89 lines
5.6 KiB
Plaintext
89 lines
5.6 KiB
Plaintext
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I had always been slightly, well, a little more than slightly,
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interested in Candie, the girl across the hall. She always wore a
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powder-blue terry-cloth robe just loose enough to tantalize and tease.
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She had the kind of breasts that those much overused adjectives
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applied to accurately. Every set of firm, soft cantaloupe-sized
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protusions dreamed of and written of in Penthouse Forum could only be
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a weak imitation of Candie's anatomy. My dream was to walk into the
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coed bathroom at just the right time, but such luck had not been mine.
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I could only imagine.
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That is, I could only imagine until that 17th of February, an
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ordinary, snowy Tuesday. We ran into each other in front of old
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number six, the best dryer in our dorm. I had bent over to see my
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clothes spinning around and around, and when I stood up, my head
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bumped into her overhanging breasts, which gently nudged me. I
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started to apologize embarassedly, but she only smiled knowingly. I
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followed her eyes which traced a path to her heap of clothes, fresh
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out of number seven and ready for folding. I helped her fold,
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embracing the opportunity to fondle her dainty underwear. Everything
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she wore smelled gently of the sweetest perfume, enhanced by that
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fresh lemony scent of laundry.
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Conversation could have been awkward. Relating to a goddess had
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always been difficult and strained for me, a mere mortal. But luckily
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I had been reading Freud's Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality for
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my psych class. She seemed interested. I quickly moved into high
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gear with a thrilling condemnation of Freud's biased account,
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climaxing in a thrusting blow to his narrow discussion of perversions.
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She was greatly impressed by my control and mastery, agreeing
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completely with my disdain for implied prudery. She wondered out loud
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why so many people were so willing to show disgust at the idea of oral
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sex. I said, "Probably because they haven't tried it." She only
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smiled and told me that nothing turned her on more than a good tongue.
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I licked my lips.
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At this point, my chest was heaving with excitement and
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anticipation, and her chest, in a much more scenic way, was echoing my
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call. I found myself out of control, and Freud's much-talked-of
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sexual drive overthrew my reason. I began to gently bump into Candie,
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and my bare arms repeatedly brushed up against her bulging breasts,
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with their nipples yearning to be free through her soft tank top. But
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I knew that the laundry room was not the right place.
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Candie asked me to help her carry her clothes back to her room.
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Suddenly my clothes in number six were unimportant. We slowly waltzed
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back to our familiar hall. But because our arms were full with
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clothes, we did not see the stacks of books in Candie's room as we
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passed through the threshold. We fell to the ground, and the fresh,
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lemony clothes flew everywhere. She muttered something about her
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roommate leaving things lying around. She asked if I was alright.
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But I actually had hit my lips with my wrist during the fall, and my
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lips were bleeding. She noticed. I, again embarassed in the face of
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a goddess, tried to turn away, but then I saw her breasts falling out
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of her shirt--she had no bra on!
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She leaned in slowly and lapped up the blood on my lips. Her
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sensuous mouth seized me in the most passionate kiss I had ever
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experienced. Her hands quickly moved over my chest, and mine, without
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any conscious directive or knowledge, squeezed her luscious, ripe
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tomatoes. I could feel my tool throbbing like a weasel in a seizure.
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She knew my need to be free. But she would not help. She backed off.
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I was beginning to fear for a need for a cold shower when she
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stood up and lifted her shirt off. I could see her breasts in all
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their resplendent glory--bounteous beauty to behold. She moved her
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hands slowly over her chest, down over her slim torso and in own
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smooth motion removed her shorts and underwear. Her blonde target
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zone called for my ICBM of love to home in. I had never been harder.
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She took me by my hands and helped me to my feet. She placed my
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hands on her breasts--so big, so firm, so soft. I didn't know whether
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my heart or member was throbbing harder. As my hands explored her
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body down to her dripping wet box, she deftly removed my shirt and
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shorts. She moaned softly when she ripped off my jockeys and revealed
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my eight inches of untamed passion. She dropped to her knees, and I
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braced myself as if for gale force winds.
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She licked me expertly and my insides tingled. She moaned
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again. I was going to come. She backed off. I moaned. She grabbed
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my throbbing member with a vice-like two-fisted grip. I had never
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felt anything like this. I squealed with pleasure, and my voice died
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in a moan. I was lighter than air. Then I was in the air. She had
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lifted me by my rock-hard apparatus, and I was flying like a newly
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freed sparrow. A small bird was I in her power. She swung me as
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Tarzan swung his vines. The air blew over me as it does in my dad's
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convertible. Then she let go.
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For an eternity I flew through the stratosphere of room 623, and
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when I landed on her soft pillows, I knew that my juices had decorated
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her walls. Her posters would never look the same. My indelible
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signature would always remain. And with that measure of satisfaction
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I slowly grabbed my clothes and walked back to 622, my home.
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I must confess that I cannot now look at Candie the way I had
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before. But now I have the pleasure of looking at more of her more
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