628 lines
27 KiB
Plaintext
628 lines
27 KiB
Plaintext
Copyright © 1997, BillyG. ALL Rights Reserved
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This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without
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the written permission of the author. This story may be freely
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distributed with this notice attached. The author may be contacted
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through mrdouble@ix.netcom.com.
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The Term Paper
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by BillyG@hooked.net
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I'd met this girl in one of my classes. Jenny's her name. There had
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been instant electricity between us. She's small, slender, and blond
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with a great . . . uh . . . behind. Sitting near her in class, it'd been
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natural to say hello and chat about school work. That she's
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attractive and sexy added to the delight.
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Jenny and I had taken to having lunch after class several days each
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week, initially talking about class work and comparing notes. Later
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we began to open up about ourselves. We'd developed the style of
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understatement . . . innuendo . . . and double entendre.
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She was in her first year at the university and I was in my last.
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Actually, I'd been in and out several times, always doing fairly well,
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but needing to "augment" my income. I suppose that might be
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more clearly stated. I needed to work to pay for school. At first, I
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though it was a bit odd that we were in the same class. She'd
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received advanced standing she told me and we were both working
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hard at this upper division class that _sounded_ easy: "Erotic
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Themes in Contemporary Theater." At least, _Jenny_ was working
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hard, she said.
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One day at lunch, sitting back in her chair, she put the open book
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face down on the table with an exasperated gesture and said, "I had
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_no_ idea this was going to be so much work. Cripes, what do I
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know about the origins of eroticism in literature?"
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Picking up a piece of lettuce and a wedge of Mandarin orange with
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my fingers, I took a nibble and said, "Well, there are only so many
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themes in human erotic thought . . . and they've been writing dirty
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stories forever. The origins lie in man's horniness . . . he just likes
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to read dirty books and watch dirty pictures, don't you think?"
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"Man?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.
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"Come ON, Jenny! You know. Man . . . as in mankind. Don't go
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sexist on me. You know I've strong feminist beliefs, but I'm not
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going to tip toe along some linguistic line of political correctness."
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Holding out her hands in mock surrender, Jenny laughed and
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replied, "Okay, okay, Billy . . . just kidding. Besides, that's not the
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point." Picking up an orange slice herself, she rushed on, "The
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point is . . ."
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"Jenny, love . . . what _is_ the point?"
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"If you'd just let me . . . the point _is_," and she paused for
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dramatic emphasis, "the point is," she said again, taking the world's
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smallest nibble of orange, "_you're_ the one with the sexual
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experience. I'm just a student . . . an enthusiastic amateur."
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For a girl who thought of herself as an amateur (amateur what?),
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Jenny sure knew how to dress like a knowledgeable, experienced
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woman. There was something about her quiet self assurance, the
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way she looked at me with a level glance and the unasked question
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in her eyes that lent an air of maturity to her. A little of that was
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belied by her very youthful appearance. I think she was 19 or so,
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but in some ways she looked much younger. Probably it was her
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slender body and small breasts. She didn't have little-girl nipples, I
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can tell you that, for they seemed always to be visible, poking at her
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blouses and shirts. There were times I was _sure_ she wasn't
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wearing a bra. I suspect she never did. I paid attention to detail
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like that.
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At that moment, looking at her across the table, I felt like the
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experienced lecher. The genuine student part of me was on the up-
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and-up, but my "other side" -- my libidinous side -- was thinking
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how nice it'd be to get this chick into my bed . . . preferably on her
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hands and knees.
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"Hell, Jenny . . . the prof isn't grading us on _actual experience_.
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That isn't a requirement for the course. This is a theoretical paper
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at best. Supposed to be our own _thinking_ not our personal
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experience. And if worse comes to worse, we'll plagiarize the shit
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out of someone. Right now I can think of . . . oh . . . at least 4,578
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better minds than mine!"
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Could she see my eyes behind these sunglasses, I wondered. Could
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she see that I was watching her tits under her shirt?
