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IRL Ch. 01

By: MilesTugot



IRL

Like all of us, college senior Jackson has fantasies. Lately, all of his are about his philosophy professor. But Jackson has stumbled upon a peculiar way to go a little deeper into his fantasies. Maybe too deep. As he drifts further and further from reality, he is pushed toward a dangerous choice: Does he want the girl of his dreams, or the uncomfortable truth?

All rights reserved.

Part One (of Three)

"I enjoyed your paper very much, Jackson." She slowly sips her coffee while her other hand tosses through the pages of my report.

"Thanks, Professor Donahue," I say. By this point in the semester, it feels weird to call her that. We've gotten to know each other pretty well. Plus, she's a doctoral candidate and she's only 26—just four years older than me. But on the other hand, I don't want her to think I don't respect her position.

"Please, Jackson." She smiles at me with warm brown eyes. "I thought I've told you to call me 'Katy.' After all, I'm not even officially a full professor yet."

"Of course. Sorry. Katy," I stammer. Damnit. I knew I should have just gone with 'Katy.'

"This shows a very strong...command of the concepts we've been discussing in class," she says. It's a compliment, obviously—but there's something strange about her tone. In the three months I've been taking her class, I've never heard her use this voice before. Each word she speaks seems loaded with mischievous knowing and dangerous purpose. It's sort of frightening. Also, kind of sexy.

"Um, thanks. Yeah, I worked hard on it."

"Oh yes. It certainly seems like you did." Her eyes fix on mine with an unsettling intensity. I swallow hard. The smell of her latte fills the small office, and it makes me think about the first time I had a one-on-one conversation with Katy.

It was the first week of the semester. Ours is the first class she's ever taught, and she admitted to being a little uncomfortable at stepping into the role of professor ('lecturer,' technically, but whatever). She complained that she'd rather just sit around and rap with us about Aristotle in a coffee shop, as peers. "So I was thinking, why don't we do precisely that?" She had said on the first day of class. "Each Tuesday after class, I'll hold a small-group discussion session in the coffee shop around the corner. Just drop by whatever week works best for you, if you're interested. I think that would be a good way for us to get to know each other a little better." I decided to go that first week. She intrigued me. I wanted to know what made someone so young and pretty and tattooed—I could only see the clipper ship on her forearm that day, but she's since mentioned that there are half a dozen—so obsessed with old dead Greek guys.

But when I showed up that afternoon, I found Professor Donahue sitting alone at two tables she had pulled together in the back, with enough chairs for 7 or 8 people. "Hi." She had smiled at me. "Have a seat. I'm sure others will be coming soon." But they did not. I guess hanging out with the prof was not my classmate's idea of a fun way to kick off a new semester. So it was just Katy and me. At first, it was horribly awkward. She looked crestfallen at the lack of response. I imagine we were both sort of thinking the same thing; that it would have been better if no one had shown up. That with just the two of us, it was super weird. But then we started talking. She was fascinating. She was well-read, well-spoken, and well-traveled. She had a quick, chaotic mind. She chased her own thoughts like fireflies on a summer night. She never really got one all the way in the jar; she just moved on the next. And before I knew it, we had gone through three cups of coffee and the entire afternoon. We talked about anything and everything. It was serene and easy and warm; a perfect little refuge from the winter storm that raged outside that day. She quickly abandoned the small-group discussion idea, but I made a point of thinking up a question I could use as an excuse to drop by her scheduled offices hours the next week. And the week after. And so forth. Those chats with Katy became my favorite part of the week.

But today—today is different. All traces of her reticence to be in a position of authority have vanished. Our comfortable, peer-like vibe is gone. She now stares sternly at me with steely, smoldering eyes behind her thick black glasses. Her breezy affability has been replaced by a kind of predatory poise.

"In particular," she says, "I found your perspective on Descartes' wax argument quite unique." She leans forward and places both elbows gently on the table. "Well...not entirely unique." My face suddenly starts to feel hot. "In fact, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had once read the exact same argument about that treatise, posed the exact same way." My pulse quickens. "And I was so very curious as to where I had seen it before that I just had to put some of the text of your paper into Google." My throat tightens. "And I was very confused to find that much of the text in your paper, Jackson, is line-for-line identical to an article published in a philosophy journal four years ago," she says slowly and deadly.

...Fuck. Fuck shit fuck.

Katy leans back again and tosses her wavy brown hair. Her eyes still haven't left mine. "What's strange, Jackson, is that four years ago, you would have been...what? A senior in high school? Is that right?" She lets her words hang in the air, making it obvious that I have to answer.

"...Yes, ma'am." Now, deference seems even more appropriate.

"Wow. And in addition to your busy high school schedule, what with classes, and dating, and, what, football, did you say you played?"

"...Lacrosse."

"Lacrosse, of course. In addition to all that, you managed to find the time to write some astute analysis of Descartes for publication in a respected academic journal? How very advanced you must have been."

"Professor Dona—Katy. I don't know what happened. There must be some kind of mix-up or—"

"Please. Don't," she snaps. "I'm not an idiot." She's right. I don't even know why I bothered. There's no way around it: I've been made.

"...Yes. I'm sorry. I copied some of the paper," I say. I want to stare at the desk, at the floor, at anything but those eyes. But for some reason, I can't look away from them.

"You're such a smart student, Jackson." She sounds genuinely disappointed. "Why would you need to do something like this?"

"Look, I love your class. I really do. I mean, that's why I'm in here so often. And I've worked hard, so far, but it's just that last week—things got really crazy in my other courses and I wound up super underwater and, you know, I didn't want to turn in something shitty. Not for you. And so...I guess I panicked."

"Well. You understand what I have to do now, don't you?"

"Maybe, maybe we could handle this between you and I? Without reporting it," I plead. "Please, Katy. I could get expelled."

"Oh, you most certainly will be expelled. The administration has a zero tolerance policy for plagiarism."

"This was a one-time thing, Professor. It was a stupid mistake. But...you don't really think I deserve to be kicked out for it, do you? I mean, come on. It's me. We're like...you know."

She just cocks her eyebrow at me. "Yes? We're like what, exactly?"

"I mean, we're kind of like friends, right?" I say meekly.

"Friends? You think we're friends?" She lowers her glasses to look over the rim at me. "I may have failed to maintain proper boundaries this semester, Jackson. So let me apologize for that, and set you straight: we are not friends." The words sting a little. "You are a student. A promising student. A student I've enjoyed teaching. But a student, nonetheless. And I am a professor. That's my job. And if I let this slide, I could lose that job."

