point.
I might have gone on lusting after her from afar and done nothing about it if it hadn’t happened.
It was a Saturday night. Dana had gone out with some of her girlfriends. I knew that because I had watched from my bedroom window as she ran out to their car. It was a warm spring evening and Dana had been wearing a flimsy cotton button down sundress, and as I watched her jogging down the front walk, her big boobs bouncing, her long blonde hair flouncing, I nearly came in my pants.
But that was nothing, par for the course. The real miracle happened later that night. It was nearly 11:00 and I was rolling the trash can out to the street when the same car pulled up to the curb, not ten feet away. They were dropping Dana off. There was loud music thumping from inside the car along with the sound of girls laughing. Then the back door opened, the music and laughter got louder, and a cloud of smoke billowed forth. I stood there in the shadows, watching, practically holding my breath.
A moment later Dana stepped out of the car. Or, I should say, she tried to step out of the car. She was having trouble balancing, stumbled, slipped, grabbed for the door, missed, and ended up sitting on the curb with one leg still in the car. I started to step forward to help—but far from being hurt, Dana apparently thought this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to her, as did her friends in the car. Lots of laughter and giggles. I realized with a start that Dana was, quite literally, drunk off her ass. Or maybe stoned, judging by the smoky interior of the car. Or probably both. I swallowed hard.
Eventually Dana managed to haul herself to her feet, using the car door for balance, and staggered back a few steps onto the sidewalk. There was a chorus of waving and giggling and goodbyes from all concerned, the car door was pulled shut, and the car drove off down the street. Still grinning and giggling, Dana stumbled around, trying to orient herself. I stepped out from the shadows.
“Hi, Dana,” I said, master of the clever opening. She turned and blinked at me, swaying unsteadily, grinning like an fool. She was quite a sight. Her lovely hair was a disheveled mop; it looked like she had gotten caught in a wind tunnel. Her sundress was wrinkled and twisted and several of its buttons were misbuttoned—which meant at some point in the evening they had been unbuttoned. In fact, the top three or four were still unbuttoned, giving me a splendid view of her milky white cleavage, including the beauty mark on her right boob, a cute little mole that forever rode the waves of her heaving bosom. It was riding a tsunami now as Dana staggered unsteadily, trying to stay on her feet, and her boobs quivered with tremulous, delicious vibrations.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and it was obvious that some paleolithic football-playing bastard had been having sex with her. True, from the look of things Dana had thoroughly enjoyed herself—but that was only because she was too drunk to know what she was doing, I was sure. Dana was a good girl. It wasn’t her fault that some stupid jock got her drunk and stoned and then…y’know…had his way with her. Poor thing.
“Heyyyyy, neighbor!” she crowed, laughing and waving and staggering in my direction. She stumbled right into me, nearly knocking me over, and I had to hold her waist to keep us both upright. She draped her arms over my shoulders, her face only inches away from mine. I had never been this close to her before. Her big blue eyes were droopy-lidded and glassy and completely bloodshot, her chubby cheeks flushed red, and her breath smelled of a pungent combination of alcohol and pot. Drunk and stoned, definitely.
“H-hi,” I said feebly.
“How ya doin’ there, Ricky baby?” she slurred, her crossed eyes barely focusing on me. I was amazed that she knew my name, especially in her condition. She staggered, her weight shifting, and I counterbalanced to keep her upright.
“I’m fine, Dana,” I said, trying to ignore the fact that her big boobs were nuzzling my chest. “H-how’re you?”
She leaned her forehead against mine and grinned a mischievous grin.
“Mmmmm…Ricky baby, I am so fucking wasted I don’ even know where the fuck I am,” she announced, and she dissolved into giggles. I blinked. I had never heard Dana curse before.
“You’re on the sidewalk in front of your house,” I informed her.
“Nnnnn…” she said, still with that mischievous grin, her beautiful blue eyes swimming in and out of focus. “You wanna walk me home?”
She stumbled, slumping against me, giggling, her lips centimeters from mine.
“Heyy Ricky baby,” she slurred, barely comprehensible, “you wanna fuck me?”
“I um…I…” I stammered. And then she kissed me. It was…well…it was too inaccurate to be truly passionate, but it was wet and sloppy and arousing as hell. I was in heaven. But only fourth heaven. I got to seventh heaven a few moments later when she clumsily grabbed my hands, pushed them inside her dress, and pressed them against her huge, warm, plump, rubbery, perfect breasts. Okay, I admit, she was wearing a bra, but still! This was masturbatory fantasy #8649B come to life! And so I can be forgiven the fact that this time I did, in fact, come in my pants.
As it turned out my premature ejaculation didn’t matter because at that moment my mother stuck her head out the back door and called my name. “Rick? Where are you? What’s going on out there?”
The next moment the Burke’s front porch light came on and Dana’s mother stuck her head out the door. “Dana honey? Is that you?”
Dana giggled and stumbled back, grinning like an idiot. I stood there like an idiot myself, hands still frozen in boob squeezing position, unable to believe what had just happened. Dana turned and started down the sidewalk toward her house, weaving wildly, stumbling erratically, her luscious ass grinding inside the thin cotton dress. She looked back over her shoulder at me and smiled a coquettish little smile.
“’Night, Ricky baby,” she said softly. “Dream of me.” She blew me a kiss, giggled, and turned away. I watched her stumble up the front steps of her house, watched her mother come out to meet her, scold her, help her. I watched her disappear inside the house, my hands still frozen in the magic place where they had, for one miraculous moment, held her breasts.
“I will,” I promised. And I did.
Apparently Dana had no memory of what happened that night, which is not really surprising considering how far gone she had been. In any event, her attitude toward me changed not at all. When we saw each other she was vaguely polite, as one was with a neighbor who was, after all, a complete stranger.
