"Well," She said doubtfully. "If you're sure."
"Absolutely Mom." I nodded from the couch. "Besides, Tracy's here." I nodded in my sister's direction. "If there are any problems, she can handle them."
"Yeah Mom." Tracy readily agreed, too readily some would say. "I can take care of him."
She seemed satisfied. She headed upstairs and began to get ready. Two hours later her and Dad were out the door.
"Thank God!" Tracy said once their car had disappeared from sight. "How the hell could you stand it having her home all the time?"
"Mom's all right." I said. "It's just parental authority that gets old."
She smiled, not bothering with THE LOOK. By now Tracy was used to my odd sayings. "Whatever." She said. "Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course." I told her, offended that she felt the need to even ask that.
"Cindy scored some killer buds." Tracy told me. "She's gonna bring 'em over and we're gonna get stoned while we watch Saturday Night Live. If you can keep your mouth shut, maybe she'll share with you."
I smiled, knowing that I'd made great progress with my sister since returning. I'd never even been aware that she smoked grass in my previous life. Now she was offering to get stoned with me. Sure, it wasn't exactly a blood oath of loyalty, but it was a start. "Suppose I told you I COULDN'T keep my mouth shut." I asked. "What would you do then?"
She gaped at me for a moment and then laughed. "You're an asshole Billy." She said, shaking her head. "Do you want to get stoned or not? I've never done it with you before, you should think of it as a privilege."
"It sounds like a plan Trace." I said. "And it is a privilege."
Cindy came over at nine o'clock. She was wearing the obligatory tight 501's and a sweater that accented her pert tits nicely. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail and her blue eyes sparkled. My loins stirred at the first sight of her, my dick threatening to harden by visual stimulation alone. I'd found over the past week that, injuries aside, my libido was that of a fifteen-year old. I NEEDED to have an orgasm at least once a day. I seemed to go into physical withdrawal symptoms if I didn't. I'd jacked off so much there were actual abrasions on my dick. And Cindy had been a star player in many of the fantasies.
I was heartened by the fact that, after a quick greeting to Tracy, she rushed over to my spot on the couch and planted herself next to me. My dick stirred again as I smelled the scent of her perfume. It was heavy upon her skin but it was feminine and went right to my brain.
"You poor thing." She said with syrupy sympathy. "How are you doing?"
I smiled. "Everything that's important still works." I told her.
She giggled. "I guess Richie Fairview can't say the same." She replied. "Can I see where you got stabbed?"
"Sure." I told her, while Tracy stared in disbelief at her friend. I raised up my shirt, showing her the jagged wound. The stitches had been removed leaving only a healing line on my side. A similar wound, where they'd done the lavage, was just below my belly button.
"Ohhh." She crooned, looking at it. "You poor thing. Does it hurt?"
"Not too bad." I told her.
"Well here." She said, kissing her finger and then touching it to my bare skin, just atop the scar. "That'll make it better."
My flesh jumped at her touch, feeling the slight wetness of her saliva transferred from her fingertips to my side.
"You missed one." I told her, pointing at the surgical incision. She gave me another smile and then repeated the procedure for that one.
"Hope that makes them feel better." She said, eyeing the bulge in my sweat pants.
"It does." I assured her. "It really does."
Tracy seemed in shock as she watched her friend openly flirting with me. When they walked into the kitchen to fill the bong with water I saw a quick, whispered conversation that ended with Tracy glancing at me and then shaking her head in disbelief. I was in disbelief as well but fully prepared to take advantage of the situation. Why was Cindy acting this way with me when she'd treated me with quiet contempt before? I didn't really care but I was curious.
"You like to smoke buds?" Cindy asked me as she pulled a small baggie from her pocket.
"I LOVE it." I told her, staring into her eyes hard enough to make her blush.
Tracy looked at us uncomfortably.
She began loading up the bong, which I insisted, in the interests of safety, that we take out into the garage to smoke from. I knew that the smell of pot lingered in a room for hours and I'd recently learned very graphically that all bets were now off. I was being careful. The girls whined a little at my suggestion but finally agreed to it. So we got stoned amid my father's tools and boxes of motor oil, in the unheated garage where we could see our breath misting into the air.
"Now don't you feel safe?" I asked the two of them once we were back inside.
"If Mom and Dad come home unexpectedly now, all we have to worry about is pretending we're not stoned. We don't have to worry about them smelling it in the house."
"Mom and Dad never come home early." Tracy scoffed, taking a swig from a Coke. "You're just paranoid Billy."
"Tracy," I told her. "If there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's to expect and plan for the unexpected. Sure, they probably won't come home early tonight, but it's within the realm of possibility, isn't it? If you work to eliminate all risks you'll usually be pretty safe. If you go through life assuming the worst will never happen, someday you're gonna get fucked." I stared directly at her as I said this and it was clear she got my message. Her arms broke out into visible gooseflesh and she trembled uneasily for a second.
"I guess you're right Bill." She allowed carefully, no doubt thinking about the conversation I'd had with her not too long ago.
"That's some pretty deep shit." Cindy said, scooting herself a little closer to me. "Is there anything to eat here?"
While Tracy was heating up some frozen burritos in the microwave, Cindy and I continued to sit on the couch.
"So where's your boyfriend tonight?" I asked her.
"You mean Jeff?" She shook her head and made a sour face. "I'm not going out with him anymore. He's an asshole."
"I could've told you that." I said.
"I made out with him a few times and he was telling everyone he was screwing me. Do guys really think that we won't hear about it when they say shit like that?"
"Sometimes I'm not sure what they think." I replied. "I think that 'think' is probably too strong a word for what they do. It seems to me that girls should stick to a general rule when deciding who they are going to, well, have fun with."
"Oh?" She asked perkily.
"The more a guy talks about having gotten pussy, the less pussy he's actually got. Now Jeff probably told you he'd screwed plenty of girls, right?"
"Oh yeah." She said. "As if that's going to impress us."
"Exactly. On the other hand, the guys that never tell pussy stories are usually the ones getting all the pussy. You see, they are smart enough to realize that discretion is the better part of valor. It's a pleasant cycle.
You don't talk about it, you get more of it, you get better at it. Your best lovers are gonna be those guys that have never told a pussy story in their life."
"Like you?" She asked, twirling a lock of her hair with her finger.
"Perhaps." I agreed. "But of course there's only one true way to find out how good someone is in bed."