This is a complete, rather odd story about a student’s search for marks. It was a hell of a lot of fun to write; I have no idea how much fun it will be to read. Tell me, the few who will persist, I’d appreciate it.
Gail Smithers is standing in a store considering her options, and they are vast. But she isn’t looking for the deluxe, the racy, or even, really, the seductive, just something a little different, something that might change, however slightly, not her view of herself so much as her view of the subject, sex. So she chooses the yellowish white ones, silky and slightly lower cut than the cottons she purchases in packages, 3 for $15.00. And, when she arrives back to her room in the house she shares with nine other women, a room so small she thinks of it as a monastic cell, a cell because it’s so small, monastic because she lives in it, she throws the small bag on her bed and sits down at her computer. She has an hour before dinner and has a lot of work to do.
I like Gail Smithers, she isn’t terribly pretty but she sure isn’t plain, either. She has a longish narrow face, and a long, narrow nose but her lips are sensual above a strong pointed chin and it’s all framed by medium length, rather straight, brown hair with a nice lustre to it, as if the shampoo she uses really makes a difference. If that description makes Gail’s face appear rather sharp, I’m misleading you because I have yet to mention her most prominent facial feature: the eyes. They’re beauties, big, round, brown and intelligent, but if a single word must describe them it must be ‘innocent,’ and why not, Gail has lived a highly sheltered life: she is the only sister to three brothers whose sole purpose in life has been, and by all accounts, still is, an eager search for promiscuous fun and pleasure. The consequence of this to Gail? She has been militantly guarded by this randy trio against the very things they so avidly seek.
She didn’t understand this, of course, and wouldn’t have minded if she did: study, and particularly mathematics, are her passion, and her brothers’ gift to her, the blinkers fixed so tight to her lovely eyes, allowed Gail to more closely focus on what she cares about most, achieving a top flight education. And achieve she has, at a university that has been home for two and a half years.
But it’s not her studies that interest us, well, not all of her studies. Our interest is in the journey she has so recently been forced to take, a journey that really should have, but for the brothers, begun some years before. But back to the eyes for a moment, they are innocent, yes, but curious, too, leading us to believe that if eyes really are windows to the soul, then Gail Smithers will be a very interesting person for us to get to know, as Agnes, a housemate, knows very well, that’s why she’s knocking on Gail’s door now and entering the cell and our story.
Agnes is a pleasant enough looking woman, 22 like Gail, but that’s about all they share in common. In looks, Agnes has none of Gail’s angularity or thinness. She is pleasant looking, even provocatively attractive, slightly over weight, big breasted, a bit frumpish, interested in the welfare of others, yes, but in herself, too. She’s a nurturer, and, in stark contrast to Gail’s no-nonsense sense of self, Agnes has a genuine outgoing cheerfulness that many find contagious, Gail among them and that’s why she turns away from her computer and waves Agnes into the only other chair in the room.
Now, dear reader, this will be a somewhat odd story, this story of discovery, so necessarily, it has a rather odd beginning.
“I needed a break, am I disturbing you?”
Gail could sense Agnes has something on her mind and tells her ‘no,’ she was just killing time before dinner.
What is on Agnes’ mind is this: her life’s story. Her mother is coming to town in a few days and that got her to thinking about her family and her life, she got caught up in her trip down memory lane and realized that she was getting depressed and needed a change of scenery, so she left the lane for the cell.
Depressed? Why?
The story tumbled out over time, dinner was forgotten. Ags, for that is what Agnes demands to be called, hating with a passion, and our Ags knows passion, her given name, Agnes.
Ags grew up in a farming community, (I note the pun, too) the only child of a farm machine salesman and his wife. She had a happy enough childhood, if, as she confessed to Gail, a significantly promiscuous one, adding, it was a farming community. Her almost three years in this city, however, haven’t been particularly happy. For one, the competition for men has been too fierce for an only slightly attractive, uncompetitive farm girl, so she’s yet to have a date, and, to make a long story short, she has so much pent up sexual energy that she thought she might explode.
When Gail said it, she knew her solution was simplistic, but she said it anyway, better that then exploring the countless and complex alternatives facing Ags, which she knew nothing about anyway, and dinner was still a possibility. Why not masturbate?
“Oh, God, Gail, thanks.”
And she saw her friend, really more of an acquaintance, stand up, pull down her pants and panties, almost lie on the chair in front of her and begin the process.
Now, it really is possible to be more fascinated then shocked, and we have an example of that right here, but shock was there, too, you could see it cloud Gail’s innocent eyes and she is about to take action when she checks herself — hadn’t she, for the first time in her life, just purchased a pair of flimsies? No, the journey had already begun and she knew she’d better get her experiences where she could find them, so even though the word ‘why?’ lies foremost in her mind, she struggles for composure by suggesting to Ags she may be more comfortable on the bed.
Ags agrees and moves the three steps to sit with her back against the wall, her heels by her cheeks and her legs opened wide. And that’s when Ags spots the red bag with the yellow lettering, ‘Undergarment Shoppe.’ “Do you mind?”
Gail shakes her head and notes that the fingers so recently caressing, are now dipping into the bag and pulling out the yellowish white contents, holding them up for inspection before looking at her audience, “Funny, I figured you for a cotton briefs girl.”
“They’re a reminder,” Gail explains cryptically, and when she notes the inquiring look says ‘nothing important’ and asks the question in the forefront of her mind, “Why are you doing this?”
Now, I think there’s something to the notion that children who grow up among rutting, sniffing, snorting, fucking, pissing, shitting farm animals have a different sense of self then you and I more accustomed to the essence of urban life, cars, potted plants, boutiques and gourmet restaurants. In a word, farm kids can be immeasurably more uninhibited, more likely to accept bodily functions as de rigeur. But this? Even Ags knew this was over the top so she explains herself, explains herself as she gently, oh so gently, caresses her pussy, seemingly oblivious that she is doing so.
Ags had known Gail for almost three years now, noticed that Gail, like herself, never seemed to have dates and wondered if Gail is a lesbian or wanted to be one. Why this particular act to find out? Ags had done this once before, with success, so why not? Is Gail offended? Surprised and shocked and fascinated, yes, but no longer offended, (although Gail can’t understand why she isn’t).
But you’re saying that’s too simply an explanation, surely there’s more to it than that? True. “I’ve wanted to do this for you for over a year, it’s one of my fantasies when I do this in my room.” Is it working for you Ags? Yes, but for one thing: “You have fantastic tits, Gail. I’d love to see them.”
Two hours ago, Ags would have long since been in the hall with her ass severely kicked, but when Gail pulls her sweater over her head she does so knowing that the journey is already underway, it had begun, really, in the Undergarment Shoppe.
“Can you stop there for a minute? You look delicious. Give me a few minutes before unveiling.”
Time enough to fill you in on why Ag’s ass is on the bed with the panties, not in the hall with a footprint.
Gail’s journey is framed by an academic challenge. Could it be otherwise? This is a very serious girl, with little humour and grace, and she is focused, my goodness she is focused. To explain the academic challenge I’ll use the words of her professor in her Psych 345 class of 120: “You will be paired randomly, mutually choose a subject from this box, you and your partner will meet twice weekly for discussion and you will each, separately, write a report worth 35% of your term mark, on what you have learned, how you have learned and what significant observations, I stress significant observations you can make about any and all insights. Remember, ladies and gentlemen, this is a psychology course so the ‘how’ is the raison d’ete, so the deeper you go, the better. Got it? And, oh, by the way. Your topics? Keep them to yourself, I don’t want a bunch of complainers bitching that he got an easier topic than her.”