I, of course, never forgot that night. In fact, I obsessed on it. I had held my dream girl in my arms, kissed her, fondled her breasts, and I vowed that, whatever it took, I would do so once again.
Every day I watched her, studying her every move, getting to know her better than she knew herself, seeking out a plan. And then one day, I had it.
Dana lived alone with her Mom. Her father was dead. Every weekday the routine in the Burke household was the same, and that was the key to my plan. At 2:30 her mom would leave for work at the computer factory, leaving a supper plate on the stove for Dana to warm. At 3:15 Dana would arrive home from school. Unless it was a Tuesday. On Tuesdays she had cheerleading practice and didn’t get home until 4:30. Most days, though, she was home by 3:15.
First thing she did when she got home was pop open a can of Diet Sprite and flop down in front of the TV to watch Oprah. Every afternoon, like clockwork. I guess she really liked Oprah. She must’ve really liked Diet Sprite too, because she’d go through three cans of the stuff before dinner—which she’d heat in the microwave and eat while watching Access Hollywood and drinking two more Diet Sprites. The last can in the six pack she’d take up to her bedroom to sip while she did her homework. After that, it varied, but usually she’d gab on the phone while watching TV or listening to music, maybe surf the web for a while, then go to bed at 11:00 on the dot. Her Mom didn’t get home from the factory until midnight or so. The routine seldom varied.
I knew all this because I watched her every move through the high-powered telescope my parents had given me for Christmas the year before. (There are advantages to being a known science nerd.) Some nights she’d forget to close her bedroom blinds before undressing. Those nights were the best. Twice I saw her walking around the room stark naked, her big boobs bouncing. Nights never to be forgotten, certainly, but still not enough. I didn’t want to just watch her gorgeous breasts. Having once touched them, I hungered to feel them in the palms of my hands again. Hence my master plan.
The Diet Sprite was the key, I decided.
First, I did some research. Then I made a few purchases, some with the help of my cousin Frankie who was twenty-two and very discreet. Then I made preparations. On the workbench in the basement I set up what my parents thought was yet another science experiment. And so it was, of a sort. I was setting out to create something I had learned was called “Green Dragon.” Except mine was going to be a little bit different.
The first step was to take the loose marijuana Frankie had bought me and break it up, removing all the seeds and other trash, then soak it overnight in vinegar. This bleached out most of the green pigment and left the grass a dull grey. Then I took a bottle of Everclear grain alcohol (another Frankie purchase) and poured a few ounces of it into a beaker. I carefully added all the bleached grass into the beaker, mixed it well, and snapped on a plastic cover. It sat there in my basement, quietly reducing, for three weeks.
When it was ready, I poured the resulting liquid through a series of coffee filters, gradually straining out all the herbal matter, then added what was left to a fresh beaker of Everclear. I now had a quart beaker of alcohol laced with high amounts of pure THC. But I wasn’t done yet. Into the beaker of laced Everclear I added the proper amounts of sugar and unflavored brewer’s yeast, covered, let nature take its course, and in a little over a week I had a quart of colorless, tasteless, 190 proof, THC laced, and nicely carbonated alcohol.
There was still one more step. I had a small bowl of powdered aromatic plants, courtesy of the local health food store. I had done my research and had chosen carefully: Muira Puama, Catuaba, Betel Nut, Prickly Ash, and Maca. All five of these herbs were considered powerful aphrodisiacs by various cultures. Sure, I knew all the claims were probably pseudo-scientific bullshit, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. Maybe one of them actually did stimulate sexual desire. Or maybe the combination of them all would. Anyway, I added the powdered herbs to the beaker and stirred until they were completely dissolved.
Finally, I added a few teaspoons of lemon juice. For flavor.
My concoction was complete. I dubbed it “Clear Dragon.”
Next, I took a six-pack of Diet Sprite. (My mom wondered about me switching to Diet Sprite after years of drinking Coke, but I said I thought the caffeine was keeping me up and that satisfied her.) I turned the six-pack upside down and, using a 1/32” bit, I drilled a tiny hole in the bottom of each can. The soda hissed and bubbled for a moment as some of the carbonation escaped. Then I turn the cans upright and let Diet Sprite slowly drip, drip, drip into a plastic tub. It took a while, but when the cans were about half empty I flipped them back over and wiped them clean.
I took the large plastic hypodermic I had bought at a pet store—the sort that was used to feed liquid medicine to animals—and filled it from my beaker of Clear Dragon. Then slowly, carefully, I injected the fizzy liquid into the hole of each can, replacing the missing Diet Sprite with my tasteless, colorless, carbonated joy juice. It took the better part of an hour and made a mess, but in the end the cans were more or less full.
To seal the aluminum cans I used a propane torch my mom kept around for making creme brulee and a special brazing rod I bought at the local hardware store. I had done a lot of practicing on empty cans over the previous weeks and had gotten pretty good at it. In less than thirty minutes all six holes were sealed with only a tiny aluminum lump to betray my activities. And after all, I figured, who ever inspected the bottom of the soda can they were drinking from?
I put the doctored six-pack in the basement fridge to chill and waited for the perfect opportunity.
Weeks passed. I kept my watch on the Burke house, occasionally enjoying a glimpse of Dana in her underwear—but that, believe it or not, was not what I was looking for. I needed the confluence of three things: my parents had to be away from home, Mrs. Burke had to be away from home, and it had to be a weeknight. A couple of times we came close, but never quite managed it. More weeks passed. I was beginning to get worried. Soon school would be out, summer vacation would begin, and while I looked forward to seeing Dana in her thong bikini again, the routine I was counting on would undoubtedly change and my plan would likely be ruined.
Finally, a week before Dana was going to graduate from high school, I decided I had to take matters into my own hands. I had come too far, planned too well, to let the vagaries of familial scheduling get in my way. My parents announced that they intended to go up to the lake house on Thursday and stay the weekend. They had done that sort of thing before and trusted me to be home alone. So far so good.
