The 19 Year Old Virgin Next Door
Read The 19 Year Old Virgin Next Door Online
Authors: Sean Brandon
Tags: #first time, #neighbors, #virginity, #volleyball, #girl next door, #young woman, #sex at the beach
The 19 Year Old Virgin Next Door
By Sean Brandon
© copyright 2013 Sean Brandon
Published by Sexual Improv Publishing at
Smashwords.com
View all of Sean Brandon’s books at
Smashwords.com
Rules of Service:
The Customer Comes First
Rules of Service:
The Customer Comes Second
My Cousin’s Wife,
Part One: Amy
My Cousin’s Wife,
Part Two: Amy and Jeni
My Cousin’s Wife,
Part Three: Amy, Jeni and Livia
Billionaire Sex: The
Office Affair at Smashwords
Sean Brandon
Author page on Smashwords.com
Disclaimer
This adult reading material is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This
book contains explicit material, strong language and sexual
references intended for mature audiences only. All sexual acts
portrayed or suggested are between consenting adults over the age
of 18.
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be
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Adult Reading Material
The 19 Year Old Virgin Next Door
By Sean Brandon
I’ve lived at the beach for over ten years
and have gotten used to all manner of strays and flotsam washing up
on my doorstep. Friends will use my place as home base when they
bring their kids to the beach and almost all of them bring food. As
long they’re friends I am all for it and welcome them to my home.
The strays usually want to pee, use the phone, drink my alcohol or
just hang out on the beach.
So the other day when I returned home from
Boston and saw a young woman covered in a mass of brown hair and
crying on my sidewalk I was not thrown but I was curious. People
are usually happy when they come to the beach, not crying. I could
hear her sobs and started to walk around her, but the closer I got
to her the more familiar she looked.
It wasn’t what she was wearing because she
wore normal beach girl attire; soft cotton shorts in a loud orange
color and a white bikini top, with orange striped white gym socks
on her legs and white sneakers.
As I walked up she turned her head to look up
at me, and even through the tears and mussed up hair I knew her.
She worked at the local grocery store, Darla was her name. She was
a good girl who was normally happy, so seeing her crying was
unsettling. Her parents lived not too far away from me but I didn’t
know them more than the occasional ‘howdy neighbor’ now and
then.
“You’ve had the same hair color for a month
now, isn’t it time to change it?” I asked. It was our personal
joke. She said I was one of the few guys who noticed whenever she
“adjusted” her hair color, even though it had been neon red as
often as it had been blond.
She laughed but then began to cry again. She
was the plain sort of pretty girl who changed her hair color more
often than she did her socks, more to experiment than to call
attention to herself. In the time that she had checked me out at
the grocery store her hair had been blond, green, red, five shades
of blue that I remembered, purple, and several combinations of
color too shocking to remember the exact combinations of.
“It hurts when I laugh, Mr. Brandon, so stop
it,” she said as she slapped my leg.
“But you’re on my ten square feet of grass so
I can crack jokes if I want to,” I replied.
It was then that I saw her skateboard beside
her and it was pretty banged up. “Are you okay? I’ve never seen you
upset, let alone crying,” I said, getting serious again.
She didn’t reply for a while so I wasn’t sure
what to do. Then she twisted around on the ground so that she was
facing me and showed me her left side. The skin of her left leg was
covered in scrapes, some of them bleeding pretty badly. One sock
was badly shredded and her shorts were all but torn off on her left
side.
“I’m hurt,” she said, tried to stand, and
fell back on her ass then tried her best not to cry. She lost that
battle and tears streamed down her cheeks.
She was a tough young lady and I knew it. She
had once played softball with a broken arm, was bruised regularly
from falling off her skateboard, and played volleyball like the
only way she could continue to breathe was to never let the ball
touch the sand. I knew that she was a tough one and tears were not
a part of her regular day.
“Let me to take you to the hospital and get
you patched up,” I said.
“Hospital?” she glared at me. “It’s a flesh
wound,” she said then broke out laughing which turned into more
tears.
The year before I’d turned her on to Monty
Python and since then she had watched them all. And she quoted
Monty Python whenever I saw her.
“It is certainly a flesh wound,” I said with
a laugh.
“It looks worse than it really is. Can I come
in and clean up a little?” she asked.
“You need a doctor,” I said.
“Look, I have a great doctor who will look at
it later on today, but for now I need your help, okay?” When she
wanted to be direct she certainly was.
“Um, I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Let
me call the paramedics, they will help you for free.” We live at
the beach and have world class paramedics on stand-by all the time.
It seemed ridiculous not to call them and have them work on
her.
“I’m 19,” she said, her voice soft. “I won’t
sue you for giving me medical supplies to patch up my ass, okay?”
Her face was firm and determined as I looked at her and I decided
to let her have her way.
“Okay, come on in,” I said.
I put a hand out to pull her to her feet and
she took it. She pulled, gasped, moaned, and started to cry again
when she started to walk. So I picked her up. She was all legs and
arms and was easy to pick up.