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Brushing invisible crumbs off the front of her shirt, she replied,
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"True, Billy . . . but it _is_ your mind that I admire."
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Shit! I thought. My mind! "And I thought it was my body."
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"Yeah, well that's okay too, but it's your mind that gonna get this
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paper done, not your . . . um . . . body."
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I smiled at her, secretly pleased, knowing that the paper was done
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already! It was nothing . . . a piece of cake . . . a walk in the park
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and I'd finished it (mostly to get it out of the way) the first week
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end it had been assigned. It'd be easy to share it with Jenny, for
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we'd been encouraged to work in pairs. There was still a little
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work to do on the bibliography . . . there always is. They love it
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when you quote something out of last month's Journal of Trivia
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and Obscurata.
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"Thanks for the heady compliment, babes. That "mind" suggests
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that _you_ do a computer search of the current literature,
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combining adolescent experiences, autoeroticism and computer sex.
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I can tell, Professor Williams loves to read smutty trash. You work
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on the bio . . . I'll work on the body of the paper. Deal?"
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It might have seemed that I was rushing this partnership a little, but
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I was fairly certain that Jenny both liked me and respected my
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academic abilities. But more, I knew that she knew! It wasn't
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academia foremost on my agenda.
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Jenny leaned back, hooking her heel on the edge of her chair as she
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pushed her dress between her thighs, giving me a delightful flash of
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thigh. "Sure! But it sounds one-sided . . . like you're doing all the
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hard work."
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"Oh, there's lots to do and we'll have to work very closely on this,
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girl. I've got some ideas. Hell, I've always got some ideas when it
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comes to sex!"
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"How closely? I mean, how closely' we gonna work?"
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"Can you come over to my flat tonight, Jen? I mean, to work on
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the paper?" I added with a Groucho Marx leer, waggling my
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eyebrows.
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"Sure. What time?" she asked, glancing at her watch.
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"Eight o'clock. But first, let's get the rules straight. I'm the senior
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author . . . the experienced one as you put it . . . so we're going to
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do this my way, okay? If you do what I tell you to do, we'll have
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this out of the way in nothing flat . . . and it'll get an A, no sweat.
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Do we have a deal?"
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I'd lifted my sunglasses and she looked me in the eye as she replied,
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"Anything you say."
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Anything I wondered?
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-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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The clock chimed eight and there was a knock on the door a
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moment later. That girl was prompt! She looked radiant. Her long
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blond hair was hanging straight down over her shoulders, California
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style. She was wearing a short skirt and a tank top that left no
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doubt. No bra.
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Sweeping her into my small flat, I offered, "Want the tour?"
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It took no more than a glance to see there wasn't far to go. "You
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bet I do. You can tell a lot about people by looking at the place
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they call home . . . and I can see you've got taste," she added,
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bending to put her books and papers on the low coffee table.
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Her short skirt rode up the back of her thighs, giving me an enticing
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view of her slender, tanned legs. What were her panties like, I
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wondered? Did she even _have_ panties?
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She'd said the right thing . . . about "taste." I didn't have a great
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deal of art, but I prided myself on the things I had. Even though it
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was just a two-room flat, it was moderately large. The plants and
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rugs and art gave it a rich appearance and texture that was mine
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and, I thought, reflective of my personality.
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I spent about ten minutes telling her the story of the acquisition of a
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large marble statue . . . a women curled up in an egg-shaped
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supplication, and then said, "But we've got work to do . . . I'll pick
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up on the tour another time, okay?"
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"You're the boss," she replied, in a quiet tone, almost a little-girl
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voice, seeming to look somewhere on the floor between us. I'd
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never heard that voice before.
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Gesturing toward the overstuffed chairs in the study area, I said,
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"Lets work here. The light is good and it's quiet."
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I was beginning to feel like some oilcan Harry . . . a fast-talking,
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unctuous dude tryin' to sell something to a slow-thinkin' chick . . .