I had noticed that three times in the last two months Dana’s mom had been away from home overnight. A deceptively casual conversation with her when I collected for the newspaper delivery had given me all the information I needed. It seemed that one of her coworkers, a guy named Joe Panella, was a volunteer paramedic with the county fire department, and he was occasionally called away on an emergency. When that happened, Mrs. Burke’s supervisor asked her to work a double shift and, eager to earn the overtime, she always agreed. Bingo. A little research into county emergency services procedures and I was ready.
Thursday afternoon I put my plan into motion.
2:45—I arrived home from school. Dana’s mom had already left for work, but Dana herself wouldn’t be home from school for another half hour.
2:55—I bid my parents goodbye and watched them drive away, heading off for the lake.
3:00—With my doctored six-pack of Diet Sprite in hand, I entered the Burke house (they always left the screen porch door open) and made the switch, replacing Dana’s six-pack of Diet Sprite with mine.
3:05—I planted a small radio microphone, purchased at Radio Shack, under the sofa in Dana’s livingroom. The receiver was in my bedroom. I also grabbed the three dollar bills off the end table. It was the Burke’s newspaper money, waiting there, as it was every week, for when the paperboy (that would be me) came collecting. I was just collecting a bit early this week.
3:10—Back in my own house, I called Joe Panella. I used the correct codes and jargon, so he never questioned the fact that I was a county dispatcher and that he was needed at a car wreck off Rt. 39 up near the lumber mill. I gave him complex directions to a non-existent address and sent him on his way. He would only pause, I knew, to call his supervisor at the factory and tell him that he wouldn’t be in tonight. By the time he returned from his wild goose chase, frustrated and angry, it would be too late.
3:15—My darling Dana arrived home from school. She was wearing a denim miniskirt and a white button down blouse and looked adorable. I followed her with the telescope as she followed her usual routine, listening to her movements over the radio mic. Watching her through the kitchen window, I held my breath as she popped open a Diet Sprite and took a slug. There was one horrible moment when she made a face and looked at the can—but then she shrugged, took another slug, walked into the livingroom and flopped down on the sofa to watch Oprah.
Time passed. Watching her through a livingroom window, I made note of every sip she took from the Diet Sprite can. I had done some calculations and figured that each can was roughly equivalent to three strong drinks and a joint or two of grass. (I had no idea how the supposed aphrodisiacs might figure in.) I knew that it took longer for the body to absorb THC in liquid form, but still, the timing could be tricky. By the time she finished this first can of doctored soda pop Dana would be feeling pretty tipsy. If she sounded peculiar when her mom called that could ruin every—
The phone rang. I watched Dana mute the TV, put down her soda can, and lean across the sofa to grab the receiver off the end table. It was a clumsy sort of lunge, slightly miscalculated, and she nearly fumbled the phone. I knew then that she was already a little drunk.
“Hellooo?” she said, slouched ungracefully on the sofa. She listened.
“Hi, Mom!” she said cheerfully, “How you doing?” I winced. She sounded distinctly tipsy to me—but then, I was expecting it.
“Nope, I’m fine. Just watching Oprah is all.”
She listened a bit, lying back on the sofa and idly raising and lower her leg.
“Oh. Okay. Well, don’t worry, I’ll see you tomorrow when I get home from school. Mm-hm. And Mom, listen. If you to try—get too tired to drive home, you just stay at that little hotel motel out there like you did last time, okay?”
“I’m just fine, Mom, what’re you talking about?”
I held my breath.
“No, mother,” Dana said, her voice a little frostier, “I have not been into the liquor cabinet again. I promised you I wouldn’t do that again and I didn’t. Haven’t.”
She listened, and her face softened.
“Okay. Yes, I promise, I won’t have anyone over. Just me and Oprah.” She giggled.
“I am being serious. Okay. All right. Now don’t you work too hard. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow...or Saturday morning if you stay over. No, I’ll be fiiine. Yes, mother, I’m sure. I’m not a child, you know. All right. Love you too. Bye.”
She hung up. I released my breath with a sigh of relief.
Dana turned her head and looked at the TV.
“It’s just you and me, Oprah honey,” she said, and she giggled. I watched as she sat up, none too gracefully, and picked up her soda can.
Fifteen minutes later she had finished it off, which was perfectly normal. What was not perfectly normal was the way she was sitting—slouched sloppily on the sofa, her legs resting on the coffee table—and the way she was interacting with the TV—agreeing, disagreeing, cheering Oprah on. The half hour commercial came on, which was usually Dana’s cue to go into the kitchen and grab another Diet Sprite.
Dana sat up, hauling herself into a normal sitting position and sliding her legs off the table, and tried to stand. A wave of vertigo obviously overcame her—she plopped back down on the sofa, a puzzled expression on her face. She wiped the hair from her eyes and tried again, and once again landed back on her ass. She giggled. The third time was the charm; Dana made it to her feet. She wasn’t wildly unsteady like she had been the night she kissed me, but she wasn’t altogether stable either. Dana just stood there a few moments, sort of getting her bearings, then headed for the kitchen. Her intoxication was mostly noticeable in how carefully she walked, slowly and cautiously. A casual observer might not have even noticed that anything was amiss, but my observation was anything but casual.
I panned the telescope to the kitchen window and watched her toss the empty can in the trash, then go to the refrigerator, pull the door open, and grab a fresh one. She had a little bit of trouble separating the can from the plastic six-pack collar, but finally managed to free it. She closed the refrigerator door, leaned against it, popped the can open, and took a long drink.
She stayed there for a while, leaning against the fridge, a grin on her pretty face. Then she blinked, her smile fading, and she looked as if she were trying to figure something out. Another drink of Diet Sprite. She smacked her lips, then considered.
