All the time I was standing out on the balcony of Colleen Addison's house fourteen miles south of Athens, in Voula, overlooking Greece's Miroon Sea, and engaging in chit chat with her and the man who was introduced to me merely as Sam from the Economic Section, I kept thinking that I knew him from someplace but couldn't place him.
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It was supposed to be wonderful. Patricia's son -- her pride and joy -- was only weeks away from attending college. The freshman semester would be starting soon and they were both overjoyed.
So it came as a complete shock when she saw Tyler coming home that Saturday morning with a frown on his face. He had just returned from a fraternity meeting in which eligibility for new membership was explained.
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The roses are blooming in the rather plain jar on my desk. It's a canning jar, it once held pickles I think, like the jars that used to line the shelves in your kitchen. The florist thinks I'm ridiculous for my regular purchase of three roses, one pale pink, two darker pink, but they remind me so much of you.
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"Gimme a little taste," he whispers. I give him an are-you-sure look. The road we are on turns and twists with the coastline; beautiful to look at, treacherous for those types of games. But he's had his hand in my jeans for the last quarter mile. At first he'd had to coax, but he knows just where to touch, and just how to press. Now I was wide open to him, responsive to every touch, deliberate in every returned caress.
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I was on vacation from the States. One bright, sunny day which is often most unusual in England while strolling along the beach, I listened to the ocean waves swishing onto the sandy-small rock strewn shore to kiss the land before returning out to sea from whence they came.
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I couldn't unfasten her safety belt. Have you ever heard those lyrics? They're part of a song that Chuck Berry put out in the sixties.
Basically, the song gives the story of a young lad who took his girlfriend for a drive. He tells of how, when they parked and wanted to go for a walk so he could pitch a little wooing, they couldn't undo her seat belt. She was stuck in the car and he had to home, wooing being deferred to another day.
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"I cannot stand Cynthia and her more virginal than you attitude," announced Amelia, looking over at where the offender was currently flirting with a couple of boys.
"I know what you mean," grumbled Marie. "The way she acts we're all sluts because we're not virgins. Just because we're not virgins doesn't mean we're free and easy. Or that we had any choice in the matter, anyway."
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"Hi I'm Steve."
The girl looked up quickly and turned slightly away, hands defensively covering her middle. She needn't have bothered. I had always liked curvy girls and when I had come around the corner of the narrow overgrown trail that led down the hillside to the secluded beach I had stopped to admire her.
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The whole thing was Margaret's idea, not mine. You could say I was more a reluctant victim rather than an eager participant. It was late spring and the weather was warming up nicely. Still too cold to go to the beach in my opinion, but it wouldn't be long.
It was a Saturday afternoon, reasonably warm, and Margaret came around with her bright idea. She wanted to go to the beach and get an early start on a suntan.
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Attending a collage in the south has many benefits not the least of which is frequent road trips to the beach. On this particular trip it was myself and five fraternity brothers looking for a little fun and sun down on the gulf coast. We arrived Thursday afternoon around 2: PM and checked into our hotel. Typical collage guys on a budget, we were jamming the room.
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