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but I knew Jenny was not slow thinking. We hadn't said it yet, but
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the undercurrent was strong and unmistakable. There was more
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going on here than just a research paper.
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We'd been silently flirting for weeks. I told her with my eyes what
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I thought about her body. And she told me with her body what she
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thought about my eyes. We were going to get it on. We both
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knew it. But it added surprise and mystery to tease about the
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process. Just _how_ was thing going to happen?
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The hypnotic sound of Enigma wafted in, just loud enough to be
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heard if one paused to listen, otherwise, it was a soft, haunting
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melody dimly heard. Sitting across from each other, I simply stared
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at her for a long minute, admiring her legs and the curve of her hip.
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Then, "You masturbate, Jenny?"
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Her eyes widened for only a moment and then with a tiny smile, she
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said, "Yes. Why do you ask?"
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"Let me ask the questions. You'll have your chance. You a
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virgin?"
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"Not for some time. Again, why?"
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"I'll tell you later." Then, with a pointed glance at her breasts, I
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asked, "Wearing a bra tonight?"
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"No."
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"Panties?"
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Barely heard, "Yes." There was a touch of color in her cheeks.
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She shifted a little, but didn't break eye contact.
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"Jenny, this is a test. It's important that you trust me, that you do
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what I request, no questions. You don't _have_ to do anything, of
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course, but if we're going to have a close working relationship,
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working on this paper, it's important that we break down
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unnecessary barriers. Understand?"
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After a slight hesitation, she replied, "I . . . I guess so."
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"Okay, Jen. Give me your panties."
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"What?"
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"Give me your panties. Can you understand the words?"
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"Yes, but . . ."
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"Jenny, we're not voting on this. There's no debate. I asked for
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your panties. Just skin out of them right now and hand them to
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me."
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We'd talked once on the role of romance in eroticism as opposed to
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blatant sex, I, arguing for the merit of flat-out-no-coy-games sex as
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having greater erotic impact. Jenny had taken the Harlequin road
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to romance . . . move in slowly . . . kiss a lot, hug . . . don't talk
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about it . . . just let it happen. "That's wimpy," I voted.
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We'd been here before . . . intellectually. Was it to be the dance?
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Or were we going to push the envelope? What would she do now?
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It wasn't an exercise of the intellect. She knew that.
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Standing suddenly, she slid her hands up along her thighs, hooking
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her thumbs into the elastic of the white, brief panties she was
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wearing. I could only see the sides of her thighs and hips and the
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white of the panties' waistband where she'd hooked them. The
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crotch remained hidden.
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Between cuts of the CD, for a moment it was completely quiet. I
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could hear my heart beat and the drum of a motorcycle exhaust in
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the distance. If she was pausing for dramatic effect, it was
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working! The erotic effect of her pose, momentarily paused on the
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brink of surrender, made my mouth dry and my chest tight.
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She began to slowly push her panties down and I took a big breath,
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not realizing until that moment that I'd been apneic. Bending, she
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pushed them down below her knees and then, one hand on the chair
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for balance, she lifted one foot, then the other, out of her panties.
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Holding them between one thumb and her forefinger, she leaned
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toward me, handing them over and sat again.
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Maintaining eye contact, I brought the panties to my face, smelling
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them. As if analyzing a gourmet dish, I intoned, "Soap . . . and
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perfume . . . and . . . yes . . . pussy."
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She smiled and asked, "You like girls' panties, Billy?"
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"Um . . . yeah . . . but mostly I like _these_ panties . . . right now."
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"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm pleased that you like them."
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"I suspect there aren't a half-dozen men in the world to whom
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you'd step out of your underwear and hand them over . . . I love
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the erotic intimacy of such surrender."
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"Less!"
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"Less?"
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"Yes, less than a half dozen. In fact, I can't think of anyone else."