So, beyond sitting across from a pleasant girl with three fingers in her pussy, now glistening Gail notes, that’s where things stand (and sit). It was a just a day before that she found that her topic, shared with a man she only just then met, was to be the three letter word, s-e-x. Now sex was something that Gail knew absolutely nothing about and had no interest in and that’s why we found our protagonist, Gail, in the elegant Undergarment Shoppe: she was looking for a prop, a prop she could use to get herself thinking about this subject so foreign to her. Now panties as a prop may seem a bit limp and, in fact, she had first thought of a dildo, but she couldn’t image driving one of those things into her, and, besides, the focus isn’t supposed to be on pleasure, but understanding, so the silken, yellow white panties she selected, so different from her cottons, were meant, not to wear, but as iconography to remind herself to think about her own sexuality, and the purchase was her first tiny step on that journey.
The second step is staring at her now and nodding, so Gail unfastens her bra, and quite frankly is a little pleased to do so because she knows that what she now reveals to the woman opposite, the one breaking the cell’s monastic vow, are, in Sienfeldian terms, ‘spectacular,’ though she thinks of them as utterly useless and burdensome.
“Watch me, Gail.”
Gail had been drifting off, trying to summon other sexual events in her young life. She, herself, had masturbated, of course, but rarely and never satisfactorily, and she once thought she might have seen her parents in a compromising pose, but her father had kicked the door shut and she was never sure. What else? She didn’t think dogs could count and the stuff on celluloid never piqued her interest, so that left Jimmy’s grope at her breast in grade 8, a grab that left Jimmy bleeding on the ground and later brutalized by the brothers. So now I have this, she thinks, a pleasant, likeable, happy girl with her mouth now slightly open, her eyes unusually hooded, now shivering her ass in time with her fingers. She looks silly, but in her complete abandonment, she looks sexy, too, so Gail takes another step in her journey and steps from her chair and asks her friend, holding her spectacular left breast in her hand, “Would you like a taste?”
The explosion, noisy and wet and, for a moment, paralyzing, is over in seconds, but Ags holds the breast to her mouth for another minute until Gail gently pulls it away, leaving a child to slowly become a woman again.
Let us now visit the trendy coffee house on the corner of Signal Street and Givens, but before we go in, let’s look through the window and wait, they will be here soon.
Gail arrives first and sits down. We know her so let’s just observe her demeanor. She is composed, business-like and focused, like at a chemistry experiment.
Now Tom Brooks, for that is his name, stands by the table. Tom is an athlete, not an elite athlete, he cares too much about his studies for that, but a good one, and an active one and that’s why his 6′ tall body is muscular and toned. What does he look like? Well, let’s read Gail’s thoughts, ‘nice looking, sensible looking.’ Odd term, ‘sensible looking,’ but it’s on the mark: Tom has a neat, well proportioned face with nothing particularly distinguishing save for the look, the fix of his face, which is part intense, part curious, with just a hint of cynicism, in other words, a sensible face, one that will never be thrust unwanted into another’s business, but one that can be trusted, one that will be consulted from time to time for its speculations on things, perhaps even for the knowledge it can emit, though the face shows only 22 years. And another reason to call it a sensible face? The eyes in the sensible face notice that Gail has nothing in front of her on the table (though he did notice …, well, more on that later), so he asks her what she would like, and then they are together, or at least, across the table from each other, a table on which stands two large steaming cups.
We’re inside now, in time to hear Gail say, “I am a tabula rasa, a blank slate. I know nothing about the subject of sex and I’m compelled to announce my bona fides from the onset.”
There, it is done, she got it out, her admission of absolute ignorance on so mundane, yet so fascinating a subject is out in the open, but the confident smile that seemed to suggest that this admission is a good thing, slips from her face when Tom says,
“Then I am to speak and you are to take notes?”
Well, no, of course not, she says to herself, but only to herself, because to him she says nothing, she can think of nothing to say, so she fumbles in her purse and comes out with her note book and, when she licks the end of her pencil, Tom laughs, surprisingly hard, a good laugh, a kind laugh.
Then he turns serious. “This is 35% of our mark, you know.”
“But it’s a journey of discover,” she has prepared her argument, “we aren’t expected to be experts, it’s all about what we learn and how we learn it. Plumbing the depths of my abysmal ignorance on the subject can be just another ‘how’ of the journey.” She didn’t much like her words, true as she thought they are, so she tries to deflect his attention from them by adding, “did you know that the word plumbing is a derivative from the Latin word for lead?”
“Alright,” he said, with resignation, “let’s begin in the abyss of your abysmal ignorance,” and they did and spent an hour there and when they left the restaurant they both thought they had exhausted pretty much everything that could be considered academic on the subject (Gail, of course, had brought copious research notes). But even though Tom’s disappointment had been obvious, both knew it had been a somewhat promising start, they had laid down their base, and they agreed they would begin in two day’s time on ‘clothing.’
Clothing. It was his observations, or at least the ones he cited when they met again that got the ball rolling. The bare midriffs, the tight pants, the tank tops, the gossamer thin bras that seem to excite the nipple, they are all having an effect, but a counter-productive effect, men are turning away from the scantily and provocatively attired women of today, bored, as if the women are trying too hard, trying with too much desperation.
“Is that how you react?” There, her first direct question, the first personal question, and if she stays on the offensive maybe he will leave her alone, maybe he won’t reach into the chalice of her innocence to reveal the utter incompetence of her socialization.
The sensible face thinks only for a second before saying, “Well, if there was one in a crowd of prissies, then the eye might go to her, but if the crowd was all like her, then ya, you’d probably just pass by.”
You might pass by or you might pass by? Coy, isn’t he, “And by prissies, you mean women dressed like me.”
Well, the sensitive face can blush and apologize, “Sorry, a word for contrast.” But the gloves are off now, partially off, and the dialogue is taking shape, an interesting exchange, really, but in the absence of any polls or scientific data, mere speculations, and then the subject became more interesting.
He got down to the underwear first, really just alluding to it, but she got specific, and immediately regretted that she had. “So the world wants to know,” she thought she was being terribly clever, “is it briefs or is it boxers?”
“Briefs,” he says without hesitation, “and you?”
“Briefs.” Her own word sounded strange to her, surreal, am I taking about my underwear? But, really, it’s just another step on a strange journey.
“But women don’t have briefs, do you, aren’t yours more specific?”
“Specific?”
“Aren’t your large cut, French cut, Polish cut, low cut, side cut, high riders, low riders, high riders, side riders, thong, bikini, spaghetti, dental floss.”
Gail laughs and remembers the Undergarment Shoppe when he interrupts her, “And your choice is?”
She had never talked about underwear before, not with her mother, certainly not with her brothers and, needless to say, never with a stranger, sensitive face or not. She shifts uncomfortably on the bench seat and is considering her response when he says,
“Look, Gail, this is our second session and I’ve asked you about your panties and you’re having a hard time with that. What’s going to happen when I ask you about masturbation, how you do it, where you do it, what you think of when you’re doing it. And what’s going to happen when I ask you about your fantasies, you peccadillo, your fetishes, and how you like to be fucked. What are you going to say then?” He waits for a response but she says nothing, seeming to be searching the table top for an answer. So with his finger, he drew the line in the sand, well, on the tabletop. “I want the marks, Gail, I’m in this for the marks, so either we agree right now to get down and dirty on this, that we tell each other every fucking thing we need to in order to reach the destination of this exercise, or we should call it a day here and now and try to find other partners and another assignment.”
It couldn’t have been more plain, more starkly plain and she is smart enough to realize that she has a lot to learn and this guy, this sensitive face across the table, may be the best teacher she can find and besides, she needs the marks, too, so the words she chooses, or more precisely, the words she blurts out aren’t all that difficult,
“I have never had sex, I have never been felt, well once, sort of, I seldom masturbate, never successfully and I wear plain, white cotton panties.” She is speaking to her tabletop but when she looks up, she is met with an encouraging smile.
“I’ve had sex, not often, I like to masturbate and when I do I often think of women, but never in plain, white cotton panties, they’re usually in something sexier than that which are often red.” He smiles, no blush. “So why do you wear just plain, white cotton panties?”
