Summer Girl Read online

  By the time dinner-time rolled around, even Brie's special recipe of Rib-eye couldn't get Brad to exit his office. She placed the plate on his desk while he grunted in acknowledgment.

  Brie figured by nine o'clock that Brad would be done with whatever he had going on, but no. This was the last night that they would be alone before Tamera's return from Overton so Brie waited patiently in his bed wearing her blue bikini, complete with ruby-red lipstick (his favorite).

  When by 10:00pm, Brad was still a no-show, Brie bolted from the Merles' master bedroom and retreated to her guest room, seething. Having expended his seed in her orifices, as well as on her backside, Brad was losing interest. He was like all the rich Overton folks that summered in Trestle. They suck whatever they can from Trestle and then bail on it when the weather turns cold. Thinking back to when she saved Tamera from drowning, Brie realized that her view of the lake was always from shore. She couldn't remember the last time that she was on a boat on Lake Willard. The Overton folks had bought up all the best property along the lake. They were the only ones that actually got to live on the lake.

  And where was the beautiful and high-achieving Tamera? Back in Overton, no doubt having forgotten about Brie, ensconced for the week at her high-powered law-firm doing deals and having romantic interludes with her paralegal, Kay.

  When Brie put her anger and paranoia all together, she was left with the unmistakable conclusion that the beautiful Merles' had already grown bored with her and were taking her for granted.

  John Phillip Sousa

  Brad awoke the next morning tied to the bed, naked.

  “Brie!” he yelled. A little kinky bondage was always fun, but tying him down while he was sleeping? That was bad cricket.

  “Brie!” he yelled again.

  Into the room marched a drum majorette, in a green, pleated mini-skirt, wearing a square-shouldered faux military style jacket, complete with epaulettes. She wore matching boots, gloves and a square box-shaped hat. She was twirling a baton and high-stepping her gorgeous gams around the master bedroom.

  And those legs. Brie's legs were displayed beautifully, long and toned, framed by the tall boots on one end, with the hem of the teasingly, short skirt on the other. She stopped at the foot of the bed, Brad looking up at her, eyes wide. “Brie...” She could read awe and lust on his face.

  “You like?”

  “Oh my God, yes...” said Brad, his cock standing at attention.

  “What is it about drum majorettes that you like so much?”

  “I don't know... I just...”

  “Well, whatever it is, I can say that today is your lucky day. I am filling in for a sick Loni Elliot and if you can get untied, you can come out to watch. It’s going to be a warm day so a lot of this outfit will have to come off. But I don't know how you'll be able to see it. I've tied those panties so tight that I don't see you getting out there in time. Unless Tamera gets home this morning.

  “Brie, you've got to let me out!” said Brad, straining on the bed, his massive biceps bulging, his erection looking like a section of wood plank pointing straight up.

  “Uh, uh,” Brie said walking around to the side of the bed. She bent over, the tiny pleated skirt arced up, revealing her well-packed ass covered by a strip of form-fitting neoprene leotard. “This skirt doesn't cover much does it? Do you think I should be going out in public in it?”

  “No, no, Brie. You can only wear that here,” said Brad breathless.

  “Well, stripping off this skirt will solve that problem won't it?” she said tugging at it.

  “Brie... Brie, please... let me have you.”

  “Oh, so NOW you're interested in me. Where were you last night?”

  “What are you talking about? I was working! You know? Making the money that allows Tamera and I to pay you five grand a month!”

  “Nice try.”

  “I need to touch you—I need to touch your ass.”

  “Here. You can have a kiss.” Brie turned around and bent over right in Brad's face. She felt his lips pressing against the narrow strip of neoprene running up her bottom, sliding his tongue out onto the bare portion of her ass and up the side of her hips, then back again along the plush contours of her buttocks.

  And then she cruelly pulled it away. Mid-lick.

  “Brie!” moaned Brad.

  Brie turned around and gave a little wave. “I hope you can make it in time. But I won't be going home with you. It could be one, or maybe two—or five—very hot guys I'll be spending the day with —and the night with. Hopefully one of them will be Dan the dry cleaning guy. You know him; he’s the one you've hired to do my SAT coaching? He's cute.

  And with that, Brie was gone.