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I smiled at her compliment and then examined her panties for the
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first time. Turning the crotch inside out, I noted the wetness, but
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nothing else. "No pubic hairs," I complained.
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Shaking her head, she murmured, "I shave myself."
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"Bald?"
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She shook her head no, "Just the lips . . . and the sides. It looks
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sexy," and then added, "I think." Looking to me for affirmation.
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It was gauche, but I licked my lips and smiled. "Ready for the next
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part of your test, Jenny?"
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Shrugging her shoulders, she said, "In for a penny . . ."
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"Okay. I think one of your best features, love, is your butt. You've
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got a lovely butt . . . show it to me, please."
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There were lots of ways she might respond to this request including
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clothed and unclothed. If she decided to expose her behind to me, I
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wanted to give her freedom of expression. I didn't want the artless
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response of an automaton.
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Jenny has the curious habit of looking at me, as if making up her
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mind, and then suddenly acting. Again, she stood quickly and
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turning away from me, she placed one foot on the chair and bending
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slightly, pulled the hem of her dress up over the hip of her raised
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leg. The smooth curve of her bent leg blended into her tightly
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rounded buttock. I could see the bottom part of the crack of her
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butt and the undersurface of her other buttock.
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This girl has style, I realized. She instinctively knows that the
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partially uncovered body is more provocative then the completely
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exposed nude.
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Then she surprised me again. Dropping her foot back to the floor,
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she turned full away from me and bent way over, flipping her skirt
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up over her buttocks. With her feet planted about a foot apart, I
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had a perfect view of her bare pussy lips pooching out between her
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thighs. As rapidly, she spun around and with her hands on her hips,
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asked, "Well?"
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I was at a loss for words. All I could see in my mind's eye was the
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curve of her buttock and the crease of her pussy between her legs.
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I was numbed with my own desire.
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I told her the truth. "You've got style, Jen, and you're sexy as hell.
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I love your butt!"
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Sitting again, she asked, "Is it my turn now?"
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"Your turn?" (I'm really quick and witty when I'm horny.)
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"Yes, my turn . . . my turn to ask you things. We're partners aren't
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we?" Without waiting for a reply, she rushed on, "Oh, I know you
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want me to do the things _you_ want . . . you want me to be your
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little sex slave, don't you? Sure you do, you stud muffin . . . and I
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will! But first, I've got some things I wanna see, okay?"
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Shit, I thought I was in charge here. Actually, I really knew that I
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enjoyed her assertiveness. Dominating someone completely,
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without resistance, carried a limited charge . . . and that wore off
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quickly for me. I loved the give and take of "the game."
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Regaining my composure a little, I spread my hands apart and said,
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"That's fair. What do you want to know?"
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With a surprisingly throaty voice, Jenny answered, "Oh, I'll find out
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what I want to know in due time . . . but right now, I want to see
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your dick. Is it hard? Show it to me, Billy."
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Momentarily startled, I smiled to myself and thought, Turnabout is
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fair play.' As if looking around for it, in an exaggerated fashion, I
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leaned over and looked between my legs. "Hmmm, nothing here
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but my hand."
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"You're getting warmer, Billy. Keep looking."
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Wondering how I might best wrap this package, I opted for the
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blatant. I stood and slowly open my large mastodon ivory belt
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buckle with as much drama as I could put into it. My jeans had
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buttons. They'd always come open easier than they'd buttoned up.
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Mimicking Jenny's technique, I hooked my thumbs into my jeans
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and my briefs and skinned both down to my ankles and stepped out
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them. Straightening up, I cupped my balls in my right hand, as if to
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free them, and then let them fall as I stepped right up in front of
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Jenny.
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Of course I had a hard on. It'd been getting stiffer ever since I
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smelled the fragrance of her panties. Now it sprang up, almost
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painfully erect, bending slightly to the left.
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Jenny's eyes were large and slightly crossed, trying to focus on my
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pecker right before her nose. She wet her lips and leaned in closer.
