Ambling along the corridor, I could sense the warmth of countless eyes caressing my body. It was happening again. I couldn't seem to contain the swing, the exaggerated sway of my hips; it had the fabric of my skirt pulled just taut enough to be molded to the well rounded contour of my butt-cheeks. Just like a born tease! I wondered how many guys were watching…
Girls too?
Uh-huh. Girls too, making me almost self-conscious. But that was only natural, dictated by the weight of sheer numbers, the preponderance of females in this branch of the university. At least that was what I kept telling myself. But then why had I become so sensitive to it lately? My goose-bumps broke out in a different pattern when a feminine eye gleamed. I was even getting bored with college men altogether, finding them more and more like bigger and brasher-and often just as callow-high school boys.
But it wasn't exactly new, this recent feeling of mine for the flutter of a mascaraed eyelash, the lick of a lipsticked lip. So I must have been ripe for someone like Florinda Brokaw. Funny thing. I knew who she was long before we got together; maybe it was fate or predestination or something like that. Then again, maybe it would have been impossible not to. In this sequestered segment of the great couldn't-care-less university, our Department of Education-also known as Teachers' College-was like a closed shop where everybody knew everybody else sooner or later. And the woman had long since been pointed out to me as someone important. Florinda Brokaw. Graduate assistant. Master's in Education. Studying outside the department for a Master's in Dramatic Arts. Wears swanky clothes and drives a sporty car. Is in good with the dean. Also in good with the students, according to the latest grapevine consensus-not even the trivia escaped the notice of us freshman-her own apartment in town, the lucky bitch? How we marveled over that!
Anyway, it was with more astonishment than difficulty that I recognized whose eye had caught mine from across the cafeteria. It seemed unreal, a fantasy; why should that gorgeous personage condescend to come to my rescue? I needed help, sure enough. And there was something mystical in our exchange of glances, some bit of magic that told me the situation was understood and help was being dispatched forthwith. Only it didn't say why. Why would Florinda Brokaw involve herself in the deliverance of one insignificant freshman girl from the clutches of an upper class bully?
The guy was a pretty playful bully-not the violent type-just another third-rate jock flexing his muscles and making a sexy pass. He had latched onto me the minute I came through the cafeteria entrance off the corridor. Now he. was being more discreet, his clutching hand out of sight under the table, but I was already telling him off before that big predatory paw tore my panties to shreds. Then it was dear Florinda holding my shoulder like an old friend and saying she hated to interrupt our wrestling match-and that was all it took to send the horny jock slinking out sheepishly.
Despite her curiously assertive voice, there was a feminine softness about her that I found quite appealing. She was svelte and willowy, attractive enough to set up a responsive vibration inside me. Her dark hair was styled in an upsweep, spectacular but too sophisticated for this place. Even her jewelry had a tinge of the bizarre. Whatever it was, something about her excited me-a wisp of exotic perfume, that same look in her eye, the unflagging vivacity, the casual assurance of her fingers, such a tender touch!
We didn't talk much, just long enough to break the ice and make a definite date for the future; wouldn't I like to forsake the ulcer-paced academic life for the restful quiet of her apartment one night this weekend? She could even come by for me in her car-no, don't say no-saving a poor inexperienced freshman from the likes of corrupt cabdrivers and chaotic bus schedules. I accepted and that was about it, just a surface skim, no mention of why our eyes and met and what she really wanted of me.
I knew, of course. What she wanted. There just wasn't much doubt in my mind, the woman was a lesbian with designs on my fair young body. True, my first-hand knowledge of the subject was extremely limited; maybe I couldn't recognize a real lezzie if one jumped out from under my bed and frightened my straight roommates, those two simpering dullards. Unless such an intruder was the obvious butch type, too masculine to be anything but an imitation man, easy to identify. But when it came to womanly women and what their sinful secrets might be, my judgment could only be based on guesswork. And yet I had no doubt about Florinda Brokaw…
Had the car been even a few minutes late, I might have used it as an excuse to renege. That was how shaky I felt about this weekend date. Maybe my opinion of the woman was completely wrong, maybe I'd be on edge throughout a quiet social evening and end up bewildered and embarrassed. And what if I was right? Wouldn't it still be just a nervous escapade followed by remorse? So why go looking for trouble?
Somehow my dim view brightened when I heard the saucy horn honk and whirled around to see her behind the wheel of a shiny little roadster. Right on time. My hostess, the elegant Florinda. I slid onto the seat alongside her. She stepped on the gas and headed away from the campus, threading through traffic toward her home on the other side of the city.
