She Hates Me? Not! Pt. 01: Monica

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May 29, 2021 // By:analsex // No Comment

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Ass

Another new storyline…and parts of this one actually happened! I won’t say which parts, and I admit they are a small part of the story, but hey, I was there!

All characters are consenting adults, and over the age of eighteen.

Please send me some feedback and comments for future consideration, and cast your votes when you’re done. I’ve noticed that the number of people who actually vote after reading had waned lately, so please, click those stars. It only takes a second.

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I first met Monica in my senior year of high school. She made quite an impression. I know, because I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was walking down the hallway with a gaggle of my cronies, talking about every eighteen year old male’s favourite subject…girls…when she stepped out of a classroom in front of us, going the same way we were.

“Jesus! Will you look at the ass on her?” my friend Craig gasped. I didn’t need him to point her out to me, as I saw the bum in question immediately. She truly looked like she was poured into her jeans. The word ‘tight’ doesn’t do it justice. The jeans fit her perfectly formed ass like a denim second skin, accentuating every curve. She had undoubtedly the most attention-grabbing rump in the school, the perfect balance between youthful resilience and womanly maturity. It flowed up into a taut, narrow waist, and down into a pair of legs that were long, lean and moving quite gracefully. Her hair was a dirty blonde colour, pretty straight, but with a gentle wave to it, and hung down her back to nearly halfway.

“What’s her name?” I asked, trying to maintain my reputation as the cool one of our group. We weren’t a cool group, trending more toward the geek end of the high school social spectrum, but I was the level headed one.

“Monica,” Alan said. He was the drooler of the gang, and was staring at her ass as it wiggled along ahead of us. “Don’t know her last name.”

“Pud-something,” Mark laughed. “I think her family is Polish. If you like the rear view, you should see the front. She’s in my History class.”

“Really?” I asked. “I’d like to see that.” I was referring to the ‘front view’, not the History class.

We reached the end of the hallway. My locker, and most of my buddies’ as well, were to the right, but Monica went left, turning up the stairs. I followed, despite the fact that we were headed to lunch. It was worth missing a few minutes of free time to get a look at this beauty. One other student was between her and I, but that just put her ass at a more convenient viewing height while climbing the stairs, and the view was remarkable. Even better, there was a landing midway up, where the stairs turned 180 degrees to continue. Mark says the front is as good as the back. We’ll see, I thought. She reached the landing, and turned.

Mark, buddy, I’ll never doubt your opinion again.

How do you say ‘wow’ in Polish? She was gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, with huge blue eyes, and a truly beautiful face. My first impression was that she looked a little like Paulina Porizkova, the former Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. I was so taken with those eyes that I almost missed her chest, which was obscured by her armload of books, but looked quite ample.

I followed her all the way to her locker, which turned out to be in the upper hallway, above my own. I’d like to say that I stopped and talked to her, but I wasn’t that cool and confident. No, I just walked on by, checking her out for as long as possible.

That pretty much summed up my involvement with her. Call it silently lusting from afar. Well, that was it, until the beach party. Then things changed.

It was a typical high school get together. A diverse selection of cliques. More like several concurrent parties happening in close proximity to one another…until the football came out. A game of catch that just kept growing until it became a too big, two teams were picked, and it was on. It was a mix of guys and girls, and despite that, the girls wanted to play tackle. None of the guys were going to argue, because you tackle with your hands, so it meant getting to touch.

Most of the game was uneventful. The tackling was gentle, and the licensed groping was kept to a minimum. I was perhaps a little too into the score of the game, so when Monica (you remember her, right?) caught the kickoff and ran forward, I moved in to stop her. A scrum of bodies appeared in my path, and I weaved through them, diving to the right to tackle her.

I swear, as God is my witness, I didn’t intend what happened. I was just trying to get a hand on her…not get a hand on her, um, boobs. Quite the way to introduce yourself, but not recommended. Anyway, I brought her down, with a handful of her sweatshirt and her left breast. Since I landed on top of her, and my hand was trapped under us, all she had to do is follow the arm, from my still full hand, up to my face, and the culprit was identified.

She canlı bahis glared at me, those beautiful blue eyes full of anger, while I tried to extricate my hand.