"But, nobody has to know," I say frantically. "I'll write a new paper. I'll write fifty new papers. Or you can just forget about it and say I never turned one in. I'll take the zero. Please. I'll do anything you want."

She stares at me for a long time. Like she's thinking deeply. She takes her glasses off and lightly bites one earpiece. Finally, her full, pink lips break into a smile, and she tosses the glasses on the desk.

"Well. There may be a...mutually agreeable solution." Katy stands, strides slowly to the door, and locks it. Then she turns to face me.

Now that Katy's out from behind the desk, I can see her body in all its splendor. Even under the incredibly stressful circumstances, I can't help but notice her curves. Truthfully, it's not the first time I've noticed. My interest in Katy—what lead me to the coffee shop that afternoon and back to this office so many times since—it may not be 100%...platonic. It's not like I've never noticed her full, perfect breasts, which now strain against her beige button-up blouse covered by a jacket. I have, more than once, been distracted in class by her plump, round ass, which is now hugged tightly by a gray skirt. I can't say I've never drifted off thinking about what her well-toned legs—her heels are doing some awesome things for her calves today—would look like resting on my shoulders. But all the while, I was keenly aware that she was completely unattainable. She's A) older, B) my professor, and C) so beautiful as to quite probably be 100% out of my league.

But now, she stands in front of me, arms cocked on her wide hips, staring at me—and I can't tell if she's mad, anymore. Her eyes seem to roam over me, searching for a reaction, assessing me for...what, I don't know.

"Um...what kind of solution?" I ask, breaking the silence. She starts to take small, tentative steps toward me. Her black heels click on the hardwood floor.

"I think you're very charming, Jackson." She stops directly across from me, and leans against the desk. She's inches from where I sit now. "I've always enjoyed our chats, ever since that first afternoon in January."

"Uh, me too. It's been great. To go a little deeper into the...concepts, and stuff. I like the way you explain things."

"Do you?" She gives me a skeptical look.

"Uh...yes?"

"To be honest, Jackson, sometimes I grow suspicious that you're not all that interested in philosophy." She sits up on the desk, and her skirt hikes up her creamy thigh just enough to spark one's imagination. "Sometimes, I wonder if you're not just here to see me. Maybe because you like me?" She crosses her legs, and I try like hell not to stare at the perfect view of them.

"What? No."

"You don't like me?" She feigns a pout.

"No! I mean, I do. I mean, you're a great teacher."

"I think you know that's not what I mean. Do you find me attractive?"

"I mean...of course you're—you're beautiful, but I, I mean, you're my professor. So, I know it would be inappropriate to...um, well—"

"It's okay. We can't help who we're attracted to. I can't help that I'm attracted to you, for instance," she says flatly.

"What?" For a second, I wonder if I heard her right.

"Please," she laughs. "You didn't think I humored you all those afternoons in here because I thought I was molding the next great American philosopher, did you?" To be honest, I had never really thought about why she never seemed to mind my incessant (and often fabricated) questions. I thought she just really liked teaching, maybe? "I was here for the same reason you were, Jackson. I think you're cute."

And with that, she slides off her gray jacket and tosses it aside, her gaze still unflinching. The cut of the blouse underneath reveals just the first hint of her generous cleavage. My sweaty palms grip the chair's arms tightly, as if I'm trying to hold on to this preposterous moment for dear life.

"Do you know what it's like, Jackson, to complete a doctoral dissertation?"

"...Not really, no."

Her sigh seems to release a bit of caged, rattling heat from deep within. "Imagine the most difficult term paper you've ever written. And then imagine making it 200 pages long. And then imagine that your entire livelihood depends on convincing three extraordinarily cantankerous old men that every word of it is perfect."

"...Yeah. That sounds bad."

"It is, Jackson. And it leaves no time in one's life for anything else. Friends. Fun. ...Men." Her hand toys thoughtlessly with the top button of her blouse. "Are you starting to get my meaning?"

"...I think so, yes." I struggle to keep my voice steady and my hands from shaking.

"Suffice to say, it has been a very lonely, frustrating year, Jackson," she almost moans each word, seething with something powerfully repressed. "And that is where you come in." Looking at me, she undoes the top button of her blouse. "You need me to keep quiet." Her hand slides down and undoes the second button. "I have my own needs. Deep, white-hot needs." Her mouth forms each word slowly as she undoes the third button. "And I need someone to take care of those needs in a way that is...uncomplicated. And conducive to my schedule." The fourth button. Her blouse hangs open and reveals her blue and purple lace bra and a tattooed clockwork design on her shoulder. "And if you can do that for me, your problem goes away." She undoes the last button now. "What do you say, Jackson? Sound like a deal?" She pulls off the blouse and casts it aside.

I learned from Professor Donahue that Plato had this "theory of forms." I'm not sure I understood the whole thing, but I remember something about how everything we see is just an imitation of an ideal type that exists in another world. So, every chair we see in our world is an imitation of some perfect, ideal chair. As I look at Katy's full, C or D-cup breasts as they strain against the sapphire fabric of her bra, with its delicate lace pattern dancing over her milky skin, there is no doubt whatever in my mind that these are the ideal boobs.

"Well?" She asks, and I realize I've been staring without saying anything for...I don't know how long. "If you'd rather take your chances with the Dean, that's fine." I want to speak, but my throat is so dry and tight that I worry nothing will come out. "I mean, if you don't think you're the man for the job, I understand," she says. I want to move, but I feel glued to the chair. She notices me glancing nervously at the door.

"Don't worry." She scoots off of the desk and takes a step toward me. "No one's coming in." She straddles me where I sit. Her ass on my ragingly hard cock feels incredible. Her face is so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of her breath. "You've got me all to yourself," she says. She leans in, and whispers hotly on my ear: "You can do whatever you want to me."

And that's when I grab the nape of her neck and bring her lips forcefully to mine. The kerosene hits the flame and we alight. A surprised "oomph!" barely escapes her as our lips mash together desperately. My free hand grabs her waist and pulls her into me. She moans deeply and grinds her hips into me, rubbing herself against the bulge in my denim. Her hands explore my body as our tongues reach out to taste each other.

I reach both arms underneath her and I stand, without breaking the kiss. She makes a small squeal of surprise as I carry her to the desk and set her down there. I pull back just long enough to look at her face; she looks a little shocked at my sudden show of force. In a good way. She wraps her legs around me. I kiss her neck. Her head snaps back and a low moan escapes her lips. "Oh God, Jackson!" she cries as my tongue traces a line along her neck. She runs one hand through my tousled brown hair as the other grabs my ass. My hands reach behind her to find her bra clasp. "Mmmm. Yeah?" She says. "You want to see those tits? The ones I've caught you staring at so many times?" I unhook the clasp. "How many times have you pictured what they look like naked, Jackson?"