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"Kiss it, Jen."
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She didn't pause. With her right hand, she took it like one might
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take a javelin. (Alright, a small javelin.) She closed her eyes and
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opened her lips slightly as she dropped her mouth to the head of my
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cock. I thought she might give it a chaste peck. She didn't.
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Instead, she tongued the tip of my dick as she kissed it passionately.
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With her mouth open she looked up at me, slowly drawing back the
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tip of her tongue from my dick, pulling a line of spittle from my
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cock to her tongue. Then, licking her lips, she asked, "Does this
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give you any ideas about eroticism in literature?"
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"As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about the position of
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woman in history."
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"And what's that? She asked.
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"Mostly flat on their backs!"
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"And you want to explore *my position* in this writing partnership,
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huh?"
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"Uh . . . yeah. My bedroom has better, er, ambiance."
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Arising and pulling one side of her skirt up on her hip, Jenny
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remarked, "Ambiance is everything." She turned and walked into
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the bedroom, flipping the skirt about the under curve of her
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buttocks.
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One of my affectations was a king-size waterbed in the middle of a
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richly decorated, Moorish style room. A large, high-backed rattan
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chair was in one corner, piled high with pillows, and an old, ornate
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dark mahogany side table sat under a large mirror . . . all pieces I'd
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picked up at garage sales in the up-scale part of town. Beyond the
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bed there's a large window box holding a single bed. Paisley
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pillows in muted earth tones were piled in one corner. I'd put in
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track lighting when I moved in and the soft lighting was directed
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against prints of primitive cave art.
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The over all effect was of rich tones highlighted by soft
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illumination, contrasting with deep shadows . . . producing a
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Baroque setting.
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"So this is where you do your . . . ah . . . research?" she asked.
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"Theoretical, of course."
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"Of course."
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"The window box?" she asked, looking back at me.
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"Yes, the window box can be inspirational. And that's what we're
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looking for isn't it? Inspiration?"
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Throwing herself into the window box, she turned and with arms
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resting atop pillows on either side of her, she tilted her head,
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looking at me. "You always show people your bedroom with your,
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um . . . *thing* sticking out of your pants?"
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Looking down at my still-wet, half-hard cock, I laughed and
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ruefully shaking my head, replied, "To be rigorously honest, rarely.
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Actually, to be totally honest. Never."
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"No! Please don't put it away. I was admiring it. Please?"
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Stuffing my dick back into my jeans, I said, "It's quite likely that if
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you're a good little girl, you'll get to see it again."
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"And if I'm a bad little girl?"
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Sitting facing her in the window box, I replied, "There was a little
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girl, who had a little curl . . . right in the middle of her forehead.
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When she was good she was very, very good . . . "
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"And when she was bad?"
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Continuing, I finished, "When she was bad she was better!"
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"A poet after my own heart."
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I leaned back into the corner of the window box, deeper into
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shadow. "Look at me, Jenny!"
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"Yes? I am."
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"I can see your nipples. Cold? Excited?"
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"Not cold," she murmured, looking down at her breasts. Then,
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trailing a finger tip across the prominent bulge, "Must be the other."
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"Pull your shirt up, Jen. Show me your nipples."
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She stared at me again. I knew she'd show me but wondered if
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she'd balk. "I just don't understand this writing collaboration," she
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said as she slowly pulled up the front of her tank top. Pausing with
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the shirt bunched about the tips of her breasts, I could see the lush
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lower halves of her breasts and a portion of her areolae.
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"Continue," I said to her, my voice low but even.
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"How much?" She asked.
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"All."
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Then, in one smooth motion, she pulled the shirt over her head and
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off her arms, dropping it to the floor. "Like this?"
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"Yes, much like that. You see, Jen, one of the recurrent themes in
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Eighteenth Century Western European Erotic Literature -- I said it
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like a title -- was voyeurism and masturbation. You can see how
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they'd go together, can't you?"