I was almost exhilarated now, glad to be on the move into a new adventure. Besides, after dressing so carefully for the great occasion my sexy black sheath with minimal lingerie underneath-wouldn't it have been disappointing to back out? I must have looked good to her right then; even in traffic she kept peeking over at me. Emboldened by curiosity, I intercepted one of those sidelong glances and returned her gaze. Again there was some mysterious, spark of communication between us, only this time it had a kind of horny effect, familiar shock waves in the pit of my gut and I knew for sure that she was a lesbian. I didn't guess. I knew. And now something else became immediately clear, too, and I knew why it was all happening. Why I was there. At last I understood the reason, the one and only valid reason for this apparent moral lapse of mine, this sudden willingness to set aside normal pleasures and dabble in perversion once more.
There was a leftover memory to blur, to erase, to exorcise, a painfully poignant memory that needed only the proper purgative to be consigned to oblivion. Like brainwashing, in a way. Dilute the old memory with a lot of little new ones, all in that same vein, just as precious on a smaller scale. Enough lesbian silver bullets to lay a haunting lesbian ghost, enough lesbian laughs to drown out the lamentation of a lesbian tragedy…
Alix, you snooty slut, get lost! Get rejected! Get the fuck out of my life!
The apartment was as advertised, a pleasantly quiet contrast to the hustle and bustle outside. More than that, it was pure paradise compared to my ugly dormitory room. With well-justified pride, Florinda showed it off to me-the complete guided tour-and was pleased by my quick recognition and appreciation of her talent as a decorator.
Back in the living room, we relaxed and had a drink. There were student rules about that, especially for senior girls, but neither of us mentioned it aloud. So we sat and sipped sweet lemony rum drinks, making small talk and covertly continuing to size each other up. I noticed the color of her eyes for the first time, a kind of nondescript blue, indistinct and perhaps even variable in shifting light. Before that I had only felt their impact as eyes, all knowing and endowed with certain magic capabilities indescribable in terms of ordinary color. The effect was prismatic, a shattering of the spectrum, radiating power rather than reflecting light. But the current was switched off now, allowing the eclipsed blue to make a comeback and almost match the blue trim on her chic pantsuit, no doubt purchased with that in mind.
I asked a neatly calculated question and managed to narrow the conversational range down to where it would mean something and might even do me some good. Our one safe topic of mutual interest seemed to be the stage. Florinda was the expert, of course, doing graduate work in the field, and I was content to shut up and listen, aware now of her expertise. And aware also of how our ripening friendship might be used to promote a good part in a good play for me, furthering my theatrical career even in my freshman year. That was only a vague notion though, something to squirrel away and crack open at some later date-if and when I could figure out how to work it into the conversation. It wasn't the sort of thing I'd dare to bring up on my own behalf, except maybe as a desperate measure. And even then, well…
My ears pricked up. She had strayed back into that same historical era again-was it the second or third time?-evidently one that appealed to her in dramatic form. It was Tiger at the Gate now, a more modern treatment of the theme. A different play about that same old war. My war. What a coincidence! I could hardly sit still, waiting for the opportunity to get a word in and score some points. And that was when she saw me fidgeting and found it funny enough to burst into laughter and end the suspense.
"Oh, if you could just see yourself! The way you're wiggling around, Sue darling; what is it, a brainstorm? Poor baby. I've been teasing you. As a matter of fact, I intended to look you up much sooner. I've known about it since registration, the little freshman who played lead in the Troy pageant two years running."
"You-you-"
"Hush. You're sputtering. Calm down. And then you can get up and perform for me, hmm? I'm dying to find out if you're any good or not. Here, I'll even arrange the lighting for you, almost like a spotlight… "
"P-perform? You mean like in the pageant?"
"Not necessarily. Just show me what you've got, the real you. Sing, dance, recite, turn a cartwheel; anything, whatever comes natural to you. Even if you just walk around and pose like a model. But it has to feel natural, you hear? Show me the real Sue Daventry. Lay yourself bare, peel off the false front. Strip your soul naked-and your body too, if that's what it takes. I want to see the girl before I see the actress."
