Teenage girls tend to travel in packs, and black teenage girls even more so. So this one was something of a loner, to be out shopping in a mostly-white neighborhood on a warm Saturday afternoon. Or window-shopping at least, since she did not seem to have bought anything.
I was sitting in the 900 block of 36th, on the bench at the bus stop. Not that I was actually waiting for the bus; I just didn't feel like going home yet, a bus had just gone by, and I knew another wasn't due for 50 minutes. So I knew I wasn't keeping anyone from sitting there who really needed it -- besides, there was room for a couple more people.
That bench is right by the Galvaneyes, which has the junky retro-fashions that a lot of female teens go for, and a half-block from the Salvation Army store which has a lot more and cheaper, though fewer teens go there. Anyway this girl came out of the clothing store and asked me if I knew when the next bus was.
I told her and started to make conversation with her. She was plainly a little reluctant, maybe a bit because she didn't know me, maybe a little more because she wasn't sure how much older than her I was. (I guessed her for 18, so about 3 years.) Mostly I think she hesitated because I was white, but since there were no blacks around whom she knew the herd-defense, as I think of it, did not last long. I was not going to get comments from people I knew in the neighborhood; unless I was seen with a black girl a LOT, nobody would pay any attention. For all anyone knew, I was really waiting for the bus.
We talked about a bunch of things. I told her how old I was and compared notes with her on high-school now and a few years ago. Not much change, though she said drugs were back up locally after getting rare a while back. I could not think of a way to exactly ask whether she herself used them, but she talked around (we were in public) to indicated that she did. That tied in with an idea I was getting.
Anyway we talked until the next bus was almost due, and then I asked her: "When are you supposed to be home?"
The defenses visibly came back up as she asked me: "What do you want to know for?"
"Well, if you have the time, I've got a place near here with some good hash we could use," I replied.
This was both true and odd. Odd because I don't normally use the stuff. I had a fellow I knew years ago stay in my place the weekend before while he was in town, and he left me a bunch of it as payment. I had not expected any payment, and especially not that; either that fellow never knew or had forgotten that cannabis has no real effect on me.
So I hadn't been sure what to do with it. Now I knew -- I could use it to talk longer with this girl than we could otherwise without being conspicuous, and being indoors might allow other things to develop, one never knew.
She hesitated and thought. (Cynthia was her name, by the way.)
Cynthia finally told me that she was interested, that she was not expected home until six -- it was one-thirty then -- but "How far away are you from the bus to Cherry Hill? Where does it stop near you?"
I squinted and said about thirty feet. My apartment was near the second bus stop further along.
She got up, I got up, and if we hadn't swerved south to get to my place, the bus would have passed us. (Indeed, it did, but we couldn't see it.)
Cynthia looked around my apartment a little nervously while I got the drug and pipe out. (The pipe I had because I found it in an alley and I'm a packrat, though it does get used at parties.) She got hit hard by the first few puffs and was soon nudging the clouds aside. I used the pipe too, so she didn't get nervous, though as I say it does nothing for me, or nothing I really like. I have had people give me varying explanations for that, from body chemistry to personality type to my being unable to relax. That last only comes from people who don't know me; those who do say they have to check for breathing once in a while. It's not too uncommon a reaction if you ask as I have, and I sometimes wonder why all these drug studies never mention that.
I mean remembering that the first people to test heroin were all immune to being addicted to it...
The girl was drifting, mumbling about how good she felt, and I said: "I've got something I bet you would like, especially now."
"What is it?"
I explained to her what it was. I had seen an old one when I was a kid, and then somebody started making them again five or six years back, and I bought one last year. That Galvaneyes store had them in the back, in fact, though I guess since they were in boxes there, she didn't know what they were.
I led her to it. Either because she was feeling comfortable or really mellow, she didn't mind that it was sitting in my bedroom. The lamp had been on last night for a while, so it only took a few minutes for the purple liquid to warm up and start moving up and down. Cynthia sat in a chair and stared at it, zoning out even further.
After a while she slumped down, and then giggled as she slid down to the floor. Fortunately I had swept up a couple days ago, so it wasn't too dusty.
Cynthia tried to keep a conversation going, but she kept losing her train of thought, and she asked me three times in an hour what I did for a living -- though I had told her on the bench at the bus stop. By the third time I was giving her a one-sentence answer, and distracting her in the middle of the sentence.
I got to thinking of seeing if she wanted to fool around some. Well, I had thought about that before, really, but now I decided to do something. I went back out and got the hash pipe and the stash and gave Cynthia some more. I sat on my bed and she knelt in front of me while we passed it back and forth. I dropped off my shoes. When she was way up there, I lay back and she got up and joined me, lying beside me.
"Why's it moving like this?" she asked me.
"It's a waterbed."
"Oh yeah, I heard about them. Didn't think they made them any more,." she said, slurring the words.
"They do. A woman I know broke her hip going off a motorcycle and got one because it was more comfortable when she was getting better. And when I was looking for a bed for this place, I found that it was about as cheap as a regular one, and more comfortable."
"It feels really good..."
"Only thing wrong with it is that you don't want to get up."
She didn't say anything, just stared off and started tracing her finger in the air.
I heard the 2:20 bus go by outside. It didn't seem like it had been fifty minutes since we came in from the street, but the drug will do that to you. I reached out one hand and touched her cheek and she sighed and snuggled up to me.