“Ooohhh…” I could hear her say. She fanned herself with her blouse, suddenly feeling warm. Clumsily, with one hand, she unbuttoned the first few buttons of her blouse—it took her a while—then fanned herself with the edges. Back in the livingroom, Oprah came back on. Dana heard it and launched herself off the refrigerator.
Her legs had grown more unsteady and she had some trouble navigating the path back to the sofa. For every two steps forward she stumbled half a step back or to the side. Finally, though, she made it to the sofa and flopped down onto it.
“Yeah!” she said, agreeing with whatever Oprah Winfrey had just opined, and she took a slug from her soda can.
I took my eye away from my telescope and stood up. It was time for me to make my entrance.
Ninety seconds later I was at the Burke’s front door, ringing the bell. It took Dana a while to answer the door—I imagined her struggling to rise from the sofa and stumbling across the livingroom, wondering all the while why she felt so dizzy but feeling too good to worry about it.
I thought I was prepared for what I would see when the door opened, but I was wrong. In the minute and a half since I had deserted my telescope Dana had apparently decided that she was really hot. When the door opened, my dream girl was standing there with her blouse entirely unbuttoned and untucked, her bra-encased boobs on public display. My jaw dropped.
“Huh…h-hi, Dana,” I managed to croak. Dana started at me, bleary-eyed, either struggling to focus on me or figure out who I was, I couldn’t tell which. After a moment, however, something clicked and she smiled.
“Heyyy, Ricky,” she said, her voice a little slurred. “Whassup?” She stumbled back a step, like a passenger on a sea-tossed ship.
“Um…I’m collecting,” I explained. She blinked at me stupidly, swaying. “You know…for the newspaper delivery.”
Light dawned. She smiled.
“Ohhhh, sure, sure. C’mon in an’ I’ll megan…” She blinked. “I’ll met…” She closed her eyes, smiled, opened them again, concentrating. “I’ll get the monkey.”
I smiled myself. Dana realized what she had said and cracked up laughing. She leaned forward and grasped my arm.
“I mean…giggle…” she said, laughing as she spoke, “I mean…money. Giggle. Not monkey.”
“Oh,” I said. She grinned and wagged her eyebrows, mocking herself.
“I’ll get the monkey,” she said, comically imitating her mistake. We both laughed. “C’mon in, c’mon in.”
She turned at walked rather unsteadily into the livingroom, and I followed, enjoying a close up view of her wriggling butt. I closed and locked the door.
“I ‘pologize that it is soooo hot in here,” she said, fanning herself with her open blouse. “I dunno, muss be somethin’ wrong with the…’yknow…” She waved vaguely.
“The air conditioning,” I suggested.
“Right! Thass right,” Dana agreed. The air consider…” She blinked. “Right.”
“It is pretty warm in here,” I lied. Dana turned to me.
“Ohhh, well, feel free to take off your shirt if you wanna,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Won’t bother me.”
“Oh…well, I don’t mind if I do,” I said, and I started pulling off my polo shirt.
“I don’t mind if you do either,” Dana said woozily. “I had to unbunnen my blouse cuz I was dyin’, y’know?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, tossing my shirt onto a chair. Dana stared at my bare chest and blinked, then slowly a mischievous smile crept over her face.
“Oooooh, Ricky…” she said, taking a few rickety steps toward me, her eyes on my pecs. (I made be a science nerd, but I work out. I mean, I’m not exactly Ahnold, but I’ve got a decent six pack.) “You’re lookin’ fiiiine…giggle…”
“Well, thanks,” I said.
“Nnnnnn…” Dana ran one finger up and down my chest, licking her lips. I knew then that at least some of those aphrodisiac powders were working. Dana was lusting after me in a way that, while delightful, certainly defied common sense.
“Mmmm…how come I never noticed your chest before?” Dana asked, a sultry tone to her voice.
“I don’t think you’ve ever seen my chest before, Dana,” I explained. She laughed.
“Nnn…you’re funny!” she declared, and she drank a slug of soda, eyes still on my body. Then she blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and frowned. “Why…wha…whass goin’ on?” she asked.
“You’re getting me the newspaper money.” I prompted. Dana blinked, thinking, then smiled.
“Ohhhhhh, yeah…thass right.” She turned and headed for the end table. I followed. “Iss right over here.”
She stopped at the end table and stared. Of course, the money wasn’t there, it was in my pocket.
“Well…thass weird,” she said.
“Hmm?” I asked. Dana turned to me, stumbling.
“Is it supposed to be there?”
“Mm-hm,” she assured me, nodding. “Mom always leaves the paperboy money right there for the paperboy.” Then she realized and smiled. “Thass you,” she informed me, giggling.
“That’s me,” I agreed. She was eyeing my chest with interest again.
“Mmmnnn…,” she said, biting her lower lip. She took a staggering step toward me. “Thass you.” She blinked and a puzzled look came to her face. “Hey.”
“How come you’re not wearing a shirt?”
“Because it’s so hot,” I reminded her. She blinked, considered, agreed.
“It is really hot,” she said, nodding.
“It sure is. That’s why we decided we should take off our shirts.”
Dana pondered this idea for a moment, wobbling, then smiled.
“Okay,” she said agreeably. “Here, wait.” She lifted her soda can and drank deeply, polishing off the contents, then handed the empty can to me. “You throw that away, nkay, and I will remove your shirt.”
“You mean your shirt,” I corrected.
“Thass what I said.”
I ran to kitchen, tossed the empty can in the trash, then grabbed a fresh one from the fridge. By the time I returned to the livingroom Dana was hopelessly entangled in her blouse, staggering around and giggling like an idiot.
“Here, let me help you with that,” I said. I put down the can of super Diet Sprite and helped her remove her blouse. It took a while, especially unbuttoning the cuffs while Dana stumbled and giggled, but eventually the most beautiful girl in the world was standing there before me in only a bra.