I groan. "So many times, Professor Donahue."

"Jackson. Really. We're certainly on a first name basis now," she says as she slips the straps from her shoulders and the bra falls away. "...Aren't we?"

However ideal they looked clad in that high-end bra, they are infinitely better exposed. They hang perfectly, like ripe fruit just about to fall. Her nipples are already hard. I take the pinkish bud of one breast in my mouth, while my hand greedily squeezes the flesh of the other. I bite lightly and she squirms beneath me. "Uuugh, yesss," she moans. "That's it. I love the way you touch me. I love those rough hands on my skin." Katy's hands roam under my shirt, clawing at my back.

"Ugh. Get this thing off," she says, tugging at my shirt. "After all, I'm lying here all exposed..." She gently caresses her own breast. "And this is all about quid pro quo, remember?" She bites her index finger as she feigns another pouty look. I stand up and rip my t-shirt off. Katy looks pleased. "Ummmm," she purrs, as she runs her hands down my chest and abs. "I'm so glad you tried to plagiarize."

"And I'm glad we could work out a 'mutually beneficial solution,'" I say smugly, and then dive hungrily back to kissing her awe-inspiring tits. My hands reach for the hem of her skirt. I find the zipper and start to pull it—

"Wait. Jackson. Stop." Katy pushes me away. My heart stops cold. Oh, no. She's come to her senses. She's changed her mind. After we've come this far...I'll combust if we stop here. "I think I should be clear about something," she says, stroking my face with a bent finger. "We haven't worked out a solution yet."

"But. You said that if we—"

"I'm sorry if I mislead you. I didn't mean to imply that there were...participation points, available. You can't just stick it in me, get yourself off, and expect me to honor my end. I'm not one of your little college girlfriends. I'm a woman, Jackson. A very sexual, very frustrated woman. If you want to make this count, it has to be fast and hard and long and sweaty and—most importantly?" She grabs me by the neck to pull me down and whisper in my ear again: "You have to make me come all over your cock."

I smile smugly down at her. "And you're worried that will be a problem?" With excruciating slowness, I start to unzip her skirt. I can see the matching blue and purple lace of her panties peeking through.

"I don't know. A lot of boys your age aren't sexually experienced enough to really please a woman," she says. It sounds like a dare.

"Don't worry, Katy," I say as I tug her skirt off her hips and slowly down her legs. I barely notice the beautifully-done mermaid on her thigh; I'm too anxious to get her completely bare. "I plan on making you remember this for as long as I've been dreaming about it." The skirt slides past her black heels and crumples to the floor. She lies on the desk totally naked except for her panties, which have a dark, damp spot spreading through them. She's very wet.

"Oh? You sound very confident," she says. "But I don't even know yet if you're...physically capable of making a lasting impression." At first, I'm not sure what she means. Then her eyes travel to the bulge in my jeans. "Well? Are you adequately equipped for the task, or should we just stop now?"

I grin, step back, and place both hands behind my head, making it clear that the ball is in her court now. "Why don't you find out?" I ask.

She needs no more encouragement. She slides off the desk and onto her knees. Her big brown eyes look up at me as she undoes the belt buckle and rips it off with force. "Mmmm," she hums with anticipation. "I've wondered what you have under here more than a few times." Her eyes stay fixed on mine as she very slowly undoes the button and lowers the zipper of my jeans. My cock is straining so hard against the fabric that it hurts. She pulls down my jeans and boxers in one slow, smooth motion.


IRL Ch. 01



I'm not sure which is more satisfying: my rock hard dick finally being freed from its constraints, or the look on Katy's face. Her eyes widen and her mouth drops a little. For what may be the first time since I walked in, it's not my eyes she's staring at. "Oh. Jackson. I...God. I had no idea." She gently reaches out a hand to grab my pulsing cock. Her hand slowly closes around it, and it feels incredible.

"Still worried about my qualifications?" I ask.

She slowly shakes her head. "Not at all. You know, Jackson, I've always admired your eagerness to come to my office hours and 'go a little deeper into the material,' as you said. And now that I see what you have here..." She slides her hand slowly up and down my shaft. "I think we're going to be able to go plenty deep today." She smiles devilishly at me and brings her parted lips so. fucking. slowly. to kiss the swollen head of my dick. The sound of that kiss is so small, so quiet, but it fills the still room. She flicks out her tongue to taste the bead of precum that's formed there. And then her warm, wet mouth slides slowly over my cock. "Ooooh, God. Katy." Her big, full lips look so good wrapped around my shaft. "DSLs," I had once heard a classmate call them behind her back. It had pissed me off, and I made a mental note that that dude was an asshole. But in this particular moment, I can't disagree. She begins to take me in and out of her mouth, her tongue lapping at the underside. "Oh, wow. Oh, God, that feels good," I say.

"Mmmmph," she moans with her mouth full; it feels so good my knees nearly buckle. "You like that?" She stops to say, then runs the tip of her tongue all the way along my length. "You like having my pretty little mouth on your cock?"

"God, Professor Donahue. I never thought you could be this..."

"Yes? This what?" She asks between licks.

"This dirty," I say. She didn't strike me as prudish, necessarily. People with this many tattoos (from this angle, I can see the eagle on her back for the first time) usually aren't. But there had never been the slightest hint that she had the capacity for this kind of cravenness.

"Mmmmhmmph," she groans as she takes me as deep as she can, almost to the hilt, then comes up with a gasp. "Oh? Am I? Am I being a bad girl?"

"Very." My fingers twist through her brown hair and pull her mouth back onto me.

"Mmmph...I guess I am, aren't I?" She says as she continues to suck it. "I mean...hmmmh...here I am...mmhmm...a professor, on her knees in her office...mmmhh...sucking her student's cock." She takes me deep again, swirls her tongue around, and pulls away with a 'pop!' "I guess I'm quite a little whore, aren't I?"

"You really are."

"And what does a boy like you do with little whores, Jackson?" She looks up at me eagerly as she pumps my cock with her hand. "Do you even know how to handle a dirty slut like me? Or should I move down the line? Ben York's paper looked suspiciously well-done. I bet he'd know what to do if he had a girl like me on her knees in front of—oh!" I cut her off by pulling her to her feet by her shoulders, spinning her around, and shoving her roughly over the desk. "Oumph!" She smiles back at me. "There you go. Maybe I made the right choice after all." Her ample ass looks incredible bent over the desk. It quivers with every one of her labored breaths. I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties and slowly pull them down. I tug them down to her black heels and leave them there, still binding her ankles together. The scent of her sex hits me powerfully.