Her confidence is gone now, and she now knows why she wears plain, white cotton panties, because ‘I’m a skinny, sexless, unimaginative twit who hasn’t the sexual imagination to wear anything else.’ She thinks these words through before saying them, but she does say them and it surprises her when she does.
“Do you really think that?”
“Yes,'” she says, “I think I do.”
“Does it bother you that you haven’t the sexual imagination to wear anything but plain white cotton underwear?”
“Not until now.” And that is true, her underwear had never been an issue with her, not until now, but now she wishes they were pink or light blue and maybe a little lower in the cut so she could have something to say.
“Let’s talk about it.”
“My underwear?” Even to her, her voice sounds like a child’s.
He nods his head, then says, “But in the interest of fair disclosure, I must report that I’ll have a hard on when we do, have one now.”
She wants to laugh, or blush or flee or do something, something other than what she does, she asks, “You do?” in the same child-like voice that is still obnoxiously reverberating in her own ears.
Then he explains to her that most men, as far as he knew, found women’s panties and women’s bras really sexy, really stimulating, not on every woman, he looks around the coffee house and in doing so makes his point, but that even the plainest woman can be made more attractive, more interesting to men even if they only hint that they wear sexy panties. Men didn’t actually have to see them, just knowing they’re there is a turn on.
“And knowing what I’m wearing is a turn off?”
No, he explains, not a turn off per se, but, in truth, he would think of her differently if she was trying to be just a bit provocative, if she thought of herself as being sensual and sexy enough for Victoria’s Secret. “I mean, it’s all about messages.”
“But if I didn’t tell you about what I’m wearing, how would you know?”
“It’s all about messages, Gail,” he repeats what he thinks is an aphorism, then adds, “they’re the default brand, send another message and let my imagination do the rest.”
When she gets home, she studies herself in the small mirror in the shared bathroom. She looks for something that would send out a message, the message that ‘I am an intelligent, sexual, exciting woman and I want you to know that.’ But it isn’t there, she can’t find it so she takes off her sweater and she takes off her pants and though she can’t see herself in the small mirror, only her face, she does feel more exposed and she thinks she can detect that in her eyes, and when she lightly touches her nipple through the tight material of her white jog bra she thinks she can see a little spark in her eyes, and then her fingers find her panties and she walks them along the thin cotton, letting them travel to places they had never been before and she watches her eyes, her large innocent eyes for any glimmer of understanding that they are travelling in a forbidden zone, a naughty zone, a desirable zone and she thinks that yes, the exploration is just a little bit exciting and just a little bit illegal and that’s when Nancy hammers on the door, “I’ve got to pee!”
So she quickly pulls on her pants and sweater, unlocks the adjoining door, saying “its all yours,” and she retires to her room, but not to her desk, to her bed, a cot really, against the wall, and she takes off her pants, wondering why she had put them on again (but this is new territory for our girl Gail and walking a few steps partially unclothed would have heretofore been unthinkable). She is on her bed now, with her back against the wall and with her knees tight to her chest. She is hugging them, squeezing them, thinking, and then she jumps from the bed, taking off her jog bra in the process and rummages through a drawer before finding it, one that is noticeably smaller, whiter, softer, and flimsier. She puts it on and lets her hands cup the material, then she gets back onto the bed, back into the same position and she holds that position for a few minutes, then she opens her legs, slowly, she has a plan and she wants to tease herself, tantalize herself as if it isn’t her eyes that are fixed on her mound, which she has never really notice before but thought rather pretty, but some unseen eyes, desperate for a peek, perhaps Ag’s eyes.
Then as her fingers massage the mound through the thin film of the panties they catch on the hint of moisture on the material but in a few minutes they begin to pick up speed slipping along on the slickness and then her panties become somewhat translucent so an area of her thick black bush emerges and even the outlines of her lips, her outer labia, she would later learn.
Hair tuft from the sides of her panties, along her smooth very white thighs so she plucks at some, noticing it for the first time and then she let her fingers trace the wet spot again, trace all around it, making the spot grow. ‘Touch, taste, smell,’ he had said, so she puts her fingers under her panties and caresses the slippery walls of her cunt, exploring its complexity before bringing her fingers to her nose, from a distance at first and then, as she grow more accustomed to the unfamiliar scent, closer and more closely and then her tongue emerges, hesitantly, for a taste, just a touch, barely a contact. She doesn’t like it and dilutes the pungent taste with the saliva in her mouth.
But to business now. She lifts her ass from the bed and slips her panties off, bringing them up to her nose and fingering the wet spot before dropping them to the floor and then she settles back, spreads her legs, looks at the ceiling and lets her fingers do whatever they could to help her get her grade.
How did we know all this? She didn’t, after all, invite us in and she certainly wouldn’t tell us about it, not straight-laced Gail Smithers, but she did tell Bill, she told him every step of her journey, not using our words, the words we’ve used, but employing her own excellent vocabulary, her unsurpassed observatory skills and her dispassionate researcher voice, which caused Bill to comment, “You make it sound so clinical.” But wasn’t that the point? Well, no, not if the journey is one of discovery and, to make his point, Bill tells his story.
Now as I’ve said, Gail Smithers is an excellent student with a major in mathematic, but, in truth, she isn’t terribly imaginative and so, perhaps understandably, she thinks Tom’s words a tad excessive: blowing, eating, probing, licking, slurping, sucking and in no more than a minute, two at the outside? “See what I mean?” he says, showing a little pride, “See the difference? I think adverb, you think noun.” But she doesn’t see the difference, she thinks she has said the same thing, more or less, with different words.
But later that evening when she enters her monastic cell, now a little less monastic, the scope of her challenge has come more clearly into focus. The problem, or more accurately the challenge, is for her to become considerably more emotionally involved in her subject, to go much deeper, to become more imaginative and creative. She needs to break out of the straight jacket that has shut her down from youth, so she turns around and leaves.
But she’s back now, sitting on her computer chair, but swiveled around, swiveled around to face Ags. “You’ve got to promise me, Ags, you’ve got to swear on whatever you need to swear on, that you won’t tell anyone, you won’t tell a soul.”
Ags nods, but that isn’t good enough for Gail and her insistent eyes encourage Ags to say, “I promise, Gail, honest, I won’t.”
“OK, I trust you. Flemming from Psych?” Ags knows she refers to the Psych 345 professor, “He made us promise not to tell anyone about our research topic, right?” Ags nods. “Mine is sex.”
“Sex! shit!” Ags explodes, “You got sex? I got Mars,” she blurts out the words, then realizing she, too, has broken the professor’s taboo, clamps a hand over her mouth.
‘Mars?’ thinks Gail, now that’s an interesting subject, “I won’t tell.”
But Ags isn’t ready to move on from the injustice, “Jesus Christ, how did you get sex? Sex, for chrissake and I got fucking Mars. It’s just not fucking fair.”
Gail lets Ags vent for a few minutes but, no, she wont tell her the name of her partner, and then Ags laughs at the irony and injustice and Gail gets to her point. “I need a tutor.” And she explains why, her abysmal lack of knowledge, her indifference, the fast-approaching timeline, the need to participate, to pull her share of the load (that gets Ags’ eyebrows up but Gail doesn’t notice) …. So Gail needs help and when she asks for Ag’s, she makes it sound like she is seeking help in a biology experiment. But never mind how she asks, Ags is in.
So lets linger in the cell and watch, but let’s stick mainly with the action, the words, after all, only inspire them, but we’ll need some words, like these:
“So the point is for you to help me actually enjoy my sexuality, that’s what I’m missing. I mean I know how to drag a finger on me, it’s just that that doesn’t do much for me. I don’t actually get it.” Then she added the caveat that took the glow right off Ag’s cheeks. “I want you to show me, not touch me, I want to be able to do this myself.”
So Ags sighs and adjusts her strategy, drastically adjusts her strategy and they both stripped down to their bra and panties and sit on the bed.
