1. The Hangout


    Date: 11/3/2015, Categories: Fantasy, Consensual Sex, First Time, Job/Place-of-work, Male/Female, Oral Sex, Author: wantsomefun, Rating: 89.1, Source: sexstories.com

    This is a revision of my entry into CAW #23, for which we were to write something based on personal history. My story is based on a real place, a real girl, and some real events. There’s a basis of truth here, but my participation in much of this is “embellished”. Note: The protagonists in this tale smoke marijuana in several scenes, since the story is set in the college culture of 1970. If this is offensive to readers, I apologize. Some explanation and background for this fantasy have been added to the end. *** The phone woke me on the first morning of summer break. It was a girl from high school. “You’re up early, Martha.” “Is it early? Oh, I guess it is. Sorry, Jeremy. What are you doing this summer?” “Not much. Didn’t find a job yet. Why?” “I have a huge painting project, and I need your help.” “You know I suck at art. You even said it yourself. You were polite, but the message was clear.” “Yes, and you know I suck at numbers. I would have flunked algebra and geometry without you. Part of what I need is your math skills. I’m in kind of a jam here. This job is huge. It’s the interior of a building.” “What building?” “The old quonset hut near the train station on the north side of the city.” “That big ugly metal thing? The truck repair shop?” “They moved out. The new owner gutted the place, put in sound-proofing and insulation, and stuck a big band of plywood over that, primed and ready for paint. He wants a mural on the wood for his new dance club, ‘The Hangout’. It’ll be ...
    cool. This town has no night life if you can’t go to a bar.” “How big a mural?” “Eight feet high all the way around the inside. The place is a hundred fifty feet long and fifty feet wide, so that’s … I dunno … a million miles or something” “Thirty-two hundred square feet,” I corrected her. “Still a hell of a lot.” “Yeah. I have eight weeks to get it done. I guess I wasn’t thinking. I don’t see how I can do it alone now that I realize the size of the job. You know how to assemble scaffolding, don’t you?” “From that shitty construction job two summers ago, yeah.” “I helped some grad students with sculpture projects at school, so believe it or not, I do too. The owner brought a bunch in ‘cuz the painting will be up high. He’s supplying everything, but I need someone to mix paint and hand me stuff. I’d feel better if there was someone with me, too, since I’ll be all the way up there, and it will be a hell of a lot easier. This is gonna be like the Sistine Chapel – a lot of work over my head, but maybe the thing that starts to establish me as an artist. Will you help? Please? I’ll give you a third of what they pay me.” “How much is a third?” “I’m an artist! I can’t do numbers. They’re paying me five thousand dollars over the eight weeks. You figure it out. I really need help from someone. It could be fun if it’s you.” I hadn’t found a summer job I felt like doing that paid enough to make it worth getting out of bed, so this sounded great. Martha and I were close friends. We formed ...
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