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Sparks fly between lab partners.

Why rock the boat? Hell, it was a slow season for me, and Denise was an animal fuck. About three times a week, she delivered like complimentary room service, so we never went out. She didn't eat or drink too much of my groceries, and she sometimes brought liquor and food.

The closest we ever came to a discussion was the day she came over with KFC, and I was on the phone. Mouthing me to continue, she left the bucket on the kitchen counter, near where she made her drink, then slumped onto the sofa. But, for all the fifteen minutes I continued to talk, she refreshed that drink four times. And, every time she passed me, even when I'd exaggerate a yawn, she'd scowl more moodily than usual. Finally disconnected, I seized the warm bucket, but had to search for Denise, who wasn't on the sofa or in the kitchen.

I found her laying across the bed, on her back, her feet, flat on the floor, unsheathed from their white sandals. One forearm across her abdomen, the other crossed her head, shading her eyes. Painted coral, every nail matched the knit tank and short-sleeved cardigan.

"I'm off the phone," I said, gently slapping her leg, thinking she'd fallen asleep.

"Thought you were convalescing," she said, snatching her floral capris pants away from my hand's proximity. Always the happy colors on a girl, now woman, who was dark and ornery. "You may as well go back to work." Her normally sterile voice was tinged with a slur of insuppressible emotion that comes from boozing. "Just how many damn girls are you seeing?"

"I'm not seeing anybody, but you."

"We're not seeing each other!" she snapped, then began reciting the girls' names I had mentioned during the only side of my phone call she overheard.

"The guy I was on the phone with brought them up. His type's usually fat and stupid. You jealous over fat and stupid?"

"... You tell him about me?"

I started to lie "No", but Denise shifted her arm, giving me a harsh look-nothing angry, just curious. "I told him about a girl ... a meter reader I met ... while housesitting for my mother."

As I spoke, Denise again shaded her eyes. When I again tried brushing against her leg, she didn't withdraw. Encouraged, I cradled the bucket in one hand, while sustaining our contact. She went rigid with sightless anticipation. Her breathing grew shallow, and there was the slightest smile on her face.

"Just out the shower, and naked under a terry robe, I led her to the basement meter. ..."

Easing down, seated beside Denise, I set the chicken to the side, then slid my hand between her thighs, my fingers petting the puffy prize at top. Pants and panties may conceal that crinkly redhead from sight, but an educated hand will feel the hang of all that kitty meat.

Stroking her, I unfastened her capris. Denise lifted her butt, assisting my getting the clothing down round her ankles.

"I guess I stood too close behind her, 'cause she bumped into me when she turned around. Knocked her gadget out her hand and kicked open my robe."

As I quickly sloughed off my own t-shirt and sweats, Denise, without my asking, stepped out her garments and spread her legs. As a tease, I fumbled her top up, her overly oval pyramids hindering any easy intent. Then, I chose to caress round her navel-that lone islet centered amidst waves of taut curves and unblemished flesh.

"Lower," she ordered, already panting.

"Sh. Who's telling this story?"

Easing up, I watched as Denise suffered a series of irrepressible convulsions.

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