“Sorry,” was the extent of the conversation, as I apologized and stepped away. What was I supposed to say… “Hi, I’m Dave. Those are really nice tits. What are you doing Saturday night?”

The game broke up, and the party soon after. I felt awful, pardon to pun.

***

Nearly two years passed. I completely forgot about Monica, her perfect ass, blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, and soft, luscious breasts. See? Hardly remember anything about her, at all.

I got invited to a party, more of a backyard barbecue / potluck. I only knew the person that invited me, but maybe I’d find someone interesting there to talk to.

I arrived at the address I was given, parking on the street. My contribution to the meal was an extra large pizza with nearly everything on it, demonstrating my distinct lack of cooking skills. I walked up to the front door, and rang the bell.

There was a name plate next to the door. P-U-D-Z-I-A-N-O-W-S-K-I. I was mentally trying to get my tongue around that when the door opened. A rather attractive older woman stood there, looking strangely familiar. Something about her eyes…but before I could figure it out, she just waved me in.

“Hi,” she smiled, “I’m Karlyn. Everybody’s out back.”

“I’m Dave,” I said, offering my hand, which she took graciously. “May I ask…how is your last name pronounced?”

“Just the way it’s spelled,” she laughed. Obviously not the first time she’d had the question, she continued, “the easiest way is POOJ-YAN-OWSKI.”

“Poojyankowski,” I repeated, incorrectly, despite her succinct example.

“Not ‘kowski’, she said,”… ‘nowski’. Pooj-yan-owski. Look, just call me Karly…it’s easier.”

I walked into the kitchen, placed the pizza box on the countertop, and turned to go out to the backyard.

“You! What the hell are you doing here?” the voice said, and I looked up, startled. There was a tall, beautiful blonde standing a few feet away, shooting daggers from her incredible blue eyes.

“Monica?” I asked, stunned.

Shit!

***

I should have just left, saving myself from the embarrassment of having her tell everyone about the reason why she hated me. That would have been the smart thing to do, but that’s about when my friend, the one that invited me to this little gathering, saw me, and dragged me outside. He introduced me around to some of his new acquaintances, almost distracting me enough to forget about Monica.

I say ‘almost’, because every time I happened to cross paths with her, she gave me that look again, reminding me that me first meeting with her, almost two years ago, hadn’t ended well. It also reminded me how wonderfully soft and sexy her breast had felt in my hand, the reason for the nasty looks.

When the dinner bell rang, the entire herd thundered inside to load up their plates with food, then filtered back out to eat. When I came out, I noticed that Monica was sitting by herself, off to the side. My presence had sullied her mood, and she was trying not to let that fact ruin the fun for everyone. I had to say something. She had her head down, and didn’t see me approach.

“Monica?” I asked quietly. She looked up, and her eyes flared again.

“What do you want?” she spat.

“May I sit down? I want to apologize…again, for what happened, and for ruining your fun today.” I spoke softly, begging forgiveness, but two years builds up a lot of scar tissue.

“I don’t care,” she grumbled, “Go ahead and sit. It’s a free country…just stay over there, and don’t touch me.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking a seat out of touching range. “Who are you here with?” I thought small talk might help loosen her up. Think again.

“It’s my fucking house, and my fucking party!” she growled.

Oh shit…that really means I need to fix this, or I’ll forever be the guy that felt her up, then ruined her party. Not that I had higher aspirations than ‘tolerated acquaintance’, I just didn’t like being the ‘hated vermin’.

“Monica,” I said, putting my plate aside and turning to face her. I was still no Lothario, but I had learned that if you want a woman to take your words seriously, you give her your undivided attention. “I owe you a huge apology. There’s no excuse for what happened on the beach that day. All I can say is that it was an accident, and I’m very, very sorry. I hope it didn’t cause you any embarrassment. I don’t expect you to forget, but if you could find it in your heart to forgive me, I would be grateful.” There was a long silence, while she contemplated her response.

“Why do you care if I hate your guts?” she asked, with less venom. “We’re not friends, and we never were.”