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"You mean, like you-do-it-and-I-watch?"
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"More like a variation of you start and I watch . . . then we both do
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it.
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"Kink-key!"
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Jenny pulled her legs up and swung around, facing me. She pulled
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her heels up and let her knees fall open as she jammed her skirt
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between her thighs.
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"I've never . . ." she began, but I cut her off.
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"Partial nudity . . . partial undress . . . is more provocative than
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total nudity, Jenny. So I want you to leave your skirt on. But pull
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it up a little. Show me your trim job."
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"I probably shouldn't tell you, but . . . when I trimmed myself this
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afternoon, I was wondering if you'd get to see it."
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"It?"
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"This!"
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And she pulled her short skirt up above her thighs. Her pubic hair
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had been trimmed shorter and shaved on the sides, producing a
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broad vertical wedge ending right above her clit. Similarly, her
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labia were clean shaven, and, with her legs draped apart, were
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pulled partially open.
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The flower of her womaness was opening, the labia minora swollen
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and wet, converging to her half-hooded clitoris that sat atop her
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pussy as an overripe, erect, girl-prick.
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Suddenly the scent of her musk washed over me and then through
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me, tickling that primitive response, setting up some hind-brain
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howling that echoed right down to the depths of my pelvis.
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"I never imagined you'd smell so . . . uh . . . sexy. So provocative."
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"God, I smell myself!"
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She leaned forward and looked at her crotch, as if to seek the
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source of this pheromone rush. Dipping her finger into her open
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sex, she ran a finger from the bottom of her slit to the top, scooping
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up the pearliness as a mucus-thick gob and then offering it to me.
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Leaning toward her, I opened my mouth. She placed the tip of her
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wet finger on the flat of my tongue, and then slowly withdrew it, as
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I softly sucked her.
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"Christ, that's hot," she offered as she again, ran the fingers of her
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right hand through her swollen labia.
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Heaving my hips up, I pulled my jeans and shorts off, adding them
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to her shirt on the floor and, falling back, facing her, I ran my hands
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into my crotch. Cupping my balls in one hand, I held the base of
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my cock in the other as I looked into her eyes.
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"This is what's it's all about, Jenny. Sex. Perhaps not the strongest
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drive, but right up there after air and food and shelter, don't you
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think?
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Easing a finger, then two, into her pussy, she answered, "Billy, right
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now I'm not thinking about anything, Except that I'm horny.
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Christ, I'm horny. I wanna get off!"
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For the next several minutes the only sound coming from our dimly
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lit window box was the slapping sound of flesh on flesh mixed with
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the increasingly wet sounds of sex. Without trying, we'd matched
|
|
each other's rhythm, the primal beat of masturbation. My eyes
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|
moved from her eyes to her breasts, back to her eyes and down to
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her fingers, busy on her sex.
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At the first hint of an impending orgasm, I'm able to hold it there,
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suspended on some heightened plateau of pleasure. But if I slip
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farther into that pleasure, it slips away from any ghost of my
|
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control and runs away, downhill with increasing speed.
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I didn't even try to sustain it. The pleasure was too strong.
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Lurching to my knees, fisting my cock, my intention patently clear,
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I leaned over Jenny.
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"Yes! Me too! I'm gonna come . . . gonna come. Ungh . . . ungh.
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Come with me . . . come on me!" she said, spaying her legs even
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wider, thrusting her pelvis at me.
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Over the top. The molten heat of my orgasm gathered force deep
|
|
to my cock and with the classic sudden eruption, spurted out, once,
|
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twice, a third. Then a weaker fourth dribble as I fell back on my
|
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heels, spent.
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A bit later, Jenny observed, "Billy, I must tell you, I love
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collaborating with you. When do we write the next chapter?"
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<< The End >>
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--
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Double for Nothing!! Tricks for Free!!!
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http://www.mrdouble.com
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Be There.....
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