Everyone likes Lize.
My kids, they call her Lizzy, and even though I correct them — “Try to say her name like they do in France,” I say — Lize says she doesn’t mind. Through the university’s exchange program, she’s made good friends with Amber, my oldest, and Amber’ll go spend next semester at Lize’s school an hour outside Paris, staying with her family.
But Lize’s also good with my younger three, spending time with them, playing their games, making them feel special.
Lize got on my wife Jean’s good side right quick, too. Lize’s got a real eye for fashion and style, something Jean’s always wanted, and now Jean brings her to the store and treats her like a personal shopper, which Lize seems to love.
And I like Lize because, well… that’s a story.
When Lize first arrived, I wasn’t paying her much attention. With four active teenagers the house is always a cacophony of them and their friends coming and going. Lize was sharing Amber’s room, and it felt little different than any other sleepover my kids are always having. And so Lize slipped into the daily routine without disrupting me at all, just one more face at an already-crowded breakfast table.
But that first night, I was in the loft relaxing, idly strumming away at one of my guitars, when Lize walked in to my consciousness.
She was wearing a towel wrapped tight around her chest, and nothing else. It barely covered her ass. She grinned as my gaze involuntarily traced her contours.
I had to force myself to maintain eye contact. “She’s from Europe,” my internal monologue said, “They have a different attitude towards nudity.”
The thing with a towel, is what that towel implies. That she could, at any moment, whip it off and be nude. That I could reach out and pluck it off her.
Which of course I did not.
“You’re a musician?” she interrupted my thoughts. She was slowly making a circuit of the loft, eyeing the keyboards and pedals and microphones that filled the space.
“Just a hobby,” I said, my gaze following her, watching how the towel shifted, hugged her hips as she walked.
She crouched down to look at an amp, her back to me, her round ass resting on her heels.
She’d said something, and was waiting for an answer. I completely missed it. I couldn’t believe how susceptible to distraction I was.
“Too embarrassed to say?” she smiled, her big bright eyes glinting in the dim light. “Do you know I’m a singer?”
“Err, no.”
She rose and made her way towards me, smiling. “Maybe one day you can play and I will sing,” she said.
“Mmm, yeah,” I said lamely. She was a pretty girl, flashing me this smile I didn’t know what to do with. “Yeah, we should do that.”
“Ok,” Lize said, turning abruptly. “Goodnight.” She walked out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
That was a Saturday. The next Monday morning the whole house was up, eating breakfast, getting ready. I was nearly dressed, just tying my tie, when I walked over to the top of the staircase to shout a question for Jean.
“Good morning, mister Pearce.”
It was Lize of course. She was standing there, halfway down the stairs, looking up at me.
Her dark hair was cropped short and gently curved in a bob, and she wore a tight white button-down blouse with a short gray pleated skirt flared out beneath, long white stockings up her legs tucked into black leather shoes.
I gulped. Her schoolgirl look knocked me off my feet, played into some fantasy I didn’t want to admit to.
“Not that tie,” she said, “Something more… bold. Red.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, trying not to look down her blouse, trying not to notice that I could see her black bra. She was grinning at me, a knowing, intentional smirk. She must’ve thought my awkwardness was funny, because she giggled as she walked away.
The moment was over as soon as it began, but the whole rest of the day it was all I could think about.
This became a trend. At first I thought these moments were accidents. And maybe the first time it was. But it developed into some sort of messed up game. She’d wait until I was off-guard, distracted, busy, concentrating. Then she’d surprise me with a flirty look, some teasing pose, a revealing outfit, catching me off-balance with a sexy gaze. And she’d giggle as I’d go flush with embarrassment.
Like the time I was walking into the house after my jog, tired and lost in my own thoughts, and I heard, “Welcome back, Mister Pearce!” I looked over and saw Lize, laying face down on the couch reading a book, head turned over her shoulder with a knowing grin on her face. It was her ass, wrapped in dark green yoga pants so tight they looked painted on, thick, plump, round, pointed straight at me. I had never seen an ass so in need of a grope, a slap, a fuck. And on this girl? I jerked off in the shower after that one.