I raised my head and nibbled on her nose, saying: "Hmm, milk chocolate," and she giggled.
When I kissed her lips, her mouth opened and she got seriously into it. When we started, her hands were in front of her, and against my chest, holding us apart, but soon they had gone around me and she was pulling me down. My soldier was standing at attention by then and I shifted one leg between hers, to the middle of her skirt, so she could feel that hard tube against her thigh.
Cynthia's eyes were bright and she was breathing hard when she moved her head aside. "I never kissed a white man before," she said to me.
"Is it any different?"
Her brow furrowed as she tried to think. "I don't know. Everybody's a little different, I guess. You are good."
When my tongue passed her lips again and hers jumped up to meet it, I ran one hand down the front of her blouse to cup her waist, then go under the edge to touch her on the stomach. In a couple more minutes I opened the top button and slid my fingertips across the bare skin there.
Either she wanted me to keep going and she was too far gone to care if she didn't. The rest of the buttons did not take much longer.
"Your hands feel so good," she murmured.
Then I raised her up, to slide the blouse off her shoulders and reach the back of her bra. It only took a little twist to open that, and my palms were on the middle of her back and I could massage her muscles a little. I think the hash had not removed all her nervousness, but my fingers got rid of the tightness in short order.
The next time I raised her mouth off mine, the bra dropped off and I could see her black nipples pointing down at me, hard as they could be.
Her breasts, a little large for a teenager, hung perfectly even without the bra, and I reflected on what a pity it was that in only a few years they would probably sag; though in a few years she would probably have children and those breasts would be put to use by those who would not care about sagging as long as they were full. I hoped she had a husband to go with the babies by then. But enough of this sort of thing.
Then I rolled us over again and my hands began to work on those dark mounds and the darker circles on them, and the peaks atop the mounds. And my mouth lowered to them, and she liked that a lot more.
"I feel like I'm just floating in the air, and it's all so wonderful," Cynthia babbled.
My own shirt went off then, and I pressed her breasts to my bare chest as we kissed again.
I slid down the zipper on the side of her skirt and lifted that off. She now had only orange panties on, at the top of a long pair of smooth legs I wanted very much to get between.
My arm went under her to hold her front to me as we lay side by side, and my right arm went up and down her, from breast to knee with increasing stops in the middle until my hand got under the elastic and I plunged one finger deep into her valley.
Cynthia gasped, and it only took a little grazing on her clitoris with my thumb to make her do it more and stronger as she went into orgasm.
As she recovered, I took my slacks off, and briefs. She had a little hesitation as I drew her panties off.
"Do you want me to?" I asked her. That may have been dangerous to ask, but I wanted to hear the "Yes!"
And she gave the answer to me after her hand had circled my shaft and slid down it like I was entering her instead. She whispered, "I take pills."
Cynthia was certainly no virgin, though I had not expected one. But as I spread her labia and felt that sweet friction of entry, I wondered for a moment who the boy had been that took that sweet black cherry, what he had been like, and whether it had happened in a car or on a rooftop or a couch or even in a real bed. Not that it mattered; what I was getting was very nice. The girl was eager for me, eager to have me in her, and her hips rose to meet me. She was hot inside and either naturally tight or knew how to squeeze me in just the right way. Perhaps I was flattering myself, but the touch I felt at the bottom of a long stroke made me think that perhaps I was kissing her cervix and was therefore as deep in her as any man could get. Her legs wrapped eagerly around my thighs to keep me deep.
I moved slowly and she built quickly. Soon she was at a second peak, and her third orgasm came as I reached mine and surged far into her and shot my seed out.
As we lay there afterward I heard the 3:10 bus go by.
Both of us stayed naked, so I had a lot of opportunity to admire her fine young brown body, even though I did not want to get into it again -- just yet. We went into my kitchen and gobbled up some corn chips, and then sandwich ham. Cynthia sat on a newspaper since the chair seat might be sticky against her bare butt.
She was not sure if she wanted to use the rest of the stash when I suggested it to her, but she finally did and was like a kite, lying in bed with me with my erection bobbing back up, when the 4 PM bus came.
And not much later she knelt with her legs wide apart, braced on her hands, gently hitting bottom on the waterbed every time I hit bottom in her from behind. She was slower to come now, but maybe it was stronger. She gasped, the sounds coming closer and closer together until she came with a low moan and a long shudder. It felt like she clamped down at the best moments this time.
Cynthia asked about using my shower to clean up before she left, and I was happy to oblige. Indeed, I joined her... The temptation was just too much.
No, I wasn't ready again. Only my imagination was. She was even willing to use her mouth to try to bring me up, but it did not work. I did not get anywhere.
But she did. She leaned back on the wall with her legs open and her hips thrust forward as I got on my knees and gave her one more round of sweet ecstasy, her fingers tangled in my hair and her nails tapping my scalp at the end. When we dried off, I saw by the clock that the 4:50 bus had come and gone a little earlier.
We dressed and I waited on the bus stop with her. She did not kiss me goodbye because she was afraid somebody she knew would see her. Cynthia was a bit concerned about being late getting home, but it was only going to take 25 minutes to get home, so the 5:40 bus would only put her five minutes over the deadline. After all, she had to get ready for a date tonight!