Now I want to be clear about something, our Gail, as I have said, is an interesting woman who really thinks she might like to be an interesting, sexual woman, and not just for marks, either, for her own fulfillment, too, it’s just that she has never gotten around to getting it together. But this Psych Credit demanded her attention to the subject and if nothing else, Gail is a very good student and you don’t get to be a very good student unless you not only work hard, but work hard with enthusiasm, so, it’s fair to say that, sitting on the bed, Gail is eager and excited, but eager and excited like a student taking her first tennis lesson, and Ags tells her so.
They are at opposite ends of the bed now, Gail against the wall and Ags propped up on pillows but both with their legs open and their hands between them. Gail follows every one of Ag’s movements, the delicate caressing of the thighs and the panty covered pussy, the other fingers sometimes at the breast, pinching and massaging, sometimes on the stomach, caressing, teasing, sometimes with their twins, rubbing, prodding, sometimes in the mouth, sucking, exploring. And it’s working, you can see it in the wet spot that is growing perceptibly on the panties, but on Ag’s panties, only on Ag’s panties.
They are naked now and following the same routine and Ags is always talking, encouraging, instructing and now she is teaching Gail to use the brain, to send the mind into the dirtiest reaches of the imagination, to explore ideas, not for their value but to make the pussy hotter, the fingers wetter, and then the dirty talk, the dirty, filthy talk, the audible taboo, but it can release, Ags explains, as it seems to be releasing for her.
Now Ags expertly shows her partner how to dip her fingers into her cunt, how to spring the ass forward in a bucking motion to fuck the fingers, to fuck and fuck and fuck … but Ags isn’t talking now, she is bucking, mesmerized by the spectacular tits that bounces so cheerfully, so enticingly, so invitingly, so unbelievable erotically within a few feet of her mouth, her lips, her tongue and then it hit her and though she wants to, oh God how she wants to, she doesn’t have the strength, even if she had permission, which she doesn’t, to take those unbelievably fabulous tits in her mouth.
So it had been a relative failure Gail explains to Tom, herself, with her pasty white skin, boney shoulders, flat, narrow, white stomach that look like the baffles of an accordion when she bends forward, or sideways for that matter, ‘I am surprisingly flexible,’ and her hair, tuffs of the stuff, between her legs and under her arms, black and long and darker then the dark brown hair on her head. And Ags, Ags with her big pendulous udders that swing almost onto her rounded belly, as her fleshy brown legs stretched wider and wider as her fingers went deeper and deeper into her cunt until she screamed.
Let’s look at Tom now, he isn’t moving, hadn’t moved in maybe ten minutes, maybe 15, isn’t breathing either or doesn’t appear to be but his mouth is slightly open, slack-jawed I call it, and his eyes are strangely dull: vacant, bovine, and he appears slightly hunched and when Gail finished her report he appears lost, distant, in another world, oblivious of her, and she finds herself tapping on the table to get his attention.
So, as required, as they had agreed, she had done her homework and has now given her report. Good, progress, she is holding up her end of the bargain, this is becoming a viable partnership. “So what’s next?” she asks in a voice hinting at enthusiasm, but why not? She’s hot in educational pursuit, and Gail is an avid student.
“Fantasies and fetishes,” he says, not certain why that subject sprang to mind.
Now most men are competitive by nature, and not always, but often more competitive than women, so when Bill showed up at the coffee shop two nights later he had worked hard on his homework, which, he admitted, had heretofore been less prepared and, ah, less interesting than his partner’s, and in his competitiveness, he was an athlete after all, he had no intension of being out-storied by a skinny, little …, and there she is, skinny, yes, a little, but not really, more thin, even svelte, a model’s figure he decides, and that really is a radiant smile and, those eyes, she really does have magnificently innocent eyes, clear and intelligent, and that rack, God she’s built, they’re beauties, especially the way they curve to the side, the way they’re so rounded, and firm, they’re in better focus now, yes, beauties, marvelous, and they don’t seem to jiggle much when she walks and the nipples show, not a lot but enough, they kind of ….
“Tom?”
He lifts his eyes to the voice and blushes then struggles to get up but aware of his hard-on, changes his mind and waves to her to sit across from him.
They no longer fish for a useful segue into the proceeding. They know their assignment, they trust each other to do their homework and the purpose of the twice-weekly meetings is to report, a kind of kiss and tell, if you will.
Fantasies and fetishes tonight. Now Bill has put a lot of thought into this, he has planned it out well, he has no intention of being the dullard in an assignment he now sees more as a competition. Yes, she seems to be doing more research then he is, and more interesting research, (it really was most inventive of her to bring in a tutor, and didn’t Ags sound like a good one?), but he is inventive, too, and he’d show her. Beat this, he thinks as he leans forward on the table.
Now, Tom had already alluded to a slight panty fetish, really a mild fixation, so he thought he’d open by developing that theme, a kind of soupcon before the main course. He now explains how, with panties, he likes to see ‘the whimsy of the weave wash over the shame-hairs and collect in the mystical reaches ‘neath the mons.’
Now I’ve failed to mention that because this is a kind of research project both have notebooks and Gail Smithers is furiously scribbling in hers. When she looks up she is smiling politely but did he notice a slight smirk? Dump the poetry, he thinks, as he pushes on about how he especially likes nylon and the deeper colours for he feels they hold the heat better, ‘the mystical essence of the sex’, feeble and he knows it, and vows not to try for another, and he likes how nylon holds the scent, too, but he didn’t elaborate, and ended with his belief that darker panties shows the ‘growing joy’ with more evidence.
And then he left the subject, she didn’t seem to be very interested in it anyway, but how could she be? How could she understand his panty fetish, really more an interest? What woman could? I mean if women could have a panty fetish wouldn’t it mean that they’d be getting off all day, just walking around, or even sitting, and in a few generations wouldn’t the fetish be bred out of them, I mean, if not, nothing would get done, the housework, the office work. And how long has nylon been around, anyway? Well, doesn’t that prove my point?
When he looks at her, he hesitates a little before beginning because he notices, perhaps for the first time, that really, she’s kind of cute, in an academic sort of way, would probably be quite striking in dark rimmed glasses and a white lab coat, opened and framing her …, but he can see a hint of impatience in her eyes now so he presses on. But, anyway, he wants to, he has looked forward to this, he wants to show her that he, too, is adventuresome, he too has interesting areas in his psych. Yes, the image of you at one end of the cot and Ags at the other (and, really, he didn’t think of Ags as over-weight, more curvaceous, look at those thighs, open and soft, and such beautiful tits with the very kind of areoles he liked, big and dark and slippery looking, so the tongue) … her eyes are more insistent now, so he begins the script he had rehearsed to his mirror.
“You have three brothers, I know, so you may well have shared this feeling, this fantasy. I have a sister. She’s a year younger than me, very pretty, with lovely breasts and smooth, beautifully smooth thighs and an ass, God it’s fantastic and round and she’s an athlete like me, so she’s strong, and muscular and her ass cheeks? Well sometimes at night, sometimes when I’m in my bed and I have my hand on my …,” Is the smile fading, her encouraging smile, so recently on her lips, is it fading? And is that doubt now? And now a scowl? A scowl of distaste? Yes, clearly, and she’s fidgeting, she doesn’t seem to be listening, listening to his well crafted story about the sister he didn’t have. He is mumbling now, doesn’t hear his own words and she isn’t listening anyway, and he knows it so he wraps it up, wraps it up quickly and, he thinks, not very well, “and those are some of my thoughts.”
She smiles now, probably relieved that he has finished, and she is stuffing her notebook in her purse. Is she a bit annoyed? He can’t be sure.
“And yours?” he asks, in a voice that sounds to him a bit weak, a bit defensive.
“Mine?”
“Your fantasies and fetishes,” he says, hopefully.
