WHAT LANA TAUGHT ME pt. 1

I had my first apartment in a crappy little complex full of enlisted men and 
their wives, divorced moms with kids, and people who thought it was a good 
idea to start the day drinking beer on the front porch.  It was a shithole 
but it was my first shithole and I was excited to be on my own after high 
school, working and saving for whatever I figured out to do next.  I had a 
lot of opportunity to save because my only girlfriend was at the end of my 
arm.

I first made friends with the couple in the apartment above me, Bart and 
Lana.  At first I felt kind of sorry for Bart because he was a pretty 
good-looking guy (a sergeant in the Army, by the way) and Lana seemed like a 
cow to me.  In reality I suppose she wasn't that fat, just well-rounded, you 
might say.  But since my standard for women came entirely from Penthouse and 
late night cable, a regular sort of woman like Lana seemed as big as a bus.  
  Not that Bart seemed to mind.  He was some kind of technician and tended 
to be gone for days at a time, and I could always tell when he came back, 
the walls and ceiling were thin enough that I could pretty much hear 
everything.

With Bart being gone and me working nights, Lana and I got to be friendly 
during the day, and it wasn't long before it just became part of my routine 
to drop in on her first thing in the morning, or for her to come downstairs 
and see me.  And pretty soon, between seeing her every day and jerking off 
at night listening to them thrashing about, my views about the desirability 
of a woman shaped like Lana started to change.  I certainly thought more and 
more about her as I got to see more and more of her that summer-- she had no 
problem wearing loose or short clothes that gave me a pretty good idea of 
what was underneath them.

One day it might be a sundress which her breasts moved freely inside, so 
that I might imagine coming up behind her, nuzzling my face in her flowing 
red curls, slipping my hands in under the armholes and grabbing those big 
swaying globes (I read a lot of Penthouse so breasts were always "globes").  
  Another day she might wear a white undershirt (bra underneath, but not 
enough of one to prevent a little nipple impression) and short shorts which 
would show lots of creamy white thigh running up to that intersection of 
tummy roll and crotch, and the mysterious (red, I assumed) world inside.

One day I was startled to find her sunbathing in a bright fuchsia bikini, 
her big globes seeming extending a foot as they rolled to either side, soft 
chest flesh in between, then that broad tummy, a huge but soft and smooth 
white tummy you could lose yourself on for days.  Below that another fuchsia 
hands-off sign, then long strong thighs supporting a big heart-shaped butt, 
the bikini bottom sucked into the crack when she turned over.  For the first 
time that day, too, I noticed her feet, little pink toes on a fat foot.  I 
was surprised that night that it was those feet I kept thinking off as I 
beat my cock furiously.

In retrospect, of course, Lana was putting on a show for me, but I was too 
naive to realize it.  I just figured she had no idea that there was anything 
to notice about a married woman being half-naked in a different way every 
day for the 18-year-old boy downstairs.  Over time, too, our conversations 
got more intimate.  First she'd just make offhand comments about being a 
little sore from the night before, or expecting Bart that night "and I 
better be ready for a workout."  Soon she was asking me if I had any 
girlfriends (the closest I got was a girl at the restaurant I bussed at who, 
if things went well between us, I might actually ask out in six or seven 
months).  As she asked me about her she raised one leg up on the chair, 
hiking her shorts up so that I could practically see where her thigh met her 
crotch.  Somehow I managed to keep my mind on the girl I was talking about 
and not the one who was inviting me to see if I could spot curly red hairs.

Bart had a two-week training session out west somewhere, and as the first 
week went by and he was gone longer our conversations got more and more 
heated-- at least for me.  She made a comment about "keeping herself happy 
when I go to sleep, but it's not the same as having Bart here" and when I 
looked startled-- actually, I was quite amazed she had said such a thing-- 
she said "You're 18 years old, you can't tell me you don't masturbate.  At 
least I hope you do, otherwise you'd be missing one of the main pleasures in 
life."

I tried to sort of avoid the topic, but she kept pushing me-- and as she did 
she reached for a bottle of suntan lotion and started rubbing it on her 
chest, that soft spongy area that promised the feel of the big round breasts 
to either side, hands disappearing under the straps to that mysterious place 
I so badly wanted to go.  "Every guy does it, and any girl with any sense.   
You can't tell me that you don't think about that Candy or whatever her name 
is at the restaurant and get yourself off.  I think about Bart every night 
when he's gone... among other things."

