“It is Darren, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, and my cock waved.
“Rosie,” she said, holding out a hand that I was forced to shake, “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Of course!” I remembered watching Rosie from across the playground when I was thirteen. I remembered Rosie calling me “Dinky” the few times that she talked to me. I remembered when she asked if she could borrow my paintbrush in art class and I said: “Sure. Keep it.” It was my favourite brush. She’d lost it by the following week. Of course I remembered Rosie, but I was surprised that she remembered me. Surprised… and pleased.
“I didn’t think I’d find you here,” she continued, “Especially not like this.” She looked me up and down and I felt like I was Dinky again, back at school being looked down on by the girls who had already had their growth spurt.
The nickname had come about because I was quite a late bloomer, as they say. I was only just over five feet tall when I was thirteen. I’ve made up for it now, finally reaching six feet by the time I was seventeen, while Rosie, who used to tower over me, had stuck at around five foot six; a very cute and petite five foot six. And a little maturity had added a lot more sex appeal on top of her natural good looks.
And here I was naked with an erection that resolutely refused to go away.
“Back for summer?” she asked me. I nodded. “We wondered what you were up to recently. Me and some of the girls.” They were talking about me? The feelings that used to have whenever one of the trendy attractive in-crowd girls noticed me were suddenly reawakened. My stomach churned… they thought about me? They talked about me?
“Uh, do you think…” I said nervously, “I need to get dressed.”
Rosie smirked again. “If you must.” My cock bobbed again and her eyes flashed mischievously. Was she flirting with me? It didn’t take a genius to work out that I was interested in her, but I’d be a fool to think she was interested in me.