"My gosh," I say, sliding one finger over her entrance, coating it in her sticky juices. "Look at how wet you are." I slip the finger inside, quickly joined by a second. She gasps in approval and pushes her ass back against my hand.

"Putting my hands and mouth all over that huge cock got me pretty worked up, I guess," she says. I loudly lick her fluids from my fingers. She tastes wonderfully sweet. "And like I told you. It's been a very long time for me. That lonely little pussy's on fire." Her sultry voice seems to drip with need.

"And what do you want me to do to that pussy now?" I ask. I run my hard, wet cock up and down her slick entrance.

"Oh, pleeeease, Jackson. Please fuck me."

"You want this cock?" I grip her fleshy waist firmly with my other hand. "You want it inside you?"

"So badly. I've wanted you for so long. You've wanted me for so long. Now you've finally got me. Bent over my desk. Begging for your cock." She looks back with hungry, pleading eyes. "Do it, Jackson. Take me."

I push the swollen head inside her. She releases a shuddering breath. I push further, working myself in. She's tight, but she's soaked. She slowly accepts it. "Oh, God," she gasps. Her eyes widen. But I'm not done yet. With a grunt, I thrust the last two inches into her. A bone-rattling moan echoes off her office walls. "YES. Oh, yes. That cock feels so good filling me up. Stretching me out." I pull all the way out, and plunge back in. "Oooooh, yeah." She grips the edge of the desk tightly, her knuckles turning white.

I pump in and out of her with a steady rhythm. "God, Katy. That pussy feels incredible."

"It's so hot for you," she says. My hands reach under her, kneading the flesh of her breasts as I screw her slowly. At first, she sighs and moans in approval. I can feel her adjusting to me, allowing my cock to fill her more easily every time. Then she turns to look me in the eye, whipping her dark brown hair across her back. She looks displeased. I know it's an act.

"That's not the best you've got, is it?" She dares me.

"What if it is?" I smirk. I slow down to agonizingly slow strokes.

"Then I'm marching straight to the Dean and reporting you," she says. "I thought I made myself clear. I want to be wrecked. I want to—" With both hands on her waist, I slam myself into her. The desk shakes with the concussive force. She shrieks. "YES! Yes. Like that. Make me take it." I pound her again. And again. Things on the desk rattle about. "Faster!" She screeches. I pick up the pace. Her beautiful ass shakes with each thrust. I grab her hair and lightly pull it back. "Oh!" She cries in surprise. "My, my. You are the man I've been looking for, aren't you?" Her commentary makes my dick even harder, if that's possible. I pound her relentlessly, sinking myself to the hilt each time. "Oh, GOD!" She screams. "That's so good." I bring my hand down sharp on her ass. "OH! Yes! Smack it! Show me who's boss!" I leave another red handprint on her.

She frantically wriggles one foot free of her panties, and puts her knee up on the desk. Now, I reach even further as I pound her. "MMM! UGH! That's it. You're going so deep, Jackson! OH!" She groans deeply, with her whole body. I grab her arms and pull them back as I drive into her. Her tits lift off the desk, and the force of our fucking makes them swing wildly. "Don't stop. Don't stop," she pants. "Yes! I want to feel it in the morning."

"Yeah?" I growl through clenched teeth. "Is that what you needed? A good, hard, deep fuck?"

"YES!" I'm pistoning in and out as fast and as hard as I can now. She makes small, airless screams with each thrust, like I'm driving the breath from her lungs. The desk continues to shake with the violence of our passion. "You're fucking me so good. Oooooh, GOD! That's the best cock I've ever had." She cries. My cock swells with pride and lust. I feel myself getting close to the edge.

"So you'll keep our little secret?" I ask. She gives me a sultry smile over her shoulder.

"Remember? There's one more condition. You need to make me cum," she says. "Lucky for you, I'm getting so. close."

"In that case..." I pull out. She whimpers. I take her by the shoulders and turn her around. Her face to mine. "I want to look you in the eyes when you cum," I say. And I kiss her. A long, deep kiss. A kiss like this can change your life. Her lips are so soft; her tongue is so deft. She moans into my mouth and I can feel it all the way down my spine. I take her in my arms, and gently lift her onto the desk once more. She lies back, her eyes wild and eager. As she splays out on the desk, her hand knocks her coffee mug aside. It hits the carpeted floor with a 'thud,' its contents spilling out.

"Oh my. Look what you've done," she says.

"That might not be the only stain on your carpet by the time I'm done," I say. I put her ankles on my shoulders, heels and all, and plunge back into her. No more teasing; I immediately start to fuck her hard and deep. "Mmm. I want to cum with you," I tell her. I can feel my orgasm building relentlessly. "I want to give you that hot, thick load while you cum on my cock." Katy seems like she's looking at something, off to the side. I can't tell what. "Is that what you want? You want my cum in your pussy?" I ask. "...Katy?"

"I thought it was hardwood," she says. Her voice isn't coquettish anymore. It's suddenly dull, almost despondent.

"What?" I stop.

"I thought you heard my heels clicking against the hardwood floor?" And she points at the coffee seeping into her green carpet. The whole room is green carpet. No wood.

"I...yeah. I did. I...wait, what?" I step back. I start to feel off-balance. I reach out to steady myself against the desk, but it's just a little too far away. I can't reach it.

"Jackson?" Katy cries out. She looks scared. I reach out for her, but she's just a little too far away. She was right here. I was inside her. But now I can't reach her. Everything's just out of reach. A beam of sunlight shoots through Katy's office window. I didn't think her office had a window. Another bright beam shoots in, and another, and the room is suddenly very bright. The desk and Katy seem to move farther away, as if sucked into the bewildering light. "Please! Jackson!" Katy reaches out for me. "Help me!" I lurch desperately for her. I manage to grab her wrist. It doesn't feel right. It feels too soft. Insubstantial. Like cotton. The room's so bright now, I can't see anything. Except Katy's face. Trembling, with tears in her eyes. Then she smiles a sad, frightened smile. "Rene was right, huh?" She says. But she sounds far away. Or under water.

"What?" I try to shout, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

"Rene was right. It's all just wax." She pulls away from me. She's still smiling. She's still crying.

"...I didn't even read that far," I murmur as she falls away.

And then a million thin little light beams pull the room apart.

***

I pound the door of the dorm room across from mine.

"Yeah?" Says a voice from inside, and I enter. "Jackson. What's up?" I find Coop in his natural state: playing World-of-Something-or-Other at his computer in his pajamas, eating a Pop-Tart.