So now it was an audition of sorts. I rose slowly, somewhat dubious but still confident enough, aware of how much my beauty would compensate for any noticeable lack of talent. The lights were nice and bright, mostly from a three-way bulb turned up high and backed by a tilted lampshade. I moved around with a kind of studied indolence, endeavoring to remain cool and yet project a certain sensuality. It wasn't easy to strike a balance, though. Posing and posturing, I couldn't quite block out the hotly insistent sensations that seemed to filter through my guard and give rise to an uneasy tension inside me. Turning my movements almost awkward…
"Don't act, just be natural. But that's impossible, isn't it? You're acting because you know my eyes are on you. So, you're trying to act natural, isn't that true? And there you have it-act natural, a contradiction in terms-the hardest task an actress can ever set for herself. Because no one can help you, not even the best director in the world."
"You just helped me."
"I helped you understand, that's all."
It was enough, that bit of understanding. More than I had learned from any drama coach back home. A revelation, practically! All of a sudden I felt relaxed-and terribly respectful too, almost obsessed with the need to gain the approval of this wise woman. What else could I do to please her?
The question had already been answered, it was just a matter of letting myself do what came naturally. I was still conscious of those insistent flashes of sensation, intensifying now and triggering wave upon wave of something akin to desire, something that seethed outward from its root in the pit of my stomach. Then too, there was that other thing on my mind, the stigma, the ugly memory to wipe clean. Alix Moreau had all but slung mud in my face with that self-righteous rejection to end our affair; hadn't I brooded over it long enough? The way to forget was to laugh, to love, to live! And here was someone who could teach me how, surely.
All that bright glare was bothersome now admittedly, but I went right ahead with it anyway, I started tossing my clothes off. The sound from the sidelines eased the situation, an unwitting but clearly audible gasp that drove out every last vestige of embarrassment and made everything feel quite natural, even the blazing light. Natural for me, at least naked but oh-so-natural!-and I realized almost irrelevantly that my potential for sex was far greater than what appeared on the surface. I found it puzzling but also cause for pride. Would she help me plumb that potential, this clever creature, this intriguing lesbian, my lover-to-be?
I felt pretty clever myself, using my "natural" inclinations as an excuse to strip. With my bare body on display like that, I figured it wouldn't take long for something to happen. And then, after more posturing under the hot lights-lights that seemed scarcely hotter than that ardent gaze now-at last I heard the switch click and saw the lampshade tilted back to normal. I held my final pose awhile, my nudity an invitation in the contrasting and now somewhat romantic dim glow.
She just sat there, though. "Charming… "
"Is that all you're going to say? Or do?"
"Huh?"
"And I tried so hard to inspire you. Too bad."
Mute appeal glistened in her eyes, combining immediate comprehension with wary disbelief. But they were still that same wishy washy blue, with no trace of mystery, no hypnotic influence, nothing like that. On the contrary, I got the distinct and vaguely disappointing impression that my lesbian seducer was almost afraid of me, afraid to take the plunge and declare herself.
"Well? Florinda? Want me to get dressed again? Not that I feel much like it-such a bother, you know?-but if that's what you want… "
"Darling! You're serious?"
"Umm, serious but smiling, you might say. Better yet, why don't you come here and find out for sure?"
That brought results, swift and breathtaking. I trembled in delight as her tender hands touched me, followed gently by an even more tender mouth. My own hands assisted, sliding up and cupping my breasts from underneath, lifting them into the caress. Like an unsteady dance team, we took measured but shaky steps toward the sofa together in a loosely stylized tango. Somehow, miraculously, she managed to maintain contact and still shed some clothing in transit, first the pantsuit tunic and then her brassiere. Just those two pieces was all she had time for, but that left her naked from the waist up, a new intimacy for both of us-and we landed on the sofa in a frenzy of desire, too hot for any more tenderness.
Nor did I expect any from then on, not after that violent but strangely voluptuous assault on my flesh. It happened as she tumbled me into the cushions in a crushing bare-breasted embrace. And it was still going on, she was kissing me passionately, hungrily, her lips wide and her tongue elongated, probing the inner privacies of my mouth with deliberately stiffened swipes and pokes and battering-ram propulsions. One slam-bang thrust touched base somewhere deep in my throat, deep enough to dredge up a queasy reaction down there, and yet even that only added to the excitement. In its own-ulp!-suspenseful way, naturally. And meanwhile, of course, her breasts were sensuously interlocked with mine, all four nipples aroused but caught in the crunch, a jam-up of erectile tissue swollen to the point of exquisitely unbearable discomfort. At least that was how my own felt. All the more so in conjunction with the continued onslaught of her apparently insatiable mouth-oh, that throat-swabbing tongue!-a combined increment of gigantic geometric proportion; was there ever a discomfort so unique, so impossibly delicious?
