Sally and I were students in our University’s creative-writing course. It’s an opportunity to indulge pretensions that we would one day be the next great American novelist. She and I would discuss our latest efforts and edit each other’s writings. Maybe call us study buddies.
But what a beautiful study buddy she is. Blue eyes and Little Orphan Annie curly brown hair. Just my type. But unfortunately, there was never any talk of dating. She’d been going with some dorky guy since high school, and was off the market. So just friends; but I was sure she liked me, and there was some harmless flirting.
It was early Spring, and the weather had finally turned warm. Sally had an idea. “Instead of sitting in a study room, why don’t I fix a picnic basket and we find a nice spot outside? We can discuss our stories more comfortably outdoors than over a table in a stuffy building.”
Sounded good to me, so later that afternoon we set out for the woods behind her apartment-style dorm, to find a spot in nature. It wasn’t Shangri-La, but we found a small clearing that served our purpose. We laid out a blanket and opened the picnic basket. Sally produced a bottle of wine. We eat a little, drank, and relished the warm, fresh air.
“We better actually do some work,” said Sally, “to justify this lazy afternoon. Let’s do your short story first. But I’ll be right back. I just need to find a bush somewhere. Been drinking too much.”
She left to find a hidden spot to relieve herself. It wasn’t but a few minutes when I heard a scream. I rushed to where she was. She was pulling up her slacks, cursing.
“Damn bees. I must have disturbed a nest. They swarmed me!”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I have a lot of bee stings. They got under my clothes.”
She had unknowingly squatted, pants down, over a burrow where the bees had a hive. When a stream of urine hit the nest, the bees attacked.
“Are you allergic to bees?” I asked.
“No. But it hurts like hell,” she replied.
I gathered up the blanket and basket and we hurried back to her apartment to get some ice.
Once there, I asked her where she was stung.
“It’s easier to say where I’m not stung,” she replied.
“Let me see.”
She looked at me for a few seconds. Thinking.
“Screw it,” she said. “No time for modesty.”
She took off her blouse and her slacks. She wore a blue, frilly bra that was more lift than concealment, and low-rise silk panties. I could see her nipples through the translucent material. I tried to be nonchalant, but I hadn’t realized how nice her body was. The clothes she normally wore were loose fitting. The shape and the swell of the breasts was now revealed, and I admired her flat stomach, the roundness of her behind, and the way the panties clung tightly to her body, outlining the crevices. I suppressed my excitement as that would not be appropriate for the situation. She needed my help, not my arousal. She lay on her back on the living room rug.
She didn’t need to point out the bee stings. They were easily spotted by the little red welts rising on her skin.
I got a cold wash cloth, some tweezers to remove stingers and a bucket of ice. While there were parts of her body not convenient for her to reach (like on her back), she could have treated her front herself. I hid any indication that her scantily clad body excited me. But she’s a woman and I’m a guy and she’s not stupid. She looked at me closely. Would she say the obvious, that she could (should) administer to her front herself? No. She didn’t move to stop me.
I set about washing the welts, checking for possible stingers. There were many bites on her legs and thighs. I applied ice, which caused her to shake as the freezing cold moved around her body. I couldn’t see (because she was wearing panties) but I guessed there were bites on her private areas too.
I carefully located the stinger marks and iced them. When I came to one on the swell of her right breast, I pressed my luck. I carefully lowered the top of the bra two inches with one hand while I applied ice to the welt with the other hand. Sally didn’t flinch at this exposure of extra skin of her milky white breast. But she kept the bra on.
“Turn over,” I said.
She did. I iced the bee stings on the back of her legs and thighs. I deliberated on asking the next question, but decided (in my professional ‘medical’ opinion) that it was appropriate. “Do you have any bites on your backside?” I asked.
“Well, that was the part of me most exposed at the time, when I squatted over their nest.”
I lowered the panties to mid-thigh, to expose the buttocks. There were indeed a number of red welts on them. I iced there too. I took longer than necessary, to be honest, as there’s nothing I like more than the rounded mounds of a shapely backside. I enjoyed the way she wiggled her ass as the ice pressed against that flesh.
While I was getting a privileged look at her backside, she had her legs held tightly together. Then I noticed a red welt on the inside of the leg at the top of the thigh. I pulled the panties completely off so that I could coax her legs open a little more, to access that spot. Not my intent (really) but that gave me a peek at the slit that is her vulva. I iced the spot. Her body tensed, but this time I think it was less from the ice and more from the knowledge that I was staring at that intimate space.
“It’s a little awkward to ask this, but now that your panties are off, are there any bee bites on the front that need attention?”
A long pause. “Yes,” she said, “but I think I’ll handle those myself.”
She rolled over onto her back, then sat up. She took hold of an ice cube and opened her legs, to expose the welts on her vaginal area. Somehow, when she said she’d handle that area herself, I think she thought I’d look away. Give her some privacy. No. I stared at her vagina, at the delicate lips and the curly pubic hair above that cavity. She narrowed her eyes and looked at me, her lips pursed tightly together.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Of course, I should give you some privacy.”