“Oh, mine. It’s not nearly so interesting,” she says, as if she had been listening and not tuning him out, and then she follows the script Ags had prepared for her after she had admitted to Ags that she couldn’t think of a single fetish of her own. “Mine’s pretty common, I think, you’ve probably heard it many times before.” And then she hesitated, as Ags had directed, waiting him out.
“What is it?” There’s that voice again, that same damn voice, but he shakes it off because she is about to speak, she is about to speak about herself, about her fantasies, her fetishes. He is glad the room is so quiet and wonders why he’s moved forward, wonders why his elbow are in the middle of the table.
“I’ve always wanted to share my boyfriend with my three roommates.” Dumb, she thinks, but, there, she has said it and then she finishes the script, “But, that’s all I’ve got, Tom, weak, isn’t it, haven’t done it yet, can’t report on it, and look, I’ve gotta rush, see you Tuesday,” and she grabs her purse but Tom doesn’t seem to notice, he seems to be staring, staring at her even though she is no longer there.
Ags is already waiting for her, smiling as usual. Gail joins her, accepts the glass of wine and clinks her glass with the offered toast, ‘to friendship’.
Conversation is never strained between the two and they cover a lot of ground very quickly, even why Ags had asked her out to dinner, this seems a pretty expensive place.
“Because I want to suggest something to you,” she says, “and I wanted a place where we were seated and comfortable so we could discuss it.” And a place less easy to flee from, she thinks. And then she makes her pitch. She herself is lonely, man-less, bored. Gail needs help, urgently needs help, doesn’t the student want marks (the student reference is clever, don’t you think?). And then she delivers her well considered close,
“You are 22 years old and haven’t yet had an orgasm. Don’t you want one?”
Of course she did.
“Then give yourself to me for a night and I will make absolutely certain you get one. That’s a promise.”
Then the discussion, the details: How? And Ags has her answer, Gail has to be shown where the pleasure centers are and how to draw them out and it’s not good enough for Ags to be Gail’s mirror, Ags, herself, must explore Gail’s body, to probe it for its pleasures. But isn’t that lesbianism? Scoff, I am not lesbian and nor (perhaps) are you.
“I dunno, Ags.”
She had her clincher: “Do you want the marks?”
In fact, for a student, the hotel room is rather expensive, but Ags thinks, now that Gail is here it’s well worth the price, and she’s relieved that the blue movie isn’t to be her only reward. And now that Gail is here, here in the room and resigned as she is, Ags lays out the ground rules. We don’t have to be out of here until noon tomorrow, we’re here to have fun, we’re here to introduce you to the mysteries and the magic of orgasm and even though, as a student, you are here to learn, I will never do anything you don’t want me to do, when you say stop, let’s call that ‘Alice’, I will ‘Alice’ and when I ask you to do something to me and you don’t want to, well you can just ‘Alice’ it. Any questions?
Those innocent eyes are wide now, and nervous, but Gail is an accomplished student and when she makes a commitment to learn she goes after it, goes after it with alacrity, but the nodding head shows little enthusiasm, certainly nothing like what radiates on Ag’s face, and that’s the last we hear of Alice.
Now we have a choice here, three of them in fact. We can follow events from three perspectives: from an eye on, say, the ceiling, or a corner of a pillow; through Gail’s open and innocent eyes, or from Ag’s point of view. But is it a choice at all? The naked, unthinking eye just records, and Gail’s eyes, though thinking, may be looking at this enterprise only for the grades, so that leaves Ags, and that’s where I want to be, in Ag’s head, to cite a single place.
So, but for the shoes, they are sitting on the bed fully clothed and Ag’s hand is caressing Gail’s hair, gently, soothingly while all the time her senses search, futilely, for a reaction. Now her fingers move to stroke Gail’s cheek and her words are as soft as her caress, “you are pretty, Gee,” (for that’s what she will now call Gail, Gee because, when she thought about this moment, as she did last night, most of the night, she thought that the name Gail was too sharp, too awakening while Gee had a more soothing effect) “do you think you are pretty?” (Get her talking.) I don’t know, maybe a little. “But you are, Gee” and she uses a finger to softly trace her features, “you have lovely hair, a beautiful brow and beautiful eyebrows and your eyes,” she kissed them softly, each, “they’re so honest and innocent, and your nose is so elegant, so refined and your lips,” she let her fingers linger on Gee’s lips hoping Gee will kiss them, maybe suck on them as she would suck on Gee’s, but no, so she kissed her on her lips softly, a peck really, then looks for a reaction, none, so she pecks her again, this time lingering, pecking with gentle sucks all around these sensual lovely brown lips, lips that are moving now, quivering, really, so Ags slips out the tip of her tongue to add moisture and she stabs it gently, oh so gently, into the corners of Gee’s mouth, encouraging it to open, open just a little to say, yes, I like what you’re doing to me, you can do more, and when her mouth did open, Ag’s heart stopped and she leans Gee down on her back and lies with her, then she pulls Gee’s legs so they’re beside hers and she leans over Gee and continues to caress her lips with her own.
“Open your mouth a little more for me, Gee,” and the student does as she is told and Ags traces Gee’s lips with her tongue, now wet with anticipation and she gently searches inside, to the teeth and then to the tongue and then she brings her hand to Gee’s fabulous breast, ignoring the slight flinch, and strokes it, as her tongue plays, and then the body beneath her fingers trembles and she realizes just how fragile it is, how vulnerable, how childlike and she pulls away. “I don’t want to hurt you, Gee, or scare you.” I know. But Ags isn’t convinced and she pulls away further, retreating and she studies the figure lying so lifelessly on the bed, but for the faintly perceptible tremble, with the mouth still open, opened in obedience and she could go no further.
Ags is a sexual woman, a highly charged sexual woman, but she’s no predator. “I am scaring you, Gee.” The open mouth moved, ‘a little,’ so Ags lays on her back and stares at the ceiling, like the figure beside her, “If you want you can do to me what I was doing to you,” and she lays still and waits. But she doesn’t wait long for Gail is here to learn and she moves over and places her lips on Ag’s and then her hand on Ag’s big soft breast and Ags shows her how to respond by dragging her lips against Gee’s and opening her mouth wide and using her tongue to encourage, to tease her, to invite Gee in while her own hand covers the one on her breast teaching it to caress and squeeze and explore and when she takes it down her belly the moan starts, “Oh, kiss me, kiss me,” kiss these lips that have been so lonely, so ignored and Gee does and Ags takes her hand and cups it over her jean-covered sex and she bucks at Gee’s hand, pushing up as she forced it down. And she screams.
Ags lies silently for a minute then looks at the woman beside her, and turns to lie on her side, staring at Gee, “I’m so sorry, Gail, this isn’t supposed to be about me.”
“Is it so easy for you? Even with your clothes on?”
Ags could see the fascination in Gail’s eyes and she rests her head on Gee’s chest and is glad of the arms that are squeezing her, squeezing her tightly but she breaks free and climbs on top of Gee, putting her legs between Gee’s and holds her, forcing her pelvis down, down onto Gees.
And they lay like that, lifeless, the final embrace, resigned to an evening spent when Ag’s heart leaps as she feels the timid fingers gently pulling at her sweater, pulling it upward so she makes it easy for them, she sits up and let Gee take off her sweater and when she feels the gentle push, she falls to the bed and watches the fingers open the belt, undo the button and zipper and drag her jeans and panties from her body.
Gee is kneeling over Ags, now studying her, so Ags pulls a pillow under her head and opens her legs and, feeling a bit like a Petrie Dish, watches the face so calm in concentration. Gee’s fingers traces patterns (an equation?) on Ag’s rounded belly, then plays her fingers into Ag’s thin, wispy black bush, tugging gently at it (playfully?) before exploring the crevices of Ag’s crotch. They are both there now, both sets of fingers, both sets exploring and then they part the sparse hair and Ags can feel her lips part and then the finger enters, tentatively, exploring the walls, softly, uncertainly, as if exploring a dangerous place and then another finger arrives and together they go deeper and deeper and they twist and it is then that Ags realizes that the moans that fill the room are hers and she reaches out and takes Gee’s hand and she holds them still for a moment before removing Gail’s fingers from her pussy.