“True,” I replied, “but no one likes to be despised, especially by a beautiful woman.” Another thing I had learned…compliments, as long as they’re genuine, are never wasted. bahis siteleri Her eyes softened slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Apology accepted…but you stay over there anyway!” She looked back at me, and I saw something I never thought I would from her ; a smile. Just a little one, but there it was, replacing the loathing that had been previously evident. “I guess it’s partly my fault. I mean, all us girls knew what being ‘tackled’ meant. It’s not like we should have been surprised that we had hands on us, and you weren’t the only one who made that kind of contact. You were just the only one who grabbed my boob.” She slid a little closer, breaking the ‘no touch zone’. A symbolic gesture, perhaps?

“Thank you for apologizing. You didn’t have to…it’s not like I was publicly demanding it…and that says a lot about you. I misjudged you.” She smiled again.

“Well, it’s understandable,” I laughed. “Most people introduce themselves with a handshake, not a…handful. Feel free to touch me in an inappropriate place, if you feel it will balance things.”

Okay, that last bit was a bit much, but I was joking. A little. It worked. She laughed, and a full fledged smile broke out on her face. What a smile it was, too, so bright, free and sexy. I noticed her lips. Previously, they had been tight, pursed in anger, but now they relaxed, pouting slightly, plump and delicious looking, the classic ‘Cupid’s bow’ shape to them. I wondered how soft they were, and how it might feel to kiss them. She was, after all, so very beautiful.

“I think I’ll let you off the hook,” she giggled, “only because you’d probably enjoy it!”

“Rats!” I laughed, snapping my fingers. “My strategy has been discovered!” I picked up my plate, and we ate in silence for a few seconds.

She was close enough that I could smell her perfume. I saw her tongue flick out across her lips, retrieving stray crumbs. I stole a few glances at her boobs, cradled softly in a lacy white bra that showed through her v-neck t-shirt of the same colour, displaying a teasing inch of cleavage. They looked as soft as they felt, I recalled, matching the view with the indelibly preserved memory of her breast filling my hand.

Don’t stare, jackass! I thought. You just got out of the doghouse, so behave!

“Um, so let me see if I can get this right,” I said, breaking the vacuum. “Pooj-yan-owski?”

“Yes!” she gasped, raising her hand for a high five. “Did you hurt your tongue?” The look in her eyes was warm. I laughed, and shook my head.

I do hope you’re asking that for a reason, I thought.

***

It was about an hour later that Monica appeared at the back door, tossing a football up in the air. She was wearing an oversized football jersey, with a number ’12’ on it. She caught my eye, and smiled.

“Okay,” she called out, “I’m one captain, and my Mom is the other one.” Karly walked out behind her, wearing her own jersey, number ’44’. She did a little pirouette, and took a bow. I couldn’t help thinking that she was pretty hot, an older version of her daughter, and that she wasn’t showing the mileage. I also thought that ’44’ might be appropriate advertising for her measurements, as she appeared pretty top heavy, also like her daughter, but bigger.

The schoolyard pick began, and I was surprised when Monica took me first. I joined her, and she giggled.

“Sorry,” she whispered in my ear while her Mother was picking her first player, “but I figured the best way to protect myself was to make sure we were on the same team.” She smiled, and winked. I liked her sense of humour. Being her friend was already much better than being her enemy.

A few minutes later, there were two teams of six ready to play, and the rest of the party taking places as an audience. Each team had three women, including the captains, and three guys. The yard was perfect for this sort of thing ; big, flat, smooth and open. As the teams wandered to opposite ends of the ‘field’, I asked Karly about the rules.

“Two hand touch?” I suggested. She looked at me incredulously.

“What? Are you some kind of wimp?” she laughed, getting her jab in. “Afraid you’ll get hurt by the girls? No touch…tackle!”

I looked at Monica, who was spinning the ball in her hands, and she grinned, and shrugged.

“Two brothers,” she said, by way of explanation.

Okay, tackle it is, I thought. Keep your hands low.

The opening kickoff, or toss, came to me, and I started to return it, only to come face to face with Karly, who was charging at me. There was going to be an obvious distraction factor every time I saw her, as her big boobs bounced under the jersey. My eyes flitted down to those big globes, providing the hesitation she needed, and I found myself ploughed under by her tackle. She had good form…the tackle, I mean. Her own form was much better than merely good.

I felt her breasts pressing softly into the back of my thighs as she laid atop me for a few seconds. She bahis şirketleri patted my ass as she got up, and I glanced at her, surprised. She winked.