"Jesus, you're already at it with that RPG shit? It's eight in the morning," I say. "Is this the first thing you do when you wake up, now?"

"It may be morning IRL, but in the Blackwood Forest, it is the eve of great battle," he mumbles through his breakfast.

"IRL?"

"In Real Life. Duh. So what's up with you? What are you doing up?" He continues to sword-fight trolls, or whatever the hell it is he does on that game.

"It wore off," I say flatly as I take a seat on his bed. "Your stuff."

"It's supposed to wear off. It would be pretty problematic if it didn't, right?"

"No. I mean, it wore off too soon. Right before."

"Right before what?" He asks, pausing the game to look at me.

"You know." I raise my eyebrows at him. "Right. before."

"Oh. Shit," he says. "That sucks."

"Yeah. In the middle of the night, too." I rub my bleary eyes. I hadn't gotten back to sleep after the light tore Katy away from me and I woke up sweating and clutching my sheets. I just laid there, intensely frustrated and a little ashamed. Frustrated that it was cut short before I finished and ashamed of my fantasies about Katy. I mean, I liked her. I respected her. Everything I said about the coffee shop was true. And of course I was attracted to her; I had been all semester. But that girl in the dream last night—and in all of my dreams for the past week or so—it wasn't Katy Donahue. It was some pornographic parody of her. The things I liked about her had been brushed away or skipped over, replaced by an almost cartoonishly lascivious portrait some part of my mind had painted. It was pure fantasy. And if made me feel kind of gross. Like I said in the dream last night, I thought of her as something like a friend. And I had called her a whore. I mean, technically, she called herself a whore first. But not really, because that wasn't her; it all came out of my subconscious. So it was me. God, this shit makes my head hurt.

"That's weird," Coop says. "I've never heard of that happening."

"You must have given me a weak batch or something."

"I don't think so, man. I trust my source. It's all legit. Maybe you're developing a tolerance."

"What? Can you develop a tolerance to Desitrol?"

"Hey, can you do me a favor and not call it that?" Coop asks.

"What do you mean? That's what it is, isn't it?"

"No. Desitrol is the name brand sleep-aid which got pulled from the shelves by the FDA because of a particular unintended side effect," Coop says emphatically. "What I push is called 'Fairy Dust,' a magical escape that sweeps you away into your wildest lusty dreams."

"But they're the same thing."

"Look. Branding is everything, in sales. If you call it Desitrol, I'm running around selling some lame ass sleeping pill that got nixed because it makes people jizz in their sheets. If you call it 'Fairy Dust,' I'm selling something new and exciting. Check it out." Coop opens his desk drawer to reveal a pile of small plastic baggies, each with a few small purple pills inside. He holds one up to proudly display the illustration of a sexy winged fairy printed on the baggie.

"Fairy Dust. Nice," I say. You have to at least admire his effort.

"Now this is a fucking brand. This is just like what the real drug dealers do, the serious players." Tyler "Coop" Cooper was not a "serious player" in the drug game. He was just a college senior selling weed who happened to stumble upon a source looking to dump a bunch of this recalled Desitrol stuff, and he decided he could capitalize on the drug's obvious—though accidental—upsides. As his best friend, I was a natural choice to be its first customer.

"Why did it get recalled, anyway?" I ask. "In what universe are intense orgasmic dreams an adverse side effect?"

"We live in a repressed society, man. It's like Victorian fucking England out there. But hey, it just means more beer money for me. I've got orders pouring in. People love this stuff."

I can understand why. When Coop had first described it to me, I was dubious. The dreams couldn't be that lifelike, I thought. I mean, dreams are dreams—even the kind that come with a, uh, happy ending. They're inchoate, incoherent, and inconsistent. They're fleeting and scattered and strange. But then I tried it. It's incredible. And it isn't even about the arousal. Well. It isn't just about the arousal. The dreams—they're so sharp, and vivid. Coop had said they would feel real, but they don't. It's beyond real. In these dreams, things are even clearer than "IRL." Like last night. Yes, the whole setup was cheesy and cliché and I feel conflicted about how unseemly it was. But I was so...present with Katy last night. So alive. I felt content, and serene, and just...there. Even though I wasn't there. And neither was she. There was no 'there.' Jesus. I feel like I'm losing it.

"Yeah, it's a trip. Except when the show gets cut short right before the grand finale," I say.

"Like I said, maybe you've built a tolerance. How often have you been using it, anyway? It is habit-forming, you know." I shrug. "Every now and then. But I'm out now."

"Jesus, Jackson! I gave you like, seven hits a week ago. You've been using it every night?"

"Maybe. I don't know. So what? I've got sleeping problems," I say indignantly. But the truth is, I hadn't realized until Coop confronted me with the math that I had been using every night, and I was a little concerned myself.

"Yeah. Sure. It's the sleep you're after," Coop says incredulously.

"I've been under a lot of stress. And the dreams feel good. They kind of...clear my head, I guess. What's wrong with that? You just said we shouldn't be so repressed."

"But couldn't you be having like, actual sex? What's going on with Jill?" Coop asks.

I shrug. "I don't really think that's going anywhere." Jill runs in Coop and I's circle of friends. We had hooked up a couple of weeks ago. "I don't know that we click."

"Yeah," Coop says. "She's cool, available, incredibly hot, and into you. I can see why you'd want to undermine that and keep popping wet dream pills instead."

"I don't think our lifestyles are compatible. She's pretty into the drug scene, it seems like. She's been on Molly like, half the times I've been around her," I say. Coop laughs. "What? What's funny?"

"Seriously?" He asks, still chuckling. "You're going to judge her about her drug use? Sounds like you're the addict."

"First, it wasn't judgment; that's just not my scene. And second, I'm not an addicted to the pills. I could stop any time." As soon as I say it, I realize it sounds exactly like the kind of thing an addict would say.

"Then maybe you should stop. At least for a while. Some of my other buyers are really starting to get hooked, I think. It's sort of scary." Coop looks sincerely worried. I probably should listen to what he's saying, but instead it makes me pissed and defensive.

"Tell you what, Coop. I'll cool it on the Desitrol—"

"Fairy Dust. Goddamn it, man. How many times do I—"

"When you cool it on the online wizard role-playing shit. You are never going to get laid if you keep spending all your time battling Japanese kids on the internet."

"Everyone has their escape, man. The key is to keep it under control, you know?"

"Whatever. I gotta get to class soon. Can I get some more, or what?" I ask, staring somewhat longingly at Coop's desk drawer and its little purple treasures. Coop looks uneasy. "Come on. It's me," I say, appealing to our history the same way I did(n't) with Katy last night. "Between the two of us, I'm the responsible one, remember?"