Or these pajamas she wore. Criminally short booty shorts that I was pretty sure would give me a face full of camel toe if she ever bent over at the waist, which she seemed forever just on the verge of doing even though she never actually did. And this band t-shirt, some French band, not that it mattered. She wore it braless, and its pink fabric made no effort to conceal the shape of her breasts, the size of her nipples. I have never paid so little attention to family movie night as when Lize leaned back into the recliner. The flickering glow of the screen outlined the swell of her breasts, and I fidgeted so much Jean hissed at me, “Are you feeling alright?”
From almost the beginning, I was thinking about Lize while fucking Jean. It was like I was a kid again, I was horny all the time, and I was coming to Jean for sex all the time. She didn’t ask, but I gave her my made up explanation anyway, that I was digging her new fashion. Jean was happy to ignore that her new fashion was imitating that of this sexy nineteen-year-old French exchange student living under our roof.
So flirting is one thing, but when we crossed a line…
Exactly four weeks into this semester-long exchange program, it’s Saturday again and I’m in the backyard using the warm morning to trim up the landscaping that Jean had been nagging me about. She was out taking the younger kids to their various soccer and softball practices, and Amber was, to nobody’s surprise, still asleep.
I was busy clipping away at the hedges when I heard the heavy patio door slide open. “Morning, Mister Pearce!”
I glanced over, saw Lize waving. She was holding a glass of iced tea and a book and wearing what appeared to be a long t-shirt and no pants.
“Hi, Lize,” I called, shaking my head and turning back to my task.
I finished the boxwood and was moving to the next when I glimpsed Lize laying face down on one of the loungers beside the pool. My eyes went wide. She’d taken her shirt off, and was laying topless, her bare back exposed to the world. In fact, she was naked except for a scandalously small blue thong. I felt my cock twitch.
Her head was turned towards me, and when we made eye contact, she grinned. “Just working on my tan, Mister Pearce.” I could see the side of her tit squished beneath her, its pale, soft flesh teasing me.
I couldn’t help myself. I walked over. “You need anything, Lize,” I said, “Anything at all, you just let me know.” I was looking down at her, taking in her smooth, flawless skin. The gentle curve of her hourglass figure. The sexy, innocent-and-yet-not look she was shooting me.
Her lips parted. “What sort of thing could you give me?” She said the words slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact as she arched her back, raised her shoulders, teasing a glimpse of her bare breasts.
I was staring, mesmerized, anticipation boiling over.
“Dad?” Amber shouted from inside, “Are we out of eggs?”
The moment shattered.
I shook my head, re-entered reality. I turned to the house and shouted back, “I don’t know, honey, why don’t you check?”
When I next saw Lize, her shirt was back on, she was her normal self. Like it hadn’t happened.
It took me five days of intense, furious, teenage-like masturbation before I was able to return to normal.
The next weekend the family was using Lize’s presence as an excuse to hit up the local tourist spots. We were at one of the little boutique shops along the beach boardwalk, the family browsing through souvenirs, when Lize called me to the rear of the store. “Mister Pearce, I need your help.”
I wound my way through the crowded racks of trinkets and brightly colored shirts. It was quiet, there was nobody else back there. “Lize? What’s up?”
“What do you think of this?” she said. She was standing on the riser in the semi-circle of a trifold mirror. Three images reflected back, three angles of Lize posing in a patterned blue sweater dress, clinging tightly to every curve in her body. “Looks good on me, no?”
“Err, yeah,” I managed, staring, transfixed.
Watching me in the mirrors, Lize brought her hands to her chest, squeezing her breasts together. “What about my tits?” she said, “Too much cleavage?” Her fingertips found her nipples, pinching them through the fabric.
I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.
Quietly, she said, “Come closer, Mister Pearce, you’ll get a better view.”
I walked up behind her, and she leaned into me, pressing her weight against my chest. I grabbed her by her sides, feeling her taut belly expand and contract with short, quick breaths.
My hands slid upwards until they were wrapping over hers, us together cupping her tits. Her ass pressing against my crotch, I squeezed her breasts, watching in the mirror as I made them flatten out against her chest.
“You want to fuck me, don’t you Mister Pearce,” she said.
I opened my mouth to object. It was an automatic reaction, the impulse to deny.
“Do not lie, Mister Pearce,” she said, squelching the refutal I hadn’t voice, “I feel your hard penis pushing against me, I know it is true.”
I was dumbfounded, with no idea how to respond to this, to such directness.
“It is not so shocking,” she continued, “For you to be attracted to a young, sexy girl. It is the way of the world.” We were making eye contact, her bright brown eyes — their calm confidence — mesmerizing me.