When she ended the kiss, we both panted for breath. But that wasn't her reason for cutting it short, oh no, my hot-lipped friend Florinda had something else on her mind, a message to get across, an aptly phrased pronouncement from those hot lips of hers.
"Hey, you know what? I'm going to tuck you, baby, I mean fuck you like you've never been fucked before!"
Aptly phrased but ambiguous. Fuck? What with, her finger? Her tongue? Was there some special significance to the word? Hmm, maybe she had a fake penis, one of those things with the silly name, a dildo, could that be it? I hoped not. If real boys bored me, wouldn't an imitation be even worse? Still, it wasn't my place to criticize, at least not yet-compliance was called for, even if I understood her only vaguely. I was content to remain passive.
A wise choice, as it turned out. Everything became less vague in a matter of moments. Wriggling her hips, she squirmed toward a closer contact down below in an obvious effort to insinuate herself between my limply dormant thighs. Another invasion of sorts, almost remote in comparison with the more immediate impact of her tits and the lingering residue of her tongue; how could she achieve intimacy in those darn pants? I was still amiably indulgent though, spreading my legs to accommodate her. And that was when I recognized a certain method in her madness, the pushy maneuver culminating with a gathered momentum that plastered her rigid belly to my own appreciably softer one. It wasn't vague at all now, this pressure of mound upon pubic mound, the rush, the thrill, the sudden convergence of sensitivity; the start of a fantastic fuck? Somehow the offending half-pantsuit took on the aspect of a rather bizarre distraction, erotic in its own right and distracting only to somebody with a warped sense of humor. Some smart-ass kid like me, natch, who else? Oh shit, the giggles were already bubbling up…
"Sue? What the hell! Okay, what's so funny?"
"I'm sorry. I just couldn't help it. This may sound kind of dumb, but I think I'm wetting your pants. Me-wetting your pants-get it?"
"Oh. Be my guest. I'll wet my own little panties though, if you don't mind. Feels like they're already drenched. Something more to laugh about, I guess. No? All finished? Good. Now if you'll just shut up and let the fucking show go on… "
I almost giggled again. But the impulse simply faded of its own accord, already overcome by the more pressing business at hand. Her body was grinding down hard, enveloping both of us in the flames of lust that radiated from our point of contact. And at last I heard and heeded a call from within, the plaintive but truly irresistible call of my fevered flesh, an uncompromising need to tear down the barriers to this still imperfect union. Even if I had to do just that-literally!-tear them down. But violence and destruction were invented for television, not the tender transports of love, and I pursued a more ladylike course. An experimental survey turned up the right approach. One hook, one zipper, one small step for womankind-and the moon was practically in my grasp. I had my arms around her, my hands under the pants and then the wispy panties underneath, and it took only a minimum of prudent dexterity to husk both garments down in a single movement. Down from the narrow waist, down over the Coke-bottle curves of her elegantly sleek haunches, all the way down to where my likeminded lesbian lover could kick them off with her feet.
There was a fascinating flash of fuzzy black pubic hair during our momentary separation, as dark and straggly as her now somewhat disheveled coiffure. That came as a shock; somehow I had expected it to be neatly parted and combed, as decorative as her artistically done eyelashes. Not that I minded really, every defect helped dispel my gradually diminishing awe of this perfect creature who wasn't so perfect after all. Show me the real Florinda Brokaw. It was her turn to audition now…
"You feel it, darling? Feel my cunt fucking yours?"
"Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me good!"
"Mmm… "
She was invading my mouth again, another one of those long-drawn-out kisses designed to display the prowess of her acrobatic tongue. Her undone hair cascaded over my face, tickling me, assailing my senses with its scent, taking the edge off the more pungent odor that drifted up from down below. Down where the denuded bulk of her body seemed to center itself on the needful place in mine. I began to writhe a little, rhythmically attuned to the hot sucking squish of her busy vulva, wallowing in the sticky goo of its lewdly draining secretions. She was doing a job on me, sure enough, working me over good with her hot-lipped mouth at one end and that hot lipped cunt of hers at the other. My climax was already taking shape, but I wondered if it wouldn't be more fun to try for a near permanent postponement and just go on like this, fucking, fucking, fucking…