me.
In truth, I had a giant crush on both of them.
“I'll be fine,” I said.
“Right,” my dad nodded. And to them, he said, half-kidding, “Just don't let her drink any more beer.”
Ray had given me several sips of his beer a few weeks earlier and none of us had heard the end of it yet. I didn't even like the taste, to be honest, but it'd made my head spin in an oddly fun way.
Anyway, I knew my dad was just being my dad, looking out for me like that.
“Daddy, I'll stick with cranberry juice,” I promised.
He just gave me a look.
Like I said, I'd always had a schoolgirl's crush on Jack and Ray and I flirted like crazy with both of them, mostly right out in the open, which my father always took for youthful playfulness.
Of course, he was wrong-I was a lot more mature, sexually, than he imagined, and would willingly have made out with either one of his friends.
I masturbated every night thinking about one or the other doing the filthiest things to me, at least doing whatever I could imagine at that young age. Or sometimes I fantasized about both of them, like in the sex videos my girlfriends and I'd sneak looks at on the Internet.
Jack and Ray taking turns on me, I mean.
So that's where my little head was at.
“Okay,” my dad finally nodded, heading out the door. “You guys take good care of my little princess…”
“Got it,” Jack waved. “You'll get her back in one piece.”
Ray waved too, but he was already disappearing through the kitchen doorway for another beer. He was always in the mood for another beer. Yet he never seemed at all drunk.
Of course, maybe I'd just never seen him sober, so couldn't tell.
I was in skimpy cotton shorts and a little halter top with no bra, having no real boobs to be hiding, anyway. And I kept flirting like crazy, all the rest of Friday afternoon, both out on the lake in our pontoon boat and back on shore.
My shorts were not only skimpy, they were those little clingy ones, the kind with a seam up the middle that separated the cheeks of a girl's butt. And I made certain to show myself to best advantage. Especially on the pontoon boat, where I did a lot of bending over and stretching for things like the tackle box or the bait.
I guess I was practicing my emerging feminine wiles. And measuring my own sexual charms at the same time.
“Were you staring at my butt?” I accused Jack at one point, straightening with a wriggling worm in my hand. I didn't have any real breasts yet, but I knew my clingy shorts showed off my firmly rounded little ass to perfection. “Or just trying to see up my shorts?”
“You're insane,” Jack laughed. “Little girl, that worm you're holding has a better butt than you do.”
I gave him a pouty look.
“That's because you haven't seen it up close,” I told him. “Or with my shorts off.”
Ray looked over at that, then just shook his head.
“Keep fishing,” Jack told me, looking away. But I could tell he was smiling. “Your father doesn't want us looking at your butt, anyway.”
“Like I'd tell him,” I said, putting the worm on my hook. “Whatever happens on the boat, stays on the boat. Except when one of you pees off the side, thinking no one can see-some old lady on shore's probably getting all worked up watching your wieners through binoculars.”
“That's funny,” Ray said.
“Thanks,” I told him. “I try to be.”
“Wieners,” Jack laughed. “Is that what kids your age call them?”
I just shrugged my narrow shoulders.
“I could tell you what we really call them,” I told him. “But then you'd have to wash my mouth out with soap. That's what my dad always says if I use a dirty word, like cock…”
“Damn,” Ray laughed. “Amber, you really are a funny kid.”
“Thanks again,” I nodded. “I appreciate your appreciation.”
“But you really shouldn't use a word like that.”
“I know. Sorry.”
Ray was a great guy, after all, and I'd nightly imagined doing some great dirty stuff with him, too, but I'd still always liked Jack best.
Jack was in his late 30's, like my dad, about six feet tall and handsome, in a rugged way. He was married and he didn't say much, but I could always tell that he liked me, especially whenever we wrestled around. By that I mean: I could tell by the bulge in his jeans.
That was mostly when my dad wasn't around and I'd just jump right on top of Jack, landing in his lap or on his back, hanging onto him while we both laughed like crazy. He always called me a 'spider monkey' as he tried getting free of me.
And I always ended up breathing hard.
Of course, during our playful wrestling, I was always sure to wrap my skinny legs around one of his, sort of humping his leg and somehow pressing my elbow or my knee or my forearm into his crotch, accidentally on purpose. I'd felt the shifting hardness of his erection through his pants more than once.
But I'd always apologize with an embarrassed little laugh, and grab onto him in a more appropriate place.
“You're impossible!” he'd laugh, trying to pry me loose, his hands often ending up on my little butt or even between my legs as I squirmed and held on for dear life. “Oops, sorry, Amber!”
“Don't touch me there!” I'd laugh right back. “That's one of my good spots-you're getting me all excited.”
And my panties would be thoroughly soaked in the crotch by then.
“Are you going to leave your wife and marry my when I turn 16?” I'd always ask him, giving him a look that meant I was kidding, but maybe not so much. “I think I'd make a great wife.”
He'd give me a look, but usually ask, “Amber, why would you be a great wife? Are you a good cook?”
“You know I'm not,” I laughed. “I mean in the bedroom.”
“Making the bed?”
“No. You know.”
“I don't know,” he'd insist, like daring me to say it. His gray eyes would be smiling at me. “Sweeping and dusting in the bedroom, you mean?”
Pure shyness on my part always caused me to break up giggling and never quite answer, both of us kidding each other that way but knowing exactly what we really meant: sex.
Just good clean sex, between a fully grown man and a little schoolgirl who thought about it constantly. Dreamed of it, even. Fingerfucked herself over it.
And always wanted it.
At the cottage that late afternoon, after we got back from fishing, and having the same back-and-forth kidding conversation with Jack about why I'd be a great wife, I looked around first.
To make sure Ray couldn't overhear.
And then-with a burst of sheer nerve-I said it.
“Not sweeping or dusting. Fucking.”
And Jack just about had a heart attack right in front of my eyes, the shock on his face almost comical. It was as if the world stopped spinning for him right then, a huge dead spot opening in place of the life we were both so easily living only a moment before.
A black hole, actually, that he could easily fall into with horrible consequences if he wasn't super- careful.
I'd stunned him that much.
“Amber!”
“Didn't you think I knew that word?” I asked him, all little-girl innocent. “Fucking? Or knew how to do it?”