“Thank you, Ricky,” she said.
“You’ve very welcome.” I picked up the fresh can and handed it to her. “Here ya go.”
“Oooh, thang you mushy…giggle…very mush,” she said, and she took a nice long drink. I did some mental arithmetic. So far she had consumed the rough equivalent of six or seven drinks and four or five joints. Of course, it would no doubt take a little while for the effects to fully manifest themselves, but lovely Dana was well on her way to being completely wasted.
“Mmmm,” she said, lowering the can, “do you urp!” She giggled. “Excuse me. D’you like Diet Sprite? I love Diet Sprite.”
“Mm-hm,” she nodded. She held the can up dramatically. “It is my drink of choice!” We laughed, and Dana drank another slug. She took an unsteady step toward me, taking me into her confidence.
“D’you…do you know why I like Spriet…Diet Sprite?” she asked.
“No, why?” I asked, barely containing a smile.
“Because…because it zero caloric…calori-clies…” She knew that wasn’t the right word and frowned.
“Calories,” I prompted. Her face cleared and she poked my arm.
“Right. Right. Right. Thass right. See…” She lowered her voice, sharing a secret with me. “I have a tennis…a tennis…”
“A tennis racket?” I suggest. Dana giggled and slapped my arm.
“No, no,” she laughed. She got serious again. “I have a ten’ency to be a li’l chubbiness if I’m not very, very, very careful.” She took another slug of joy joice.
“Really? Because I think you have the perfect body,” I told her sincerely. She obviously liked the compliment, proud of how she looked, and she grinned broadly.
“Nnnnnn…you’re sweet.” She ran her finger down my bare chest again.
“It’s hard for me to believe you were ever chubby,” I said.
“Oooooh, you shoulda seen me when I was freshman!” she told me, her eyes wide. She blinked. “You’re a freshman, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Thass right.” She took a drink. “Well…when I was freshman I was…I weighed a lot more than you do now.” She tumbled sideways, caught herself. “I mean…than I do…now.”
“Did you really?” I asked. I hadn’t known that. The Burkes had lived across town back then and dreams of Dana were still in my future.
“Mm-hmm.” She blinked. “Y’know why I like Oprah? Cuz she taught me that I am the mistress of my own body.” She held out her arms and posed, in case I had any doubt as to which body she was referring.
“Iss really no myssery,” Dana explained, eager to educate me. “You juss eat less and size your…exercise more, thass all.”
“Ahhh, I see. And that’s how you lost weight, hm?”
Dana nodded. Then she leaned in close to tell me the real secret.
“Y’know what the bess thing was?” she asked, grinning mischeviously.
“What?” I asked, smiling, the eager conspirator.
Dana wagged her eyebrows. “I loss my weight, but I kept my big fat boobies.” That cracked her up and she half fell against me, giggling, her big fat boobies nuzzling my chest.
“Dana,” I said. She looked up at me, grinning like an idiot.
“The newspaper money?” I prompted.
“Ohhhhh yeah,” she said, remembering and stumbling back. She blinked and twisted her mouth. “I juss…I don’t know where Mom put the mickey…” She giggled, blinked. “The money, Ricky.”
She took another drink from the can, swaying. Her eyes were starting to look like she was stoned: heavy-lidded and red-rimmed, and she was clearly having more and more trouble focusing.
“Well, maybe you could call her at work,” I suggested. Dana stared at me, blinking owlishly. “Dana?”
“Hmmm?” she asked.
“Maybe you could call her at work.”
“Your mom. Ask her where she put the money.”
“Ohhhh, no, no,” Dana said, shaking her head. “I’m not s’posed to call her at work unless iss a germancy. Urp. ‘Scuse me.” I knew, of course, that Dana had been told only to call her mom in case of a…germancy. Or emergency. Which is why I had known there was little risk in suggesting it.
“Ohh, I see,” I said. Dana smiled, glad that I understood. “Well…there’s only one thing to do.”
“There is?” Dana asked.
“Hm-hm,” I nodded. “I’ll just have to wait here with you until your mom comes home.” I waited with bated breath, trying to hide my anxiety. Here it was. Was she drunk and stoned enough for my ridiculous suggestion to make sense, or would she see right through me and ask me to leave?
An eternity passed while Dana’s fucked up brain processed my suggestion. Then, at last, she smiled.
“Okay,” she said agreeably. I breathed a silent sigh of relief.
“Okay,” I echoed.
“You can wash Oprah with me!” Dana suggested, obviously excited by the prospect. Her bloodshot eyes sparkled and she took me by the hand, leading me over to the sofa.
“That’d be great,” I said, not really lying. We sat down side by side and Dana snaked one arm over my shoulder, my buddy now.
“D’you love Oprah Winfrey?” she asked me, eyes swimming.
“Of course,” I said, really lying.
“Mmmm…me too,” Dana said dreamily. “You know why I love Winf…Ofrah Winfrey?”
“Umm…because she taught you that you are mistress of your own body?”
“No, no, no, no…” Dana corrected me, shaking her head. “Becawwws…she taught me how to flow…how to follow my bliss.”
“Ahhhh,” I said. Dana drank a slug of soda. “What exactly does that mean, Dana?”
“Well…it means…” she explained. “Essenshly it means…I can do whatever the fuck I wanna an’ iss okay.”
“Ohhh, I see. That’s great.”
“Mmmmmm, iss really, really great.” She blinked and her face became disapproving. “My mother, however, does not fails to unnerstand that simple complex. Urp. I mean…concept.”
“She just doesn’t get it, huh?”
“Nope. See…like, she says when I get wasted an’ let the football team fuck me an’ stuff, that I’m juss bein’ a slut. But I say I am following my bliss, juss like my girl Oprah.”