  Brie got in her truck (Mom and Dad had lent it to her indefinitely) and laughed at Brad's drum majorette fetish. Where did that come from? In her years of leading marching bands no one ever thought majorettes were sexy. They were mostly cornball really, a throwback to her parents' time or even further. But today she would change that.

  When she arrived at the staging area in front of Trestle Hardware, bandleader Hank Fenton and his young assistant, Ed, were thrilled to see Brie.

  “Thank God!” said Hank hugging her, “You saved our asses.”

  “Glad I could help,” said Brie, twirling around.

  “Say, you are looking great these days, Brie,” said Hank. “What's it been—about a year?”

  “I think so,” said Brie, noticing the stares from Ed.

  “Are you going to be still available to fill-in now and then—even though you're out of high-school?”

  “I don't know,” smiled Brie, “Let's see how you feel after today.”

  The rest of the marching band greeted her. Most of them were a year or two behind her in school so she didn't know them well but they all seemed appreciative that she had showed up.

  There was a fifteen-minute logistics meeting regarding the parade route and the significance of Pickle Days to the history of Trestle. And then it was show time. The band started up with old John Phillip Sousa numbers blaring from brass behind her, the same creaky tunes Brie had been hearing for years.

  They made their way down Fenster Street, the beginning of the parade route. Behind them were seven floats with Pickle Day themes and various groups of veterans and Lions Club members walking and riding behind. Because Pickle Days was such a big event it drew from the surrounding counties and as a result the crowd was in the thousands, well-exceeding Trestle’s own population.

  Brie was high stepping and twirling her baton, her tiny skirt spinning upwards, giving the spectators—and the band members behind her— just enough view of heaven to be distracted. In fact, it wasn't long afterwards that she started to hear more and more bum notes. At first Brie thought that it was due to the hot day, but each time she twirled around she noticed the band members in the front paying particular attention to her and the back rows way out of formation as the members strained and craned their necks trying to get a look at her. The residents of Trestle, and its surrounding area, would be remembering Brie today.

  The band was coming up on the intersection of Main and Trestle, the traditional place for the band showcase that allowed them to march in place for a few minutes allowing them to play more involved selections. It was also the point where the drum majorette got to show her stuff.

  They reached the intersection and stopped. Bandleader, Hank, set up a stepladder in the street in front of the band. With baton in hand they launched into the Brittany Spears classic, “You Don't Make Enough to Have Me.” Brie marched out in front while the band played and was now alone in the intersection surrounded by the parade watchers lined up along the street. She threw her baton up in the air and caught it, then spun it behind her, twirling and now, for the first time, bumping and grinding, swaying her beautiful body in time to the music. There were loud cheers as she bent over ninety degrees, her baton still twirling, not missing a beat.

  “Take it off!” yelled a man, obviously startin
g his drinking early.

  Well, there was her excuse. Brie always knew what she'd do here, at the showcase portion of the march—and it was getting warm. And she didn't have to worry about her parents reactions since they hated parades. With her one free hand she unbuttoned one button on her marching jacket, then the second and a third button. She undid the snap that held the high-collar together and in one single movement she pulled the thick jacket over her shoulder and down her arm. One sleeve was now dangling, her left side displaying a bare shoulder and full breasts, wrapped in the leotard’s spandex. A lusty cheer rose from the crowd that almost overwhelmed the band. Brie passed the baton to her other hand and now with her left, pulled her jacket off her remaining shoulder, sliding it down her arm, this time the entire heavy coat falling to the pavement with an even louder cheer. In its place was a bare-shouldered leotard held together at the neck, the same plum color as the rest of her marching outfit. Though her breasts were entirely covered with no cleavage showing, every contour of her tits was revealed by the tight, thick material, each breast seemingly vacuum wrapped.

  Brie scanned the crowd and could see the men (of all ages) grinning and clapping enthusiastically, while the women looked away, or responded with scowls of anger. Hank, the bandleader, still waving his baton, had cranked his head almost 90 degrees and was watching her with a combination of horror and desire. “More!” someone yelled. She zeroed in on the voice and saw that it was Dan, standing on the curb holding her discarded jacket, looking gorgeous in a buttoned short sleeve shirt that displayed sculpted pecs and shoulders that might even be better than Brad's (?!). She felt wet warmth dripping between her legs as she imagined being wrapped in those arms, her face buried in that soft tuft of blond chest hair extending up out of the top button. She gazed at his tight jeans and all she could do was imagine what was hidden behind the denim.

