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Scott Monroe reeled out of the summerhouse at the back of the mansion property on Edgehill Road in the exclusive Westover Hills section of Wilmington, Delaware. Behind him, still reclining on a bench nailed to the wall around the inner rail of the summerhouse, lay Lani Lamotte, tennis skirt bunched up around her waist, panties on the wooden boards of the structure's floor, Scott's cum dribbling out of her exposed cunt. Her husky laughter followed him out onto the lawn.
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Tennis shirt in hand, he was fighting to zip up his tennis shorts, confused on what direction to go in to get to his old Mustang convertible. The grounds of the Lamotte mansion, Daddy Lamotte being one of the hundreds of bank vice presidents in one of the downtown corporate financial headquarters havens, were extensive, with spreads of manicured tree lines here and there. No one could have seen Scott fucking Lani unless they'd come out to the summerhouse—although it was more like Lani fucking Scott—from the house indian public porn
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Later, in trepidation, he called her from his mother's much more modest Edgemoor Hills working-class row house across the city, near the banks of the Delaware River. He'd been mooning over Lani, yes, and he thought she'd egged him on, but he hadn't meant it to go that far—at least not this fast. When push came to shove, Lani started it and Lani carried through with it.

He hadn't even thought to have a condom on him. She didn't seem to care or to offer him an out for not being prepared. All he knew now was that he'd better try to smooth it over or his ass was fried. He'd worked to get in good with what they called the Gang of Six, but what could happen now was that she could claim he'd raped her and there was no winning in this town against the banker class. All of those in the Gang of Six were in the banker class. Getting in good with them would have been a move of several rungs up the class ladder for him.

"My, you're a big boy, aren't you?" Lani cooed when she answered the phone. "Anyone tell you how big cocked you were?"

Yes, as a matter of fact they had. The last one would have been quite a shock to Lani, if he told her who it was, though. It had been her own boyfriend, Chad Harlan, another guy from a Wilmington banking family. Scott didn't have all that much sexual experience, but he was still on the fence in that regard—he'd fucked or been fucked by as many guys as he had fucked gals.

"I'm so sorry, Lani," he said. "This is serious, I know. I just got carried away."

"You sure did, honey. You did me royally."

"Then you aren't—?"

"Labor Day weekend's coming up," he said, cutting him off. "We're gathering at our cottage on the Elk River for one last fling after our summer jobs are over. We'd like you to come."

"The others. They don't—?"

"We'd all like you to come, Scott. We already discussed it. It will be quite casual. Cooking out, swimming in the river, making out, maybe smoking a little of something. You're OK with that, Scott, aren't you? You're not going to go prude on us, are you?"

"Uh, no, of course not. I mean, sure I'll come."
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"Good. I'll text you the directions." And, with that, she clicked off.

It was almost a letdown—not what she said. She obviously was fine with the fuck and getting an invitation to party with the Gang of Six was beyond anything he'd hoped for. But it was all so matter-of-fact with Lani—like it had been no big deal for them to fuck. Everything seemed to be so much different at the Gang of Six's social level.