I still didn't get it, I guess I just didn't have the self-esteem to realize 
she was seriously talking about me.  I imagined it at night, God knows, 
jerking off twice, waking up thinking about her and doing it again to get 
myself enough relief that I could get to sleep.  I imagined her on top of 
me, her weight smashing me down, her red curls in my face, her big round ass 
grinding away on top of me.  But I still couldn't believe that she was 
coming on to me, even though she was as obvious as a freight train barreling 
down the tracks at me.

About three days before Bart was due back, we were at her place shooting the 
breeze (not about sex for a change) when UPS showed up with a package.  "Oh 
good, it's my welcome back to Bart," she said as she came back into the 
apartment.  "Do you want to see?  I think it's not so revealing that I can't 
model it for you."

Did I want to see?  Are you fucking nuts?  Another electric jolt through me 
as my friendship with Lana got intimate enough for intimate apparel.  She 
went off into the bedroom and came back in a moment, the most beautiful 
thing I had ever seen in my life.

It was a white nightie, sheer and trimmed with chiffon, the perfect shade 
for her creamy skin and fiery red hair.  It was true, it didn't show 
anything that the bikini hadn't shown-- there was solid satin where decency 
required.  But it hinted at it all so much more enticingly than the bikini 
did.  Her creamy white thighs disappeared into a chiffony cloud.  The 
chiffon billowed around her big butt, revealing the way her haunches shifted 
under the satin as she twirled around for me.  And with each step, I saw 
nipples sliding under the satin as her big round globes moved freely, swayed 
hypnotically.  "You think I can get laid in this?" she said, standing just 
inches from me and, I finally realized, inviting me.

I stood up.  Her eyes indicated that I was welcome.  I put my arms around 
her hips, still afraid to touch where I really wanted to grab her.  She had 
no such qualms, and grabbed my ass and pulled me into her as we bounced 
against the wall.  Our lips came together and I immediately felt her 
slippery tongue probing places in my mouth.  She moved my right hand up to 
her breast and I started squeezing it, unsure how hard I should do it, but 
thrilled at last to be feeling those fat, heavy tits.

She kept me doing that but suddenly her mouth moved away from mine.  "I-- I 
have to tell you something," she said, and a sinking feeling told me I 
wasn't getting laid today.  I kept reaching for what I could feel before I 
was cut off, however.  "I can only do this with Bart," she said.

I tried to be adult in my disappointment.  "I know.  You're married.  I 
respect that," I said, pretty stupidly for someone grabbing the tits of 
somebody else's wife.

"No, I don't mean that," she said, and now I was confused.  "I want you so 
bad, Ricky," she said, and I made a mental note at that instant to be Rick 
from now on.  "But I can't have you by myself.  Bart and I have a rule.  We 
only share our bed with other people... together."

I was horrified, as well as still confused.  Shocked at the idea that 
apparently there was a lot more going on than I'd guessed upstairs.  And 
confused at just how much she meant... together.

She pulled herself away from me now, cutting off my access to the delights 
I'd finally sampled.  "Ricky, I want you badly.  And I know you want me.   
But these are the rules here.  If you come to bed with Bart and me, you come 
to bed with us as a couple.  That means, we all make love to each other."

Shit, she really did mean that.  There was no fucking way.  "I'm not-- I'm 
not--" I said, somewhat angrily.

"I'm not a lesbian, Ricky, but when Bart wants to bring a beautiful woman 
home, we all share everything," she said.  "There's so much potential for 
love and just plain happiness in this world if we don't get hung up on what 
we are or aren't.  Anyway," she said, a little tougher edge in her voice, 
"those are the rules.  You're young, there are many things you could 
discover about yourself that will only lead to a richer and fuller life.  I 
would love to help you discover them, Ricky... I want to be the first woman 
you make love to, and I want to see you make love.  But you have to give 
yourself to me, and to Bart.  It's your choice," she said, and then she 
grabbed my hand, and it disappeared under the chiffon edge of her negligee 
and then-- my God, my fingers were thrust into a wet and slippery warm place 
for a moment, like another tongue licking them.  Then they were pulled out 
again, and she backed away from me.  "Think about it tonight... when you're 
thinking about this by yourself."