“The whole football team?” I asked, shocked in spite of myself.
“Juss the varsity,” she assured me. “I would never have sex with unnerclassmen.” She blinked. “Now that would be slutty.”
“I see what you mean,” I said, though of course her logic both escaped me and worried me. I, of course, was an underclassman. I decided my best chance was to get her so totally wasted that she didn’t care what class I was.
“Anyway…thass why I love Oprah.” On the TV, Oprah was signing off.
“Listen,” I said, eager to distract Dana lest she see the end of Oprah as the signal for me to leave, “why don’t you finish off that Diet Sprite and I’ll get you another.”
“Okay,” she sang happily.
“Okay,” I confirmed. “Drink up!”
She downed the rest of the can—more than half of it, from the looks of it—and handed the can to me.
I hightailed it to the kitchen, threw away the empty, and grabbed a fresh can from the fridge. By the time I returned to the livingroom, Dana was sprawled on the sofa, lost in a drugged-out reverie, looking for all the world like a girl who was stoned out of her ever loving mind. Which by this point I guess she pretty much was.
I stood over her, drinking in her intoxicating and intoxicated beauty, and she looked up at me. It took a while for those glassy baby blues to focus on me, but when they finally did she grinned, happy to see me. Of course, in her condition she probably would have been happy to see Attila the Hun. In her condition she probably would have been happy to fuck Attila the Hun, or so, at least, I hoped.
“Fresh supplies,” I said, holding out the can. She blinked.
“Heyyyyyy, Ricky Ricky,” she drawled, her eyes swimming. “What’re you doin’ here? Where’s Oprah?”
“Oprah had to step out for a minute,” I said, sitting down beside her. “I brought you another Diet Sprite.” I helped her sit up straight, though she didn’t end up all that straight.
“Ohhhhhh,” she said, clearly very touched by my thoughtfulness, “that is sooooo sweet of you. Thank you, Ricky Ricky McRicky.” She giggled at her linguistic wit.
“You’re very welcome.” She didn’t look like she was going to be able to manage the pop top, so I opened the can for her. “Here, let me help you.”
“Nnnnn…okay.” I held the can to her lips and she drank, sipping at first, but soon guzzling greedily. We stopped a few times so Dana could take a breath or giggle, but in less than two minutes she had chugged down the entire can.
She sat back and let out a loud “Urrrp!”, then giggled. I smiled.
“I love Spry…Spriet Spite,” she informed the universe woozily. She turned to me. “D’you know why you love Dier Sprite?”
“No, why’s that?” I asked. She blinked.
“Why do I love Diet Sprite?”
Dana grinned contentedly. “Mmmmm…me too.” She stared bleary eyed at the TV set. “Hey…where’s Oprah? I wann’ see Oprah.”
“Oh, she’ll be right back,” I assured Dana. “She told us to wait here for her.”
“Ohhh,” Dana said, satisfied. Then she frowned and clumsily fanned herself with her hand. “God…’sso hot in here.”
“Funny you should mention that,” I said. “Oprah just had that story about how hot it was in here.” Dana tried to process that, but her operating system was fried.
“Uh-huh,” I assured her. “Don’t you remember, that gay guy offered ten tips for what to do when it gets hot in here?” Dana blinked, then smiled.
“Ohhh yeah,” she agreed. She turned to me. “What shoe we do, Ricky?”
“Well, tip number one was: remove your skirt.” Dana blinked and looked down at her miniskirt. I waited to see if my ridiculous suggestion would be just plausible enough to be accepted by her completely fucked up brain.
“Oh.” She smiled. “Okay.”
She started fumbling clumsily with her belt buckle.
“Here, let me help you,” I offered, and I did. In a matter of moments I had undone her belt, the snap on her jeans skirt, and tugged the skirt down her legs. Dana watched me approvingly, giggling.
I tossed the skirt onto the floor. “There. Feel better?”
“Mmmmm…” Dana responded, that mischievous grin spreading across her flushed face again. “Now’s your turn.” She giggled.
“Mm-hmm,” she nodded. “You ‘move your skirt!”
I smiled. “Okay.” I undid my belt and let my jeans slide to the floor. Dana’s eyebrows lifted and her grin got wider. She patted the sofa beside her.
“C’mere, you,” she commanded. I happily obeyed, stepping out of the puddle of my jeans. I paused long enough to slip off my socks and sneakers, then walked over and sat beside Dana. We were both dressed in only our undies, and Dana was staring lustfully at the bulge in my Hanes. I’m not exactly Long Dong Silver, so I knew the aphrodisiac powders were doing their job.
Dana leaned against me and draped her arm around me, flirting. Even crocked to the gills she was obviously an expert at seducing males.
“So…Ricky Ticki Tavi…” she said, grinning suggestively, “whass tip number two?” I have to admit, despite the fact that I had orchestrated these events, she was making me nervous. I had seen Dana in her underwear a number of times, but always through my telescope. I had certainly never been this close to her in her underwear, and I had most certainly never had her coming on to me like a drunken whore in her underwear. I was preternaturally aware of the warm, pliant pressure of her breasts nuzzling my left arm.
“Um…” I cleared my throat. “Remove your…bra?”
Dana’s grin got bigger and she licked her lips.
“Nnnnnn…okay,” she agreed, leaning back, offering herself to me. “You be’rer help me, hm?”
Dream come true time. Dana Burke was laying there, gazing up at me with a sloppy grin and desire in her eyes, waiting for me to remove her brassiere. I leaned in to her, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself. I was not exactly an expert at bra removing, but I had already noted that she was wearing a front clip model, and with a minimum of fumbling I managed to undo the clasp. I was amazed at kinetic energy that had been pent up inside those lacey cups. Dana’s ponderous boobs sprang free like twin hounds released from their kennels—or, more accurately, like twin mountains of flesh-colored jell-o released from their molds, rolling and jiggling and wobbling.