  Brie reached down with her free hand and unsnapped her skirt then unzipping it down the side. With only gravity assisting, the pleated skirt slid downwards over her hips and down her legs. She heard another round of cheers taking in her newly revealed ass and hips. Brie couldn’t get enough of these cheers.

  The band was totally falling apart now, off-key and off-time and no one seemed to care. Who cared about a marching band when you had Brie, the spinning, twirling small-town majorette, looking wholesome, eager and energetic while managing simultaneously to be an object of carnal desire?

  Hank gave the signal to continue on. The band moved down Trestle Street, the floats and Lions Club following from a long ways back, unaware of the spectacle occurring five hundred yards in front of them.

  Brie turned the corner and there, standing prominently at the corner, was Brad. His eyes were opened wide as he took in the stripped-down Brie, still in boots, hat and gloves, but more naked than naked in that leotard. Brie winked, giving him a smile as she strutted past.

  The band had pulled themselves together and was almost sounding okay. The throng seemed to get bigger and bigger as Brie felt the space between her legs get wetter and wetter. The lust of the crowd was part of what turned her on but seeing Dan and Brad looking on worshipfully was what really pushed her over the edge. God, could she have both? What that too much to ask? She'd let them take her at once if they wanted. A threesome! Dan in front, with Brad pulverizing from her behind. And maybe Tamera too! She’d be stroking Brie's hair while purring in her ear how beautiful she was, telling Brie that she had perfect breasts and perfect hair and— no, fuck that! Brie didn't like girls and certainly didn't need any affirmation from city-folk about whether she was beautiful or not. She’d be content to be with just Dan. She'd let Dan into all her orifices, even the ones she wasn't that crazy about. They'd get married, stay in Trestle, have kids—no— no kids, not after dealing with Jackie. Brie would help Dan at the dry cleaners, perhaps working with female customers with embarrassing accidents on their clothes that needed to be kept hush-hush. Pay it forward.

  Brie turned another corner and there was Brad again, front and center. She winked.

  They were coming up on the home stretch now. She could see Eddington's Funeral Home up ahead, the parade's end-point. Brie felt like she was flowing now. She made a quick glance down at her thighs to make sure the tight leotard was holding in her juices. She thought about how good it would feel to stop twirling that baton and instead rub it against her.

  The band came to a stop in front of the funeral home, falling out of formation and thronging up to Brie, congratulating her on her “powerful and thoughtful” performance (Ed). Suddenly Hank had her by the hand, pulling her into the Trestle Track Bar next door to the funeral home. Pulled through the door everything grew dark. Brie's eyes adjusted and she could see a dark, loud room already filled with parade spectators. It was an older crowd, and because it was a bar no young people her age were in sight. Were Brad or Dan here?

  “Have a seat,” said Hank guiding Brie to an open bar seat. She leaned her baton against the bar and sat down.

  “Oooo!” said Brie feeling her almost bare bottom against the cool leather of the barstool. “That's chilly.”

  “I bet it is,” said Hank smiling.

  “Hey, you know that I can't drink yet, right?” said Brie.

  “They'll make an exception for you— won't they Rick?” Hank said to Rick, the bartender.

  “I didn't hear a thing,” the bartender said smiling. “What do you have?”

  “I'll have a Boilermaker and my young friend will have a Black and Soda.”

  “What?” said a shocked Brie.

  “If I left it up to you you'd order a wine or something,” said Hank, putting his hand on Brie's knee.

  “And what's wrong with wine or beer?”

  “Because its boring,” said Hank.

  “You caused quite a stir today,” said Ed squeezing in on her left. “It's all they're talking about on the sidewalk.”

  “That's... that's great,” said Brie, trying to get her mind around the local fame and acceptance that she had been pining for just twenty-four hours before.

  “What's your name young lady?” said a bulky older guy standing in front of her.”

  “Brie,” she said feeling hesitant.

  “I just want to that you made a crusty old man feel young again.”