She gives the troubled eyes a smile of thanks and Ags is about to get up when Gee lightly pushes her down and reaches behind Ags and undoes her bra, taking it off her shoulders, discarding it from the bed. The same fascinated eyes now study the soft white orbs with their long erect nipples standing on their dime-sized areolas. Gee picks one up and kissed it and then puts the nipple in her mouth and with her eyes shut she sucks on it, sucks on it with sucking and slurping sounds, then she lays her head on Ags and continues to nurse, as a child might nurse and Ags caresses her hair, hoping this girl, this confused, vulnerable child will find the nourishment to awaken a woman.
When Ags awakens, Gail is still asleep, now with her head on Ag’s belly with the nipple now resting by her nose. Do you trust me, she asks quietly, wondering if the woman might be awake. Yes. Then with your permission here’s what I would like to do, and she ticked off the items like a kind of To Do list, knowing it is the language Gail understands.
Gail nods.
Ags takes Gee’s sweater off and delays only a few seconds on the bra, kissing it to feel the heat, to breath in the scent and then she has it off and Gee’s pants and Gee lies there in her plain white cotton panties almost like a doll, a thin, white porcelain doll with heavenly tits that spilled over her ribs and little sprigs of hair peeking from her armpits and groin. Ags kisses the mouth which seemed almost stiff in resolve, licking the lips and sucking the long elegant nose, then she has the nipple in her mouth but she catches herself and quickly slows, becomes more gentle, more thoughtful and she reaches down and encourages Gee’s legs to part, and they do, just a little, then a little more until they spread wide enough for Ags to cup Gee’s sex and feel the intake of breath and then the subtle quiver of the pelvis, which becomes more insistent now so Ags leaves the breast, stripping the panties and places her well-trained fingers to their best advantage. The moans are tiny and guttural, from the back of the throat, very quiet at first, but they built with the thrusts at Ag’s fingers, then Gee leans up, watching her own pussy rise to the occasion, fascinated that something in her could feel so good, then, succumbing to the pleasure, she wraps her arms around Ags while furiously throwing herself against Ag’s fingers, then she buries her face into Ag’s breasts and lets out such a wail that it makes Ags come.
Another might have been content, content with her partner’s pleasure and her own, but not Ags, there is still pleasure left and it now runs down the inside of Gee’s leg, so she turns and lies in the opposite direction. This time, she doesn’t ask, she hasn’t time, it’s there, it’s there for her and she takes it. The legs don’t respond to the first push, nor the second, but Ags is not deterred, she pries them open and with her hands under the thighs she holds them and studies the black glistening hair for only a second before she buries her face into Gee’s cunt, but something makes her restrain herself, she wants to go inside, deep inside, her tongue, her nose to wallow in Gee’s rich creamy cum, but she lingers at Gee’s opening, licking at her lips, inside and out, along it’s magnificent length, and it’s long, Ags notes, much longer then her own and hairier, much hairier, deliciously hairy, and all the time she inhales the pungent stink of sex, allowing her nose to swipe along the juices and now she is caressing Gees thighs while searching for a reaction, something that will tell her that her pleasure, which is now nearly absolute, is being shared. And, in time, five minute? ten? she thinks she detects a reaction, slight, maybe only in Ag’s imagination, but she thinks she feels a stirring so she hugs the legs, squeezes and turns and pulls them on to her so Gee’s pussy presses into her face.
But Gee lies lifeless on the bed.
“Do what I’m doing, Gee.”
There is a moment’s hesitation before the body moves, before it climbs onto Ag’s soft, warm, welcoming skin and Ag’s jumps when she feels Gee’s face in her hair, it has been so long, so fucking long, only in my dreams, day and night. “Let’s lick, Gee,” and she opens her legs and lays a hand on Gee’s head, pressing only a little, encouragingly and with the other she coaxes Gee’s legs to part so she can feel her warmth and wetness on both her eyes.
There is a moment during sex, a moment between control and abandon and Ags has long thought that the best sex is extending that moment, coaxing the moment to become two, three, a continuum and she tries, tries to lengthen the moment but she’s out of practice and hungry, far too hungry, and her scream, her wet muffled scream comes when her lips, tongue and face reach the utmost depth of Gee’s cunt. But she doesn’t pull out, instead she rests, enjoying the timid licking at her own juices and with each timid lick she recharges her strength.
Sex is often about opportunity and there is one item on Ag’s own, personal To Do left undone, so she waits and thinks and messages Gee’s ass with increasing roughness until she can wait no longer and she is on her knees on the floor and her face, still slick with cum, is between Gee’s cheeks and she is sucking and probing and licking, what? She stops, pulls back and looks. The cheeks are strong but they are stretched apart and the puckering bud is exposed. Ags takes her time now, she puts her fingers in her pussy and just takes her time and is pleased when Gee rises up on her knees and spreads her legs as if giving Ags permission. With gently suction, she holds it tenderly in her lips, tasting it with her tongue, it is so tender, so innocent, take your time, she is resting on her arms, perhaps sleeping, she will stay there for you, submissively, see, she is opening wider now. Oh, my goodness, my goodness.
The sun shines through the windows when their eyes meet. They smile but say nothing and Ags turns to the phone and asks, while dialing, “Coffee, anything more?” Coffee, and it arrives in a bit and, in a Terry cloth robe, the first she’s ever worn (and the last, she vows) she accepts the tray from the waiter and, dismissing his smirk, watches him leave and in minutes the two are across from each other with cups in hand.
The fun is over for now, the conversation relatively uninteresting. Yes, Gail had her orgasm, and, yes, she enjoyed the rest, the sucking, the licking, the tonguing and, yes, that business with my behind was interesting, ‘but I kept trying to remember what I had for lunch,’ so yes, in the final analysis, she had enjoyed it all, but it seemed to Ags that Gail might have been describing a Ferris Wheel ride or a trip to Magic Mountain, certainly worth doing but with an element of been-there-done-that, too. Ags thinks of exploring her observation but backs off, she is no psychiatrist and as horny as she is, as horny as she always is, how could she, herself, understand what appears to be the opposite in another.
So the conversation trails off into things of little consequence, certainly of no consequence to Ags who still squirms with the knowledge that there’s a very pretty body beneath that terrycloth across the table, the terrycloth hiding a truly spectacular pair of tits, but, alas, she knows it’s a body spent, a body shut down now so when she mentions it, she isn’t sure if it’s because she wants to try to shock that body back into action, or because she wants some constructive advice, or because it’s been on her mind for so damn long that she just wants to get it off. But the eyes that look back at hers have shock in them, of that Ags has no doubt, her only doubt is why she was so foolish as to bring it up in the first place. She must explain herself.
It was in her senior year of high school when she first noticed it, and she thought it occurred more often as the year progressed. She said nothing about it, how could she? what if she was wrong and, yes, even if she was right, it was wrong. But, away at University, as she had been, and working summer jobs away from home, she had wondered about it. It intrigued her, excited her but scared her a little, too, because if she was right, that might mean that her mother had been living a more difficult life then she had let on, and that’s what Ags had long suspected. Her mother and father had been happily married, she had no doubt of that, but she knew that they lived reserved, constrained lives, unlike their only daughter who’s inhibitions were somewhat legendary in the community.
So Ags told Gail, and later had no idea why she had, that she thought often about her mother and grew to first wonder, and later to become fascinated with, whether or not those looks she thought her mother was giving her meant what she thought they meant. What kind of looks? Ags hesitated before answering Gail’s naive question (if she didn’t get it by now …), thought better of it but went ahead anyway. Oedipal looks, incestuous looks, she wanted to make love to me. When Gail finally got it, her innocent eyes clouded with such confusion that Ags no longer expected any help, she just used Gail as a sounding board, knowing she would never repeat her words, even if she ever understood them.