In one motion, she arched her back and pulled down the neck of the dress. And then her breasts were exposed, large, proud, free, pink nipples shining back at me in all three reflections.
I was staring. I was sliding my hands up. I was groping her breasts, tweaking her nipples, barely believing I was doing this. She watched, her face adorned with an approving smirk, sucking in a breath whenever I pinched.
“Lize? Dear? You coming?” That was Jean’s voice, from the front of the shop.
Once again, reality came crashing back in.
I dropped my hands, popping backwards, putting distance between Lize and me, ashamed that anything had happened, already pretending that it hadn’t, preparing myself to act like everything was normal when it most definitely was not. This was something I was not supposed to be doing. This girl was my daughter’s age. I was not a cheater. I was not a pervert.
That was earlier today. I’ve been trying to act normal ever since. Lize keeps sneaking me grins. I keep ignoring them. I’m focusing on anything else. I cooked dinner. I did the laundry. I frickin changed the oil in both cars, and I hate changing oil in cars.
It’s late, everyone’s asleep, and I’m in the loft, playing quietly on the guitar. Trying to process what happened today. Trying to clear my head. Trying to think of anything else.
It’s not working.
And then the loft door opens and it’s Lize.
She’s got a look on her face that’s unmistakable.
I freeze, the room going silent. We’re staring at each other.
I should turn her around. Tell her to leave. Go to bed.
But I don’t.
She’s wearing that same outfit from the first day, the white button-down blouse, the short, gray pleated skirt, black high heels. Except now the stockings running up her legs are a deep burgundy red.
Her fingers slide through the front of her shirt, popping open buttons one by one. As the fabric separates, red lace lingerie emerges, the swell of her tits filling the translucent material.
“You want me,” she says.
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
I set my guitar down. She’s watching, waiting for me, but I’m too nervous to move. I know what I should do, know what I want to do, and I’m frozen between the two.
She locks the door behind her and gives me a flirtatious turn of the head. “Do you have a mistress, Mister Pearce?”
I shake my head.
Since she arrived, I’ve been pretending that I’m not attracted to her. My gaze would begin to linger and I’d force myself to look away. We’d make eye contact and I would blush, embarrassed. But now, in this moment, I allow myself to study her face, to soak in the beauty of her elfin features, the rosy glow of her cheeks, the intelligence behind her bright, big eyes.
“Where I am from,” she continues, “It is very common for a successful man to have a younger woman as a lover.”
She walks around me, over to the desk. She leans across it, arching her back, ass high. Her long, slender legs are on display, the rising hem of her skirt teasing stockings that climb up and up and up. Her head is turned back over her shoulder. “Red suits me, no?”
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
She smiles.
Slowly she turns, until she’s leaning her ass against the desk. She pulls open her unbuttoned shirt. She’s magnificent, I’m basking in sight of her full chest, slim waist, smooth skin. Her breasts are heavy and round, nipples pink and prominent beneath the red lace.
“You never know where you will discover a lover,” she says, “Maybe someone you work with, maybe a friend,” her voice lingers on the last word, drawing it out before she finishes, “Maybe even a sexy, young house guest.”
She lifts the front of her skirt. Where her stocks end, her panties begin. They’re red and lace, of course, matching her bra. And they’re tight enough I can see her slit outlined through the fabric. I’m staring, I can’t help it. And I feel my cock growing hard in my pants.
She glances at my crotch and smiles. “It is normal, expected even, that a man give in to his natural urges, and a woman, hers.”
I say, “You don’t know what I’ll do to you.”
She looks down at herself, then she makes eye contact, her gaze nimbly melting through any remaining defenses and landing right on my beating heart. “But Mister Pearce,” she says, her voice measured, deliberate, playful, “You can do to me anything you want.”
It takes me a moment to realize the roaring sound is my own blood pounding through my head.
I walk up to her, close enough I can feel her breath. It tastes of anticipation. I’m a head taller than her, she has to lift her chin to keep eye contact.
She starts, “You can–”
I cut her off with a kiss. She has a flash of surprise, and then her tongue is soft and sweet inside my mouth, her breath warm and quick. I run my hand up her thigh, beneath her skirt, grab her ass. I’m kneading it, my lust parading through my grip, my fingers digging into her muscles. I’m pulling her tight against me. I can feel her craving, meeting her desire with my own.