"...Alright," he sighs, relenting. "Against my better judgment." He fishes through the drawer and finds a baggy with three pills. "This should hold you over for a while."

"Thanks, bud." I stuff the pills in my pocket and make for the door.

"Hey Jackson," Coop says before I can leave. "Who was it?"

"Who was what?" I ask.

"You know." He gives me a coy smile. "The star of the show. The guest of honor." I give him a blank stare. He sighs. "Who were you fucking, Jackson? In the dream?"

I shrug. "Nobody."

"Well that doesn't sound fun at all."

"I mean, it wasn't somebody I know," I lied. "It was just...you know. A girl." At first, the dreams had a rotating cast of characters, everything from an actress I saw on TV the night before to an old girlfriend from high school. I had never really felt dirty about it, though. They were just dreams. And then one night, awhile back, it was Katy. Which I felt a little weird about, since I really did like her. And then it was Katy every night. And every night, my shame and confusion seems to grow. Some part of me knows this is unhealthy. But a bigger, more insistent part of me doesn't want to give it up.

"Fine," Coop says. "Don't tell me." He grins. But his pestering has reminded me: while I hadn't plagiarized a paper IRL, I had neglected to read all of the Rene Descartes treatise assigned for class today. I wound up succumbing to the siren song of the purple fairy before I could finish it.




IRL Ch. 01



"Hey, Coop. Did you do the philosophy reading?"

"Oh, yeah. Descartes. The Wax Argument. All that shit," he says. I think I was reading that part when I feel asleep, hence its creeping into the dream.

"Can you give me the short version?"

"Uhhh, so, Descartes talking about how you look at a piece of wax, right? And your fingers tell you it's hard and cold, and your eyes tell you it's got a certain shape. But then you hold it near a flame. And all of the sudden, your fingers tell you it's gooey and hot, and your eyes tell you its shape is all going to shit. But your mind knows that the wax is the same wax. The point is: your whole conception of the world and everything in it is based on your senses, and your senses will lie to you. So how do you know what the hell is real?"

I remember Katy's last words, in the dream. 'Rene was right. It's all just wax.'

"Oh. Interesting," I say.

"I'm surprised you blew off a reading for Professor Donahue," Coop says, returning to his Pop-Tarts and his game. "Aren't you guys like BFFs or something?"

"What? That's not—no," I stammer. "I mean, we talk sometimes. In her office. About philosophy. But it's not like—it's not anything. It's not weird."

"Whoa, don't get so defensive. Jesus," Coop says. He looks surprised at my vehemence. Then he pauses his game again and gives me a look. "Oh shit. That's who it was, wasn't it?" He smiles slyly.

"Who was what?" I play dumb.

"You were dream-banging the philosophy prof!" Coop breaks out in full-throated laughter.

"What? No. That's—I told you. It was nobody," I protest. "Hey, man. No judgment here. She's hot. And she's only what, like five years older?"

"Four. ...I think. I don't know. Doesn't matter. Thanks for the refill," I say, heading quickly for the hallway.

"You should go for it man," he says as I turn to shut the door. "I mean, Donahue. I think she likes you. You guys are almost like...flirty, sometimes, after class. Who knows? Maybe you could have a shot."

I roll my eyes, while secretly wondering if any part of that could possibly be true. "See you in class." I shut the door in his face and head for the bathrooms.

I am going to need an epically cold shower before Philosophy.



IRL Ch. 02



Like all of us, college senior Jackson has fantasies. Lately, all of his are about his philosophy professor. But Jackson has stumbled upon a peculiar way to go a little deeper into his fantasies. Maybe too deep. As he drifts further and further from reality, he is pushed toward a dangerous choice: Does he want the girl of his dreams, or the uncomfortable truth?

This story is sequential; Part Two probably will not make any sense if you haven't read Part One.

All rights reserved. 



It's a sweet misery to sit through this class. I'm exhausted from my mostly sleepless night. Worse, I can't look at Professor Donahue without remembering what she looks like naked. Of course, I'm not "remembering." I know that. I'm not crazy. I don't actually know what she looks like naked. But some deep recess of my brain did a hell of a job filling in the blanks. I try and fail to follow the substance of her lecture—a rapid succession of fireflies, slipping in and out of her jar. I can't listen to her voice without hearing the echo of profoundly filthy things ringing in my head. It's like I can still feel her hot breath on my ear. It's torture, but at the same time, there's nowhere I'd rather be in the world than sitting here, drinking her in. I am, all at once, happy to just share her proximity and desperate for more. 

"...and you may have found some of it quite frustrating," she tells the class. She can't know the hidden meaning her words seem to have. "And you should have. Descartes himself is frustrated here. Using this 'methodological skepticism,' he's backed himself into a corner. He can't be sure that anything is real. Until he finds one little foothold—one tiny strand of certainty that he can..." She grasps dramatically at the air. "Latch onto." She's very theatrical in her presentation. Some of the others in the class think it's overkill, but I don't mind it. She just gets so excited about this stuff—this dry, awful stuff—and she can't contain herself. It's kind of adorable. "He realizes: 'Wait a second. If I'm wondering about all this stuff, then something has to be doing the wondering.' And just like that, he's found a starting point. One thing he can be sure of." She writes 'COGITO, ERGO SUM' on the white board, then turns back to us. "I think, therefore I am." She beams with the same pleased smile your dorky uncle gets when he reaches the punch line of a lame joke. Then she sees a hand. "...Yes, Jackson?"

"Why does he care?" I ask from the second row to the last. 

"Pardon?"

"Why does Descartes give a damn about any of this?" I ask. A student laughs uncomfortably. A few shoot me concerned looks. "I mean, a piece of wax is whatever it looks and feels like to you, right? What's the point in sitting around having some kind of anxiety attack over whether it's 'real?' You see it. You feel it. Doesn't that make it real enough?" Katy nods quietly as I talk. My heart rate climbs as I wait for her response. 

"Thanks for that, Jackson. You're basically describing existentialism, which is where we're headed next on the syllabus. But the role of religion is important here. Descartes is coming at this from a..." But I still can't focus. I'm thinking about what I just said. What if it doesn't matter? That my twisted fantasy life with Katy isn't real? If the dreams make me happy, so what? Maybe the truth is overrated.

I keep thinking about my existential crisis and about the sight of Katy's ass bent over a desk until I realize she's wrapping up. "...which is where we'll pick up on Tuesday. Remember: this is the last week to sign up for a conference slot with me to discuss your proposal for the final project. If you don't have a time yet to discuss your topic, please, please come see me or sign up outside my office. See you Tuesday." 