Dana giggled, I assume at the stunned expression on my face.
I tossed the bra away and sat there gawking. They were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Of course, I had seen them before, but only long distance. Now here they were, live and in color, up close and personal. I was overwhelmed.
Dana, fortunately, was not. She grabbed my wrists and pressed my hands against her naked breasts. I did not object. At first contact, when my eager hands cooperatively cupped her boobs, my thumbs resting beside her nipples, she gasped. Then she giggled. I stared, entranced by my own handiwork as my thumbs, seemingly of their volition, began circling her nipples. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, having never taken a course in breast fondling, but apparently I was doing it right. Dana moaned deep in her throat and seemed to melt, dissolving back onto the sofa, staring up at me through eyes that were little more than red, contented slits. I was encouraged and decided to expand my efforts.
I started simply, still employing a “respect the tit” policy, exploring the broad circumference of those silky-soft globes and kneading and pressing them firmly but gently against Dana’s chest. I enjoyed it, it was fun. My penis also enjoyed it, straining to peek out of my underpants for a better view. Dana enjoyed it most of all. At least, I took the animal-like growls coming from her larynx as a sign of happy approval. I got more proactive.
I slid both my hands to the base of their respective breasts and squeezed them with greater confidence, sliding out toward the nipples in a…well...a milking motion. Her boobs were frankly too big for my hands—bulging, pale tit flesh oozed from my sliding grip as I milked. As I reached the tip of each breast I stopped and tenderly kneaded her nipples with my thumbs for a few moments. Then I slid back down the mountains, so to speak, and repeated the whole process. Again…and again...and again...increasing the tempo as I went. This seemed to go over well with the drunken, stoned, and increasingly horny object of my affections. Dana’s hips started lifting off the sofa with each milking, her lace panties apparently seeking out my briefs (to no avail), and her incoherent moans became a slurred, only half incoherent conversation.
“Oh gun…oh yeah…nnngg…giggle…oh Ricky….nn gmnng…gnlsh mrrl…oh fuck…giggle…oh yeah…” And so forth. A bit repetitive, and distinguished in neither its literary merit nor informational content, perhaps, but music to my ears nonetheless. I decided to try some variations on the theme. I didn’t want her to get bored, after all.
I began repeating my successful milking action, but this time I didn’t allow my hands to remain motionless as I diddled her nipples, but continued a gentle milking massage.
Dana said, “Nnf lrrg…giggle…nnnk…fucky Ricky…”, which, based on intonation and inflection, I interpreted as “If you please, sir, I find that pleasurable—keep doing that.” I obliged for a while, then upped the ante and got even more assertive.
I started again at the base of each boob and slowly slid outwards to the tip, where I would then grip the rubbery flesh rather tightly, kneading it with my remaining fingers as my thumb and index fingers pinched and stretched the nipples until they hardened like pencil erasers. My thumbs would then circle the pebbly areolas once or twice or three times, before brushing across the stiffened nipples—twannng—and sliding back down to begin once again.
Rave (if somewhat inarticulate) reviews from my inebriated audience. Dana’s body was, by this time, bucking quite fervently and I began to harbor hopes of bringing her to orgasm without removing her panties. I’m not sure why, but that seemed like the height of sexual prowess to me and I was determined to do it. I wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed, but for a complete novice I was doing quite well by simply following my instincts. And, though my busy hands were paying big dividends, my instincts were telling me to put my mouth where my money was. In other words, suck those babies.
I opened my mouth wide, lowered it down over the tip of her right breast, and began sucking hard. I tried to get as much of her breast into my mouth as I could, but it was like trying to swallow an entire cantaloupe—or perhaps a very large water balloon. I started working my jaw in a gnawing motion to open it still further and accommodate more of her soft flesh in my mouth. At one point I thought I could feel her nipple brush against the back of my throat, but that may have been my imagination.
Dana got louder and more articulate, if no less repetitive. “Fuck yeah…oh yeah…fuck yeah…shit yeah…” and so forth. I didn’t respond; my mother taught me it was impolite to speak with your mouth full.
Still imitating a Hoover PowerSucker, yet delaying the release for as long as I could, I pulled my head backwards and felt her breast slowly sliding free of my lips. The whole while my tongue was inscribing little figure eights across the now slippery surface of Dana’s boob and nipple. Not to mention the fact that my right hand was still attending to her left tit, squeezing and kneading and generally ensuring that it didn’t feel neglected. Dana was by now grasping my back, her fingers digging into my flesh. It hurt a little, but I wasn’t complaining. Her body stiffened, back arching, then relaxed as her fat breast slipped from my mouth with a slight popping sound.
Annnnd…reverse. Suck the left breast, fondle the somewhat slimy right. Dana was really writhing now, gulping and gasping unintelligibly, beyond even drunken, slurred words and, if I may say so, having a very nice time indeed. I felt I was nearing my goal of giving her a tit-only orgasm—though, of course, I realized it wasn’t just my amateur manual dexterity driving my dream girl insane. She was so hopped up on booze, dope and Asian aphrodisiacs that a few suggestive words to her vagina would have been enough to set her off. A fully loaded pistol with a drug-induced hair trigger, my Dana.
And of course, I wouldn’t want to give you the impression that I was merely a disinterested observer of these events. I was getting rather excited my own self, my dick was at full attention, and it took all my powers of self-control (which have never been legendary) to keep from shoving it inside the semi-comatose blonde. But I didn’t. I stuck with the program, alternately kneading and sucking, sucking and kneading, until Dana—in a series of quivering, epileptic contortions and gurgled curses—let it be known to the world that she had reached a rather spectacular climax.
