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