When Ag’s mother announced she was coming for a visit, she had in past years too but always with the father, Ags toyed with the idea of confronting her mother, even tried out a number of scenarios, but none of them worked, all of them were dynamite that could be lit by her mother’s denial. So what to do? Ags muttered on in idle thoughts and speculations. In the end, it was Gail who hit on the answer.
By bolting from the coffee shop, Gail and Tom didn’t have a chance to set a topic for this meeting so they used it to review what they had accomplished to date and to outline what had been left undone, left unsaid. Tom gave his thoughts on the matter, and Gail took notes, then it was Gail’s turn.
“I want a lab.”
“A lab?”
Then she told him about her recent experience in the hotel room, leaving out any reference to Ag’s mother, and asked for a lab.
“A lab?” Is that what she said? That’s what he thought he heard, but he couldn’t be sure, he was elsewhere, on a hotel bed between two ….
“I want to go into that room, room #345 with a man and because we’ve been taking this course together, I’d like to go in there with you.” When she looks at him, her eyes are round in innocence, their isn’t a hint of excitement.
But Tom couldn’t see this, perhaps because his head bobbed so happily in agreement.
But he’d have to wait, for wasn’t it his bright idea to spend the next meeting working on his To Do list, and wasn’t it his idea that they wait for a week before working on hers?
Reader, if you were told to join a mother and daughter at their table in that restaurant you would have headed straight for the table under the Manet Ocean, there could be no doubt, Ag’s mother was just an older version of the daughter, say about 25 years older, or that’s how it appeared.
It was a great meal, Gail could see the two were very much alike and cared for each other. And even though they appeared somewhat remote, she wished she’d had as good a relationship with her own mother, well not this good for when Ags left for the washroom it cued Gail’s role. They had rehearsed it, of course, and Ags had made many changes to the lines, some so subtle that Gail couldn’t see the nuance so in fact she was a bit lost, lost in the very idea, but lost in the script, too, so she simply said, “Ags thinks you may be interested in her, in a more complex way, the way she’s interested in you.” Sally, Ag’s mother, remained quiet, she sat back in her chair and looked into the innocent eyes across from her, then down at the table, staring at a plate with the remains of a bit of pasta. She continued to stair where the plate had been even after it had been taken away, even after her daughter had rejoined the table. Ags said, “I couldn’t ask you myself. If I was wrong, my embarrassment would have been just too awful, but I wanted you to know how I feel.”
With those words, Gail left the table, as Ags had said she must, but the mother, Sally, hadn’t spoken so Gail had no idea how this awful problem was going to be resolved, but almost anyone else would have known, anyone else would have seen the chest shudder and would have known that confrontations like this are never resolved by words.
So join me now as we take the elevator to the 12th floor. They are standing there, mother and daughter, together, soundless, as they’ve been since Gail left and they turn left from the elevator and walk down the hall, the mother slightly in front and she places the card in the lock, the wrong side up, the wrong end first and Ags takes it, takes it from her mother’s steady hand and when the lock clicks she push open the door and follows her mother inside.
Even before her mother is seated, Ags has ordered a bottle of wine and has cleared both chairs of clothes before she takes a chair herself.
Her mother’s story came out in a gentle river of words interrupted only by the delivery and pouring of wine. Her river was a smooth flow, never rushed, no turbulence, no dramatic rapids or falls, just a necessarily elongated and languid version of this: she had known she was a lesbian since youth; knew that in their community, never mind the times, she had to suppressed it; married her father because she really had loved him, at many different levels; that they’ve had a happy life together, and when Agnes arrive their world got happier. One of her joys was that, unlike herself, Agnes seemed to have a healthy regard for sex, heterosexual sex. But for me, she added, “I have always wondered, always wondered what it would be like to be, not with you, but with any woman. You were just there.”
And I am now.
When Ags covered the five short steps from the table to the bed she explained to her mother’s total satisfaction that she, Ags, loved sex and would love to have sex with her mother and to think of her as whoever she wanted to.
And then kneeling on the bed they faced each other, “Have you thought of this moment, do you know what you’d like to do?”
Sally smiled, thought of this, is she kidding? I have thought of this with half the women I’ve laid eyes on. “I’d like to slowly take your clothes off and then just touch you for awhile, then I’d like to kiss and lick and suck on places I’ve dreamed about every night of my life but mostly I want to hear you moan.”
“I’m a moaner, mom.”
The fingers that found her daughter’s sweater were strong and determine and in absolutely no hurry but the sweater was off soon enough and the mother’s hands were caressing her daughter’s breasts through her tight, red bra. “They’re pretty, Agnes, really pretty and they feel wonderful.”
“Mum, can you call me Ags? I’ve never liked Agnes.”
Her mothers eyes never left her daughter’s breasts and she never stopped feeling them, these were her first, but for her own, so it took awhile for her daughter’s words to mean anything to her. “No, I won’t call you Ags, it will always be Agnes to me, that was my mother’s name.”
“Ok, but for tonight, how about Jennifer, I’ve always loved that name.”
Her mother’s face was close to her daughter’s breasts now, enjoying the nipples grow in the flimsy bra, “How about Jen, a single syllable, three may be too much for me tonight.”
“I’ll call you Sally.”
Sally was at Jen’s pants now undoing the buckle and opening the button. Jen moved to lie down but her mother stopped her, not wanting her to move, sending her own hand down to feel the outside of Jen’s jeans rubbing at the material trying to feel the hot skin beneath. “Spread your legs. Open them more,” and Jen obeys and her mother rubs at her mound as if it’s a stain.
Sally is pushing at Jen’s pants now so Jen falls on the bed, kicking them off with her panties then she rises to where she had been, with her legs spread apart, with her mother’s hand on her pussy.
“Move on it.”
Jen willingly gyrates on her mother’s hand.
“Take off your bra.”
When Jen does as she is told she feels her mother’s mouth lick at her breast, all over, from the chest to the nipple, “Mom,… Sally, I’m not going to last.”
With her fingers, Sally stops her daughter from moving, “Don’t move.” Then she takes the lips of Jen’s cunt, gripping them, squeezing them together, pulling on them so hard that Jen grunts, then harder still, then she feel inside her, her hand forcing her daughter to open, then she pulls her fingers out and smothers her daughter’s breast with her own cum and then she is down on it sucking at the breast, licking, washing.
“Have you dreamed of doing that, Sally?” Jen was intrigued, she has never done that before.
There is no answer.
But she is watching Sally’s head now, it bobs on the surface of Jen’s breast and she wonders what her mother may been thinking during all those nights, lying there on her bed, beside her husband, late into the night, for 25 years.
“Do you like pussy Sally, do you like the taste, the smell, the smell of cunt, do you want to suck me?
Jen is on her back now, forced there by Sally’s insistent push and Sally is between her legs, her eyes closed and even though Jen has already orgasmed, Sally stays where she is, lost and Jen runs her hands through Sally’s hair, gently tugging at it, encouraging her to go deeper, to drink deeper. Then Jen remembers but she waits, forcing her legs wider, then wraps them around her mother’s head, encouraging her, allowing her to fold her cunt about her face and then she gives out a long moan, the best she could produce.
Jen did as she was told and had a shower and when she returns, toweled, to the room her mother is sitting at the table, fully dressed, smoking, with her legs crossed and a wine glass in her hand and when Jen sits across from her, the mother smiles, “Thank you.”
Jen gets up from the table and dropping her towel goes behind her mother and wraps her hands around her, “Now you.”
Sally pats her daughter’s hands. “No, I’ve done what I’ve dreamed of doing.”
Jen objects, tries to pull her mother from the chair, tries to get her to the bed, but her mother resists and then pries Jen’s hands apart and tells her to put on her clothes.