  “Oh...,” said Brie warming. “Well, thank you. What's your name?”

  “Stan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stan” said Brie respectfully. When she turned back around she was facing a highball of scotch and soda.

  “That's the real deal there,” said Hank, patting her knee.

  “Looks expensive,” said Brie.

  “The good stuff always is,” said Hank.

  Brie took a sip and was intrigued enough to take another and another. And then another man (older) came up and offered his congratulations, followed by a slightly younger, though not very good-looking guy who asked for her number (she gave it).

  Brie took another sip and noticed another full glass waiting in front of her. She took another sip, a sip that was really more of a gulp. A feeling of warmth and euphoria circulated through her. Brie looked around the room again, noticing how everyone seemed to be glancing in her direction. Suddenly, she saw someone doing a beeline right towards her and her tidings of joy vanished. Christ! It was the blocky, post-menopause figure of Mrs. Fugleson! Mr. Fugleson wouldn’t have been that stupid would he?

  “Hello Brie!” Mrs. Fugleson said enthusiastically.

  Brie swallowed. “Hi, Mrs. Fugleson.”

  “I wanted to come by and say hi.”

  “Well, hi,” said Brie staying cheery. “Is Mr. Fugleson here today?” Brie said, kicking herself.

  “He's at the table. We're out and about town today, enjoying Pickle Days.”

  “Its a lot of fun isn't it?” said Brie.

  Mrs. Fugleson leaned down and whispered into Brie's ear, “I saw you today. In the parade. You're a beautiful girl. I'm glad that you live next door.” Mrs. Fugleson then stood up, smiled a s
mile that seemed to say that she had said too much, and walked off.

  Brie was left slack-jawed.

  “Who was that?” said Ed.

  “Next door neighbor,” said Brie who realized that she had to pee. “I'll be right back.” Brie stood up and walked down the narrow aisle between the bar and the booths. Thanks to the alcohol, Brie was half-way to the rest rooms before she remembered how she was dressed, how she looked. Brie was still in her boots and gloves, with that cute box hat with the single feather. But Brie kept telling herself that there was nothing more risqué about this outfit than what you'd find in a music video or a modern dance routine. Brie felt the hands, brushing across her almost bare ass as she passed by, nothing grabby or too grope-y, the ass-pats were all subtle enough to be denied if confronted. But Brie felt them. She didn't dare look. She would just ignore it.

  When was washing her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror. Unlike the time she gazed at herself in the Merles' bathroom, Brie wasn't crying over Tamera's impossible beauty, but was instead in awe of herself. She loved what she was seeing. True, a woman should never put all her chips into something so ephemeral as looks, but why shouldn't it be celebrated while it exists? What is the line between being slutty and having pride? Brie was too luxuriously drunk to care. “Oh. It's you,” said a blond biker chick dismissively as she walked into the ladies room door.

  “Yep, its me,” said Brie smiling as she walked out the door and into the bar.

  Brie walked back to her cold bar seat, ready to run the gauntlet of male hands. Playing on jukebox was Rihanna's “You're not Putting that in There.” Brie started swaying to the music, grinding her hips. The bar started clapping and Brie felt encouraged. Brie felt she was Trestle's life-force, its hometown fertility goddess. She undulated and arched, articulating her body, designing her moves to create the most damage. Hoots and hollers rose up in the dark room. The drunken throng was the mirror and Brie was reflected off their acceptance and off their approval.

  Brie leaped onto the bar. The bartenders looked up at her, frozen in place. Brie was rotating on all axes, bending over, shaking from side to side. Brie's ass was on display but not her breasts. Maybe she should change that. Her tits were perfectly outlined in her now truncated outfit but you could see no skin. Brie was strong and so were her hands. So when she reached down and made a rip in the thick fabric, it had no choice but to capitulate. It was just a small breach but it was all she needed. The tiny tear was stretched and made into a larger tear, one inch, then another inch. When she had the tear half-way down her cleavage she stopped and bent forward, stuffing her revealed cleavage into the faces of the patrons. People (men) were out of their seats now, rushing the edge of the bar. She strutted up and down the bar top venting pheromones. The bar lined with men looking up in adoration, warming their hands by the fire, some ravenous.