What's a Limnophile ? - Sex Stories

What's a Limnophile ?

... walked out after, instead of being jealous that I was left out, I was glad she had a good time.

The party that night was far more than 'just a few friends.' The place was packed, with barely enough room to sit on the floor. There were at least forty high school students, plus Penny, Katie, and I. Many cigarettes were smoked, many drinks were drunk, and a bong was passed around. When the last of the guests left at 4 in the morning Penny and I shared Katie in bed, but she still only counted as one.

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We met Melissa and Ben in the lobby of the hotel in Zurich. We kissed and started to fondle each other's fun bits in the elevator. I remembered and reminded them. "The contest. Nothing between the four of us until we get home. Right?"

We looked at each other several seconds, deciding. As the elevator dinged and the door opened, they agreed. "Right."

Ben asked, "So what are everybody's scores so far? Front and butt?"

Melissa said, "Fourteen and eight."

Ben cheerfully said, "I only have eleven sex, but I'm leading anal with ten. How many for you two?"

They looked at us expectantly.

"One sex each. No anal."

Melissa lightly patted our cheeks as she teased, "Awwh! Poor babies. You better have some lunch and hurry the slut up!"

Penny and I were so jet lagged and hung over we didn't want any more that day, maybe not even the next day. I surprised myself a little the next afternoon, when I helped translate. Penny saw two Frenchmen she thought were ...

... attractive. They knew a little English, so it wasn't too difficult to communicate the point that she wanted them in her bed. No further translation was necessary. I saw her around the slopes and the ski lodge several times over the next five days, always with both of them.

The next morning started our third day in Switzerland. I decided to get some skiing in. I rode the chair lift, and at the top of the mountain, I saw a blonde couple waving their arms around and yelling at each other. They spoke what I thought was Norwegian or maybe Swedish. Months later, I learned it was Latvian.

The man took his skis and stormed off angrily, walking toward the dreaded 'Black' expert and pro slope. I saw the lady cry a little, and she started down the 'yellow' intermediate slope before I did. I followed at a safe distance and was impressed. She was a good skier, maybe better than me.

At the bottom of the slope, we were paired up for the chair lift. She bashfully glanced at me a few times, and I glanced at her. She looked a few years older than me but had a pretty face. Under the bulky winter jacket, she might be shaped like a potato, a stick, or an hourglass. I had no idea about her body, but I started to like her.

We made two more runs, sharing a lift and smiling each time. On our fourth run she made a mistake, and the tip of one of her skis hit a large rock, sending her tumbling.

By the time I got to her, she was sitting up, holding her ankle. I understood the pain on her face, but ...