I start to throw my stuff in my bag, in a hurry to try to catch Katy on her way out. I still don't have a conference time. But as I try to escape my row, I find my path blocked. "Hey you," Jill says. "I hear you're coming tonight." 

"Tonight? To what?" As I ask, I look past Jill and see Katy gathering her things. I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to duck Jill, and whatever it is she's talking about. 

"There's this bonfire beach party thing. Coop said you two were coming."

"He failed to consult me on that decision," I say. To my dismay, Katy has put her stuff in her bag and is heading for the door. 

"He said he wasn't giving you a choice. Something about you needing to get out more." Jill gives me a teasing smile.

"Oh, well. I don't know. I should really study," I say. If I'm being honest with myself, I'll probably just take more Fairy Dust. 

"It's Thursday night. And you don't have Friday classes," she says. 

"Yeah. Well. I guess maybe I could stop by. We'll see." At this point, I'm just trying to end the conversation. Katy's already left the room. "Sorry, Jill. I've gotta go." I squeeze past her and head swiftly down the aisle. 

I bolt into the hallway and look around. I see nothing, and my heart falls. But then I hear a familiar voice. 

"Damnit. Are you...wait, seriously?" I follow the voice and catch sight of Katy's shiny brown hair in front of a vending machine in the hall. As I approach her, she's banging the Plexiglas like an agitated monkey slaps the viewing glass at a zoo. "You piece of shit motherfucker!" She chastises it, puncturing each word with a smack. 

"...Professor Donahue?" The name thing is still weird for me. As a general rule, I've defaulted to using "Professor" when there's a chance other people will overhear. I don't want people to get the wrong idea, or anything. 

"Hmm?" She turns around, startled. "Jackson!" She instantly looks horrified. "I'm—I'm sorry. This thing took my dollar."

"Oh. Based on your reaction, I thought it had slapped your grandmother or something." She blushes a little. She covers her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh. "I can leave you two alone, if you want to keep teaching it a lesson."

"Stop it! Don't be a dick." But she bursts with laughter, in spite of herself. I love it when I can make her laugh.

"I mean, you were probably only a few more slaps away from making it yield to your demands." 

"Okay, okay! I may have overreacted." She laughs. I laugh. We laugh together. It feels so fucking warm. "I'm sorry. That wasn't conduct befitting an institution of higher learning, was it?" She asks.

"No. I pretty sure they frown on professors swearing at and attacking inanimate objects, here."

"I guess it's a good thing I'm technically only a lecturer, then, huh?" She winks. I can't handle how cute it is, that wink. This conversation, this moment—it feels so good. Screw what I said earlier. This reality shit is awesome. I need more of it. I'm hooked. 

Katy looks longingly at the vending machine and the bounty it has denied her. "I guess I should really stop eating out of vending machines anyway." She sighs. "But it's kind of all that's in my budget, right now." 

I see an opening. I make a choice. I have to know. I have to know if Katy Donahue could ever be more than a little pixie who slips through my dorm room window at night to whisper naughty things and strip for me in Dreamland. 

"Well. Hey, I was actually about to get lunch." I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking with nerves. "Why don't you let me take you out somewhere?"

Her smile fades. She shifts nervously. "I don't know, Jackson. That's probably not a great idea." 

"I didn't—I didn't mean it that way, if that's what you're thinking," I stammer. "I was just thinking that would give us a chance to talk about my project." 

She gives me a look. "Come on. I know what you're trying to do. If you wanted to conference about your project, you would make an appointment like everyone else. Asking me out for lunch is more than that." I start to feel very much the same way I did last night when hardwood became carpet. 

"I'm sorry. I just...really like it when we get a chance to talk." 

"I do too!" She says quickly. "I really do, Jackson. I love it when you come by. And if I wasn't your professor..." I want desperately for her to finish the sentence, but she trails off. "But I am a professor, you know?"

"Lecturer."

She rolls her eyes. "Gah. Yes. I know. But the rules are the same. What's expected of me is the same. And I'm not necessarily a big believer in the rules. You know that." She looks around nervously and lowers her voice. "But if I want them to put me on the tenure-track after I get my doctorate, this is what I have to do." She lowers her eyes, avoiding mine. 

"...Yeah. I get it." I try not to look how I feel—like a rapidly deflating balloon. 

"There are...boundaries that I'm not supposed to cross. And I may have been a little lax about that this semester. Which is my bad, and I'm sorry." Her words are uncannily similar to the ones she used last night, right before she started taking her clothes off. But this time, there's no sultry, stern professor act. Just awkward hand-wringing and what looks like genuine sadness in her eyes. "I wish it wasn't that way. I really do." I wonder what that means, exactly. 

"Well. Then. I guess I will have to make an appointment. Like everyone else," I say. I let the bitterness in my voice be heard. 

"Don't do that," she looks hurt. "You're not like everyone else. That's not what I was saying. It's just that..." She trails off. We both know there's nothing more to be said. "...Well. Let me look." She somberly takes our her phone and flips through its calendar. "Uhh...crap. All I have left is 5:30 tomorrow. Friday. Is that too late?" 

"No. That's fine. I mean, if it's fine with you." 

"Yeah. No problem." We stand there for another terrible, uncomfortable moment. "Well. I'll see you then," she says quietly to the ground. I watch her walk away. 

***

Back in my dorm room, Katy's utter rejection has left me in the kind of all-over-body pain you get from jumping into a freezing lake. It was so stupid of me. To want more. To think that could happen. And now I've probably ruined whatever good thing Katy and I did have going. It'll be weird now, between us. 

On the other hand, I keep playing what she said over in my head. I wish it wasn't that way. She sounded so sincere. I think. And if I wasn't your professor... What was the end of that sentence? If I wasn't your professor, we could hang out and be platonic friends? Or, if I wasn't your professor, I'd love to have you throw me on my desk and ravage me?

Goddamnit. Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I dwelling on every glance and every laugh and every ambiguous statement and trying to find in them a reason to believe this juvenile fantasy can be anything other than that? I can't ever, ever be with Katy Donahue. She made that clear today. 

At least, not IRL. 

I eye the baggy with its purple pills sitting on my desk. All I have to do is take one. And I can go back to that place I was in last night. That place where there is nothing but lust, and pleasure, and her deep brown eyes. Where nothing's complicated and everyone gets exactly what they want. That Katy—dream Katy—would never give me a speech about the rules. At least, not as anything other than foreplay. That Katy will kiss me, and stroke my face, and laugh that rolling little laugh of hers that fills me with pure, beautiful warmth all the way to my toes. All of that is just one little pill away... 