Agnes did as she is told.
While Ags is watching her mother’s head bob between her legs, Gail is studying her computer screen. She thinks her report is going well, it’s necessarily incomplete but it’s going well, and would be going even better were it not for the telephone that is ringing now and will be ringing about every hour on the hour throughout the weekend. But a telephone she deliberately ignores.
Gail decided on the thesis of her report even before her initial meeting with Tom: ‘Understanding an individual’s sexual proclivities is the most complete way to predict an individual’s behaviour.’ She didn’t know if that was true, didn’t care really, but she had overheard one of her brother’s use the phrase and when searching for a premise on a subject she knew nothing about, she remembered it and thought it might just do the trick.
Now I don’t think we want to read Gail’s paper, we don’t want to read it for a number of reasons: she is no expert on her subject; the thesis may be entirely improvable, even erroneous, but the reason I’ve decided to pass on her report is that I know Gail is a mathematician and her cold, clinical writing style will not be fun to read. Her report will be dauntingly boring, in fact, I already pity Dr. Flemming who must endure it. But let’s look at a few of her thoughts.
• The unfathomable nurture-nature debate is all about programming and obfuscates the notion of man as a beast who’s sexual predispositions and proclivities tend to dictate individual behaviour. After all, sexual instinct is fundamental to the propagation of the species and is, thus, a beast’s defining behaviour.
• The complexity of understanding the nurture-nature of an individual is so daunting that in trying to predict an individual’s behaviour we, by necessity, tend to take short-cuts: facial features, body types, clothing, jobs, locations, and many more. Sexual proclivities is just one such marker, but it is the one that offers the greatest incite into total behaviour, rational and otherwise, and with the least amount of effort, and, indeed, with the potential for considerable pleasure.
• 20 minutes in another person’s bed is the best way to gain true insight into an individual’s soul, every other methods involves a substantial decreasing marginal return on the investment of time and effort.
• Case study: a virginal naiveté visits three beds and observes three different sets of behaviour which will, in the conclusion, be correlated with the Frederick Strunk Personality Type Aptitude Indicator and Behaviour Predictor to establish the veracity of the observations/experiences.
Gail is entering room #345 now and Tom is behind her. They kick off their shoes and sit on the edge of the bed. Why this room, he asks? I know it, I’ve been here before, I feel comfortable here.
“You called this a lab.”
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do, I mean, is there anything you specifically would like me to do with you?”
“No,” Gail looks into Tom’s eyes, he really does have a sensitive face. “Do whatever you want to do?”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”
If we look closely, and not even too closely at that, we can see a boner in Tom’s pants, a boner that grew at Gail’s last ‘yes.’ There is every evidence that Tom has been looking forward to this and he wastes no time, he turns to Gail and strokes her hair while bring his lips to hers. She kisses him back, as she has been taught, and he lies her on the bed and brings her legs on the bed beside his own, then his hand quickly moves to the breast. “God, I’ve wanted to feel these for a long time.” And he does, with mounting passion until he tears off Gail’s sweater and stares at the nipples straining against Gail’s 35C. His lips are on them now, feeling their heat and sensing their aroma but he can wait no longer and the bra is off and his lips press on the nipple, sucking noisily while his hand fumbles with Gail’s pants which she kicks off leaving her only in her plain white cotton panties and he is on those now, kissing them, wanting to have kissed them since their disclosure. His lips can feel that she is hairy and as his tongue travels her covered mound his moisture, was it just his? makes the thin cotton translucent and the blackness of her pussy hairs is revealed.
He’s on her thighs now, how white and smooth, and he sees the tufts of hair at her crotch and smells the heated essence of her sex. The white cotton panties come off easily and his face mashes into a zone he had assembled, meticulously assembled so many times in his own bed with his hand on his prick, and he is fumbling for that prick now, pushing at his trousers and underwear until it jumps free just in time to send, with an animal grunt, a rope of sperm onto the patterned bedspread.
His head is on her pussy now, resting, regaining sense and it only slowly dawns on him that she hasn’t moaned, hasn’t cried out, hasn’t moved. He turns his face a fraction and through the thatch of her pussy looks up at her and sees those eyes, those lovely, round, innocent eyes looking back at him. What are they saying? He knew in an instant, because he had seen them so often in the coffee house, they are always the same, he thinks, they seem to be trying to decode a mystery with the logic of mathematics, she is trying to understand him, not through connecting with his passion, but through empirical study. His prick, so responsive to his thoughts, so willing, was ready, as usual, but now begins to let him down, and itself, as it slowly falls to lie wet against the bedspread.
She remains motionless as he sits up, sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking down at her.
“Will you put it in me now?”
He didn’t know if it was a question or a statement, if it was a plea or a plan. “Do you want me to?”
She nods but with such encouragement that his shrinkage seems complete, and that’s when she hands him the condom.
Playing pool with a rope is tough but putting a condom on a limp dick is impossible — and embarrassing, and when he looks at her he blushes. Can I help? Maybe if you touch it for awhile, and she gets up and faces him, cross-legged and, as she takes his penis in her hand, he reaches between her legs and tries to coax her cunt into life and it seems to be working, his soldier is stiffing and the rubber now hoods the head and she does as directed and slowly rolls it down, painfully pinching his hair so he is forced to take his fingers from her twat and finish the rolling himself.
He has her by the ass now, her legs are wide in acceptance and his sheathed manhood is touching the gates, “Are you sure?” Then he remembers she’s a virgin and adds, “it may hurt.” She doesn’t look sure, doesn’t even look interested and he feels himself weaken so he takes his own advice: sight, sound, smell and he rubs in her pussy, drags his fingers across his nose, licks his fingers, squeezes a breast, they really are spectacular, and urgently enters before he loses the power to do so.
It isn’t going well, it’s those eyes, they are so innocent, yes, but so analytical, too, that’s the word, analytical, it’s as if she is trying, not to enjoy him, but to understand him, … but don’t think about that, not now, think of her tits, the tits are the key, they are so fucking spectacular, so round, with such perfect areola and nipples, to suck, to bite, oh, God, just a few more strokes, a few more … and then the now familiar grunt.
They are in the chairs now, both in towels and Gail is absently sucking on the tit of a disposable water bottle. “Are there other ways to do it?” Fuck? She nods, still sucking on the bottle. He thinks for a moment, you can blow me, or I could put it in your ass.
“Really?”
The monastic cell is quiet, but for the clatter of the keys and now the ringing of the phone. She knows its her father before she answers it. She listens, the voice is loud, lecturing, “yes I was out both nights,” more lecture, “yes I know it’s wrong,” more noise, but louder now, we can hear it, “… will talk to you, you have a reputation, morals …” and she holds the receiver a little away from the ear and finally says, “yes, Ok, tomorrow, at 3:45.” When she hangs up she wonders which of her brothers will come, but she doesn’t really care. Her finger’s hit the return and then shuffle on the keys, ‘Incest, My Personal Observations and The Report of a Friend.’
She isn’t sorry it will be her last time in the coffee shop, she’s becoming tired of it, but she’ll miss Tom, he really is an interesting man, and that face is so sensitive, and he so sensitively reflects on their time in room #345. She is watching the clock, trying to extend the conversation, but, as the hands reach the hour, finally it is time.
“I have a graduation gift for you,” she says. A graduation gift? And she arrived on the second, standing by the table.
“This is Ags, I can’t give her to you, but I can give you both this,” and she pushed the familiar key to room #345 towards Tom. “I know I’ve been difficult, I know you both deserve better, and I am giving you that: I’m giving you each other. The room is yours for two days.”
They are talking now, excitedly, but they stop as the figure passes by the window.
She hasn’t a pretty face, but it isn’t plain, either, and the eyes: so round, so innocent. They appear to be looking inward now, searching for something, not critically, not analytically, perhaps only for a piece of information that she can add to another. She is, after all, a student.