My hand explores her butt, and brushes something metallic and warm. My eyes go wide, it’s a anal plug. She giggles. I shake my head in a mock of disapproval and push it in farther. She gasps.
I slide my hand around her leg, rub the front of her panties. I grind her pussy through the fabric, pushing in to massage her clit. She moans, thrusts onto my hand. I pull her panties to the side, push my finger up in her, deeper and deeper. She groans. Her pussy is wet, hot, ready.
I break away from her. She looks at me, a sheen of sweat on her face so full of need. She’s hungry for sex, her panting breaths making her chest heave.
I grin at her, then kneel down between her legs. Her eyes go wide.
I’m worshiping her legs, tantalizing her, making her thighs quiver. I push her back onto the desk, toss her shoes to the side, tease her delicate little feet through the stockings. I pull her panties off, tuck them into my pocket.
She’s got her legs folded back against her sides. Her taut pussy is exposed, hot and waiting. I finger her lips, taunting them, pressing against them, watching them spring back into place. She’s getting wetter, pleading, whimpering.
I kiss her pussy. She sucks in a sharp, high-pitched breath. I grin at her, then show her my tongue. I love seeing her hunger, agonizing her with desire.
I bathe in the power of the moment, but I need her just as much, or even more. Tongue out, I lean forward. It’s one thing to know what’s coming, but another to feel it, and her groan at my tongue’s caress is so loud I’m afraid it’ll wake the whole house, but she’s quick to clamp her hand over her mouth.
Her juices string out to my tongue. I swallow them down as I kiss her thighs, her lips, her clit. She groans again and her skirt falls against my face. I love it, and slide my tongue again into her pussy, drinking her heat, slurping down her sex. She’s moaning and shaking and her hands grip my head, her fingers digging into my scalp.
I lick her slowly, deliberately, mercilessly. I use my chin to push against her anal plug. Her fluids coat my face. Her groans fill my ears.
She’s shoving me into her pussy. She grinds her hips against my face. Her breaths are coming sudden and quick, and she’s shuddering, climaxing. I nuzzle her with my tongue, sucking at her pussy, swallowing her sweet nectar until she collapses, spent.
I stand, pick her up. She’s not heavy. I throw her over the back of the couch, ass in the air. I flip her skirt up, take in the view of her narrow waist, hips flaring out wide. Her ass is perfect, round, tight.
Right in the middle, shoved up inside her, is the silver anal plug. I tap on it, pull it to the side, let her know I’m there. She whimpers, arching her back.
“Please, Mister Pearce,” she begs.
I grip the plug, slide it out, push it back in. She groans. I’m slow at first, casual. But watching her tense ass accept the silver toy is incredibly erotic, and I cannot long hold back. I am vigorously fucking her ass with the plug, my other hand massaging her pussy. She’s moaning and bucking.
I am so hard.
I pull the plug out and give her a cruel spank, a red handprint fading as she squeals.
I unzip and pull free my erection. I rub it against her. She grabs her cheeks, pulling her ass wide. My cock can feel the heat of her taut hole.
For a moment, the only sound is her panting.
Then I shove myself in. I stretch her wide as I violate her with my dick, deeper and deeper yet. Her moans are long and low as my hips reach hers, Lize’s ass skewered on my shaft.
A powerful wave of pleasure fills me, makes my head swim. It’s intoxicating, the sight of this beautiful girl subjected to my lust, this fulfillment of weeks of teasing and desire.
Her asshole is crazy tight, but my cock is demanding, my erection mighty. As I begin to work up a rhythm she squirms and writhes. But I’m gripping her waist, pushing her down as I fuck her. And I’m not holding back, I’m thrusting into her with all of my craving, every bit of my pent-up lust. I’m making sure she can feel it, really feel it. I won’t get this opportunity again, I need to make it worth it.
“Cum in me,” Lize mutters between moans.
And then I am. My balls tense, spunk blasts from my cock. My possession of her is complete.
I pull back, my knees are weak. Jizz drips from her ass, running down her leg. I collapse onto the chair, the world spinning as I watch her stand up, collect herself.
She’s looking at me in awe. “Kiss me again,” she says, sitting on my lap, straddling me.
We make out, relaxing in the afterglow, our arms around each other.
“Can I have my panties back?”
I grin at her. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll see.”