“How did you do this?” I asked, our faces
inches apart.
“Tommy and I were racing our skateboards down
sixth street and I hit a patch of gravel. Now some of that gravel
is embedded in my leg and Tommy kept on going,” she said. She was
very matter of fact about it.
I remember several of my own epic skateboard
wipeouts and felt sorry for the girl. I was proud of the scars on
my legs from skateboarding, trail running, skiing, water skiing,
trying to barefoot water ski and more. Scraped legs were a status
symbol in some crowds.
Once inside I had to carry her up two levels
to the kitchen then looked around for a place to set her down. The
living room, dining room, kitchen and my office are located on the
top floor of my house where you get the best views of the
ocean.
She’d bleed on the couch or bed, so the only
place to set her on the kitchen counter. As I lifted her up to set
her on the counter it brought her face closer to mine. She leaned
forward and kissed my cheek. “That’s for rescuing a wounded girl. I
really am 19, by the way. Is that what you were worried about?”
“Well, yeah, and you’re hurt, you should have
a professional look at it,” I said.
She reached into her back pocket and pulled
out her driver’s license. It said that Darla Green was 19 years
old. Of course the hair in the driver’s license picture was
screaming fire engine red, so I laughed. “I’m 19 and legal. And
you’re too nice a guy to hurt me.”
She jumped down off the counter and started
hopping on one foot over to the sink. I stopped her and picked her
up again. I grabbed a nearby towel to go under her then set her
back on the counter again. “Look, stay up there and I will clean
you up. You want something to drink?” I asked.
“Vodka, straight,” she said and wincing as
she did.
“No,” I said. “What else do you want?”
“Screwdriver would be nice,” she said.
I poured us both a glass of orange juice and
went downstairs to the bathroom in my bedroom for supplies. When I
walked back into the kitchen she was standing at the wet bar in the
living room, a bottle of Grey Goose in her hand topping off both of
our drinks.
“What?” she asked. “I poured it myself, it’s
not like you’re trying to get me liquored up.” She downed her drink
then hobbled back to the counter and set mine down.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” I said. “Let me
call the paramedics and have them clean you up.”
“No, we can do it, Mr. Brandon,” she
said.
“Sean,” I said. “Please call me Sean.”
“I actually like calling you Mr. Brandon,”
she said with a smile that made me pause. Her face had a certain
look to it that said she was thinking something sexy. What a tease.
I looked at her to see if she was fucking with me but she was
serious.
“Okay, call me what you want,” I said.
“Okay, let’s play doctor for real this time,”
she said as she gave me a smug look and let me help her back up
onto the counter.
“Okay, let me look at your…”
“Ass.” She said. “My ass, thigh, and calf I
should add.”
“We’ll start with your ass,” I said. “It
seems to have taken the worst of it.”
“These were my favorite shorts.” They were
also my favorite shorts at that moment. They were the tiniest
orange shorts that only a 19 year old girl’s ass can wear. Even the
outline of her driver’s license pressed through the fabric they
were so thin and tight. “I’d better take them off,” she said as
easily as she would ask for more juice.
“Good idea,” I said, figuring she was fucking
with me.
Nope. She jumped to the floor, kicked off her
shoes, stepped out of the shorts, and I watched as they fell to the
floor of my kitchen. I slowly looked up her insanely long legs as
she painfully removed her socks. She was wearing the briefest white
lace thong and my face had a huge grin. My cock began to push hard
against my shorts. I knew this was where I should send her home and
probably call the paramedics for myself.
“You don’t mind do you?” she asked. I looked
into her eyes, looking for any evidence of a tease, anything that
would tell me that she was pulling my chain. She simply looked like
she was doing what needed to be done and was comfortable standing
in front of me in a bikini top and thong.
The white thong and the white bikini top were
now a very sexy combination. Her eyes met mine, her shoulders were
back, and at that moment she was a strong woman again. Her breasts
were not much bigger than an "A" cup. But what she had she proudly
pushed out, her shoulders thrown back with confidence.
“Okay, back onto the counter,” I said. She
looked down at my crotch and could not have missed the erection
pressing out. She didn’t say anything as she slowly pulled herself
onto the counter and my eyes followed every move.
“Okay now, I’m going to clean this up. This
will hurt,” I said.
“Can we wait?” she asked, a plea in her
voice.
“The longer we wait the more it dries, which
means it hurts even worse when we try to clean it up. We also have
to kill off the germs…” I said until I realized she was laughing
quietly.
“You have a hard-on for a wounded girl, Mr.
Brandon,” she said while looking me straight in the eyes.
“I do,” I said. She was not used to guys
being direct with her and smiled, then settled into the
counter.
“But you’d have a hard-on no matter which 19
year old ass was sitting on your kitchen counter, is that it?”
“Darla, let’s patch you up before we try and
define exactly what turns me on, okay?”
“We could be here a while I’m sure,” she said
with a sly smile.