Monica handed me the ball.

“You’re the quarterback. I’m going across the middle shallow. Hit me.”

Now I understood why she had wanted to play that day on the beach. This was a football family, from Mom on down. The competitive attitude, the terminology… the jerseys. She even knew how to throw properly, flicking her wrist as she released it. About the only thing she did like a girl was fill her bra.

She ran her pattern crisply, and I connected with her. Karly moved across to make the stop, but Monica put a nice spin move on her Mother and scooted free, running like a gazelle, her hair flying, all the way to the end zone. She spiked to ball and jumped in glee, showing off her own distractive bounce factor. A couple of cup sizes smaller than her Mother, she still had to be at least a D. I was going to be trying to run up the score, if for no other reason than to watch her celebrate.

“Nice pass,” she laughed, returning my high five. She was glowing, happy to be playing. “Keep it up, and I’ll do more than forgive you!”

What? Can you repeat that? I think the sun was in my ears. Be still my heart!

The toss went to one of the other ladies, who ran it back until someone got close, then just turned into a turtle, dropping to the ground in submission. On their first play from scrimmage, Karly caught a little pass from their quarterback, and took off. She sure didn’t run like a girl, let alone a 40 something Mom, and I cut her off with a burst of speed.

Hands low, I reminded myself, as she neared. I ducked down under her straight arm, and got a grip around her waist, with a handful…of the hem of her jersey, nothing more. She tried to spin away, and my arm slid down, from her waist to her thigh. It was smooth, and warm. She almost escaped, but I still had her by the jersey, stretching it down. I held her long enough for Monica to show up and finish her off.

Now I was laying on the back of Karly’s legs, Her firm, round ass, covered by tight yoga shorts, was mere inches from my face.

“Nice move, but not today,” I laughed, patting her rump in response to her earlier one. She just laughed.

It didn’t take them long to score, at least partially because my previous tackle had caused Karly’s jersey to reveal a bit more of her chest than it had before. Now she was a huge distraction…emphasis on the ‘huge’ part, as her tits nearly bounced out of her jogging bra /yoga top, and the gaping neckline of the stretched shirt let those dancing globes show off their moves.

So it went, tit for tat, as it were. We score…Monica celebrates, getting closer to hugging me each time. Then, they score, because Karly knew her body was getting to me, and she was using that fact to her advantage. It seemed as though no one else even tried to tackle her, leaving me to deal with her, and her shirt was slowly turning into a dress.

Well, there was nothing else to grab. Let me rephrase…there was nothing else I should grab, but plenty I wanted to. Everything she was wearing, except the shirt, was skin tight, and either underwear or virtually so. She didn’t seem to mind the physical contact, anyway, and I didn’t mind getting to grab her, although my stiffening cock was starting to make running more difficult.

On one play, when she tackled me, I was sure I felt a hand on my crotch. Just for a second, a brief exploration of the bulge that was taking over…but I swear I felt it. When we unpiled, she had a mischievous little grin on her face, but avoided making eye contact.

We scored again, and this time, Monica’s celebratory routine included a hug for me. All was truly forgiven, now, and I hugged her back, getting to feel the fullness of her breasts against me.

“If we win, I’ll let you kiss me,” she whispered into my ear. Just what I needed. Incentive.

I wondered what had caused this competitive attitude between her and her Mother, but decided to leave sleeping dogs asleep.

Karly came charging out of the end zone with the kickoff, determined to make our lead short lived. I settled in front of her, ready to shift either way when she made her move to go around. She was coming fast, and it never occurred to me that her strategy might be more direct. She just ran over me, literally, and I wrapped my arms around her, as much to save myself as stop her. She stumbled over my feet, and we went down.

You sometimes forget that football is played with a helmet on for a reason, and that the helmet has a face mask. Think of the old time players with their leather helmets, and unprotected faces. They must have gotten unwanted face fulls of assorted body parts all the time.

As Karly and I fell, I got to experience that, first hand. I doubt any of the players of old had such an enjoyably soft body land on them, but I did. Her big rack hit me right in the chops, and she fell flat, mashing my face into those delicious, pillowy boobs. I was pinned between the ground and her breasts, my face buried in her cleavage. As if that wasn’t enough, I think one of my hands was on her ass.

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