“A little late, don’t you think?” she said.
“I don’t mean to stare, just it’s not often I get to loo… “ I stopped myself. Saying too much.
She iced one welt near the lips but there was another lower down, near the bottom. She hunched over, bending her spine far forward to see that area, and applied the ice.
“Damn it,” she said. “This is difficult. You’ve already seen everything. You do it.”
With that, she lay back down and opened her legs. I got a cushion from the couch and propped it under her buttocks. With her middle elevated, I had easy access to the area. I washed it with the wet cloth (she groaned as I did that), plucked out a small remnant of a bee stinger with the tweezer, then applied ice. Her midsection bucked from the cold, but she let me do it.
When it was done, she rose to get a bathrobe.
“Thanks, Charlie,” she said. “You’re a real friend.”
The next day, I called to check on her.
“Much better, thank you. I owe you for rescuing me,” she said.
“Not at all, you’d have done the same for me.”
“I’m not sure I could have been as ‘professional’ as you were, if I had the chance to grope that manly body of yours.”
(“Manly? Is that what she thinks? Didn’t know she thought of me in that way.”)
It was a few days later when Sally came up to me after class.
“Let me repay you for your help last week. Can I cook dinner for you?”
I told her she didn’t need to do that, but she insisted and I was happy to agree.
I arrived at 6 pm. Sally’s roommate was away for the weekend.
“So, are you fully healed?” I asked.
“Much, much better,” she said. And she lifted her skirt up to just below the panty line, so I could see the improvement in her legs. The casualness with which she showed her legs to me, to the very top of the thigh, was a pleasing intimacy. I got a flash view of the panties underneath.
“And how are the bites on your backside?” I asked, with a grin.
“Nice try,” she said. “You had the peep show last week. You’ll have to take my word on this from now on.”
After dinner, we sat on her couch to watch a silly game show with newlyweds who had to answer questions about their partner, including some slightly intimate ones.
[TV] “Your sweetheart has several moles on her body. Can you tell us exactly where they are?”
The poor guy stumbled over this, and ventured a guess. He got the answer wrong, to the amusement of the audience and the shy giggles of the new wife.
“I bet you’d do better than that guy,” Sally said. “You spent enough time surveying every nook and cranny of my body.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said.
“Why don’t we test you? Tell me, do I have any moles on my body, and if so, where are they?
“Are we betting on this? What’s my reward if I get it right?”
She thought this over. “I’ll let you kiss me.”
“A deal,” I said. “You’ve got one on your right thigh, and another on the swell of your right breast.”
“Wrong. You got the thigh right, but I don’t have any moles on my breasts.”
“No,” I said. “There’s definitely one on the right.”
“We’re at an impasse here,” she said. ‘You’ll have to take my word on this.”
“Well,” I said, “I like to follow Ronald Reagan’s rule, ‘Trust but verify.’
“In your dreams,” she replied.
“Then you forfeit the bet.”
“Maybe I don’t mind losing,” she said.
With that, I took the back of her neck and pulled her to her. We kissed, a long kiss, and embraced.
“I still want to verify your answer,” I said.
“You already won the bet.”
“But how will I know if you’re telling the truth?”
She looked at me for at least 15 seconds. Thinking. Maybe thinking of that dorky high school guy? In any event, she just said “OK.”
“OK?” I repeated.
“You can take a quick look. And don’t give me time to dwell on this,” she said. “This may be a mistake.”
She unbuttoned the blouse she was wearing. It slid off her shoulders. She pulled the bra strap on the right shoulder down, then reached behind to unclasp the bra. She supported the bra on her chest with her hand, but lowered the bra cup on the right side to reveal the breast.
I had not seen her full bare breast before, and it took my breath away. Perfect size, and perfectly shaped with prominent nipples. I made a great show of cupping the breast in my hand, moving it around, ‘examining’ it.
“I stand corrected,” I said. “No mole. Maybe it was on the left side.” And without waiting for a response, I pulled down the cup covering the left side.
“That wasn’t part of the bet,” she lightly protested.
“I know,” I said. “I’m cheating … do you ever cheat?”
She smiled. “If you’re referring to Jeff, my high school beau, he and I broke up a month ago.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said with surprise.
“Was I supposed to wear a sign? Maybe put a notice in the school newspaper?”
“I guess not. But if I had known…”
“If you had known, what? What are you saying? You’d have groped my breasts earlier?”
I had to laugh at that. Exactly right. But instead I said, “I’d have found a way much sooner to kiss your beautiful face.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’d have pulled the clothes off that breathtaking body of yours. With your permission, of course.”
“What a sweet talker you are,” she said. “And polite. You ask so nicely…”
We fell into each other’s arms. This time, I didn’t need bee stings to justify touching every part of her body. We made love through the night. I was careful to look, but I never found a second mole. She won that bet fair and square. Or, maybe better said, we both won.