Her body went limp and she collapsed into the sofa, panting and giggling, like she had taken a ride on the world’s best roller coaster. I was watching her, pleased with myself but trying to decide what to do next, when she unexpectedly wrapped her hand around my neck, pulled me close, and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on me. Somehow I could tell that it was a “thank you” kiss rather than a “fuck me” kiss, but in a strange way that made it all the better. She broke the kiss and smiled up at me, still breathing heavily but happy as a very intoxicated clam.
“Ohh my god…” she breathed, giggling. “Oh my god…that was so…giggle… that was…” She raised her head and kissed me again, a quick smack this time. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. She giggled and lay back on the sofa, recovering, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Nnnnnn…Ricky Ticki Tavi…giggle…
I would do anything for you.”
I was speechless. I had been sure that she was so out of it she didn’t even know (or care) who was squeezing her boobs—but no, she knew it was me. She was giving me full credit. I mean, I knew I couldn’t take her declarations of love seriously. The girl was completely wasted, after all. She didn’t know what she was saying. But I was very moved by her sincere gratitude. I mean, half of what I felt for Dana was plain ol’ lust, sure, but half of it was…well, if not love, at least infatuation. I know, I know, if I truly cared for her I wouldn’t have tricked her into getting wrecked and I wouldn’t be planning to do the things I was most definitely planning to do to her. But the truth was, I had always hoped that I’d be doing them with her, not to her, and that the booze and the dope and the aphrodisiacs would merely be a way of breaking down her inhibitions so she could allow herself to see me as a love interest rather than the newspaper boy. Self-delusional, I realize, and no court in the land would accept it as a defense for what could easily serve as the dictionary definition of date rape—but the fact that I had pleased my dream girl delighted me nevertheless.
“Mmmmm…oooooh…” Dana moaned, blinking.
“You okay?” I asked. She smiled up at me, bleary-eyed.
“How’d I gesso drung?” she asked, giggling.
“Maybe you’re not drunk,” I suggested. “Maybe it’s just post-orgasmic bliss.”
She blinked, the words not penetrating.
“Hmmm? Whad’you say?”
“What did you say?”
“What did I say?” she asked, thoroughly confused but still grinning.
“I think you said you wanted to get drunk,” I suggested.
Dana grinned. “Nnnnnnnnn…I like get’n drunk,” she admitted. She crooked her finger, inviting me closer. “I’ll tell you shecret.”
“What’s that?” I asked, leaning in.
“’F you ged me drung enough, I’ll led you fug me.” She closed her eyes and giggled, embarrassed by her admission.
“Just me personally?” I asked, foolishly hoping. Dana opened her blue eyes and blinking innocently.
“Ohhhh, no,” she explained, waving her arm, “anyone!”
“Ahhh,” I said, smiling to hide my disappointment. “So you’re a slut.”
Dana blinked haughtily and raised a finger.
“No. No. I am nodda slump.” She explained, smiling contentedly. “I am falling my bliss.”
“Ohh, that’s right.”
“Thass right. Giggle. So, you wann’ ged me drung ‘n fug me?” One of her hands strayed unconsciously to her groin, stroking gently. I swallowed. My potent concoction had turn sweet Dana into some sort of inebriated nymphomaniac. I mean, that’s exactly what I was hoping it would do, of course, but it was still a bit intimidating. The idea that Dana Burke, the most beautiful girl in the world (had I mentioned that?) actually wanted to have sex with me—that she was, in fact, propositioning me—was itself quite a proposition. Fear of success, that’s what Oprah would call it.
“Well, if it will help you follow your bliss, sure,” I agreed. “But I have a confession to make.”
“You’re already drunk,” I told her.
Dana blinked. “I am?”
“Uh-huh,” I assured her, nodding. “Also stoned.”
Dana giggled. “I am?”
“Uh-huh. Wasted and fried, that’s you.”
“Giggle. Thass me!”
I started nonchalantly tugging down her panties—if, in fact, one can nonchalantly tug down a girl’s panties. Anyway, Dana either didn’t notice or didn’t object. She did have a question, though.
“Hey. Hey. Hey,” she said, a finger raised, her face screwed up in a look of intense concentration.
“Mmm?” I asked, pulling her panties down over her feet.
“How?” she asked.
“How what, darling?” I said.
“How did you…how did we ged me stunk and stroned?”
I lowered myself onto her.
“Does it really matter?” I asked, easing my very eager cock into her very eager cunt. She stiffened and gasped, her eyes rolling back. The powders were working and this girl was ready.
“Uh!” she breathed. “N-no…no…it doesn’ matter…”
I began to do what comes naturally, at least to 16 year old heterosexual males, and pumped. Gently, even tenuously at first, but gradually with greater confidence and force. Dana started arching her body, meeting me halfway.
And then she started grinning.
“Ungh!...Umph!...Rih…Ricky?” she huffed.
“Nng…mmm?” I responded. Dana grasped either side of my face and looked me straight in the eyes. She was still grinning like a mad woman.
“I dunno how you did it, baby,” she slurred, “but thang you.”
Then she lay back, grunting and giggling, and followed her bliss.
I could go into detail about making love to Dana. I could describe the various positions we tried. I could tell you how we spent most of the night either screwing or cuddling. I could even tell you what happened when Mrs. Burke unexpectedly came home at three o’clock in the morning, drunk as a skunk herself after drowning her sorrows at a local bar because Joe Panella showed up for his shift after all and she lost the overtime, and how she had been remarkably broadminded about finding her daughter and the paper boy fucking under the dining room table. I could explain what happened when Dana’s mom unlocked the liquor cabinet and proceeded to get her daughter and herself even drunker than they already were. I could describe the look in Mrs. Burke’s eyes as she stared at me from across the livingroom. I could report that Mrs. Burke is extremely attractive for a woman of thirty-eight, and that Dana inherited neither her oversized boobs not her overactive libido from her father. I could tell you about all of that.
But really…it’s none of your damned business, is it?