But Coop was right. I should take a break. This isn't what a young, healthy college student does on a Thursday night. This is getting out of control. What if I can't stop? And maybe it'll wear off too quickly anyway, like last night. Unless. What if I took two? Then it would have to work. Then I could—

But my door swings open.

"We're going out," Coop says.

"Jesus. You forget how to knock?" I ask as I bolt up in my bed. 

"There's a party. And Jill's going to be there. And you're going." 

"Yeah. She told me about it. Listen, I don't know. I'm pretty fried. It's been a long day." 

"Uh-huh. I know what you mean," Coop says.

"You do?"

"Yep. The kind of long day where you just want to lie down, and close your eyes, and invite a certain purple fairy to make your dong hard with sweet, sinful dreams." He picks up the baggy off my desk, and dangles it in front of me.

"Dude. Give me that." I lunge for the bag, but he snatches it away.

"Nope. Not tonight. You need to get out. You've got a problem. And you know, 'friends don't let friends' and all that."

"What?!" I cry, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? You sold it to me, asshole!"

"Because I thought you could be responsible with it. Now I see that you need more adult supervision."

"Come on, man. Seriously. Give it back." I'm almost frightened at how furious it's made me, having my stash snatched away. 

"Come out with me, have a good time, and then you get them back. Okay?" He puts the bag in his pocket.

I'd like to say that I went because I knew Coop was right. That I should get out and have fun; that I should give Jill a chance. That I should try to be normal. 

But I think part of me just really wanted the pills back. 

*** 

Cold water laps at my bare feet, like an affectionate dog. The wet sand feels good between my toes. The ocean breeze is sweet with those first hints of spring. According to the Princeton Review, the proximity to the beach is the number one reason students choose this school. If I'm being honest with myself, I'm probably among those students. But I hardly ever am. Honest with myself, that is. 

"There you are." I don't need to turn to see who it is. 

"Hey Jill." 

"People were wondering what happened to you. You disappeared." I can hear drunken laughter and an acoustic guitar a half mile down the beach. 

"Yeah. I just wanted some air," I say. 

She laughs, as she walks up behind me. "The party's on the beach, dumbass." 

"You know what I mean." 

"I usually don't, actually," she says. I finally turn to look at her. Her long blonde hair and her loose, white halter top flap freely in the wind. Her skirt barely covers any of her long, tan legs. She's a runner, Jill. She's in incredibly good shape. I should want her. I want to want her. 

"You don't have to keep me company," I say. "You can go back to the party." 

She shrugs. "It's kind of lame. I'd rather be out here with you. ...Unless you want me to go."

"No. It's not like that."

"What is it like, Jackson?" She gives me a piercing, serious stare. Even in just the moonlight, I can see the glittering blue of her eyes. 

"Uh...what do you mean?" 

"I mean what's going on with you? Are you avoiding me? It kind of seems that way." 

"No. It's not that." I search for the right words through the haze of six or seven beers. "I've been really busy lately. There's this—"

"Tell you what," she cuts me off. "We'll do this." She starts to walk away, down the beach.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Just shut up, okay?" She plucks a piece of driftwood from the tide; a long stick. She jabs its point in the sand. Then she drags the stick in a big, wide circle. Maybe ten feet across. When she's finished, she drops it and curls her finger at me. "Come here." I comply, hesitantly. "You see this? This is the Circle of Truth," she says once I'm standing inside it. "And while both of us are in it, there's no bullshit. Deal?" 

"...Deal," I say.

"So. Are you avoiding me?"
"...Yes."

"Why?"

"I just don't think there's anything here, Jill. Between us, I mean." To my surprise, she laughs. I guess she's not heartbroken.

"Of course there isn't. That's the whole point," she says.

"...What do you mean?"

"Wait. Did you think I was trying to make you my boo or something?" She's still laughing. I can't decide if I'm offended or relived. 

"Well. You'd called a couple of times, and invited me out. So I thought..."

"No. God, no. Don't be silly. I just, you know..." She traces a finger softly down my chest. "I thought you were good. Last time." She tugs the bottom of my shirt and draws me nearer. "You kind of rocked my world, honestly. And I wanted to tap that ass again." Her lips are inches from mine now. I can smell vodka and weed on her breath.

"...Oh. Well, uh, thanks. I guess. But isn't there a line of guys around the block who'd love to get with you?" 

"There's this thing about you, though. You're so...distracted. Detached. It's like you live most of your life in your head."

"...And you find that appealing?"

She shrugs. "A lot of guys get clingy, in my experience. And I'm not looking for that. I just want to feel good, you know? I don't have to worry about that with you. Whatever it is you want, kid...I know it isn't me." She looks at me with something close to pity, but only for a second. "At least, not for anything but this." She turns around and lifts her skirt to reveal her exquisitely tight ass in a bikini thong. "So. You want another piece of it, or what?" Without consulting the part of my brain where voluntary things happen, my dick springs to life.

"Right here?" I ask. "Right now?" 

"Yeah," she says. She turns back to me and grabs my waist. "It's on my bucket list. To fuck on a beach." She kisses me softly. "What do you say? Help me cross off a life goal?" I kiss her back. My tongue greets hers. I pull her face into mine with determination. This will be fun, I tell myself. This will be good. I will be satisfied with this and not want more. "Mmmm," she purrs. "I was hoping you'd – mmph – have that response," she says between hot, hurried kisses. "And I have something to – hmm – make it – mmm – even better than last time." Reaching into the small bag that hangs from her shoulder, she produces a plastic baggy. With a sexy, winged fairy on it. My heart nearly stops.

"...Whoa."

"Uh-huh," she says with a dirty smile. "You want to?" 

"I don't understand. Won't we just get...sleepy?" I ask. She looks perplexed for a second, and then laughs.

"Wait. You've just been taking the pills, haven't you?" She keeps laughing. "Oh, Jacks. You hopeless square." That's when I notice her bag doesn't have purple pills in it. It's purple powder. "That's not how the cool kids are getting down with this stuff. It's Fairy Dust. Duh."

"What do you mean?" I ask. As far as I knew, the idea of recreationally using Desitrol was started by Coop a few weeks ago. He had never said anything about powdered form. 

"You crush it up and...you know." She makes a snorting sound. "It defeats the time release, so you get a quick high. And insanely turned on. Like E or Molly. But better." ...Man. Kids these days. 

"And do you like, trip? Do you see stuff?"

She shrugs. "Some people say they do. I never have," she says. I'm disappointed. Why am I disappointed? There's an incredibly stunning girl in front of me. Actually in front of me. IRL. Why do I need to see something that isn't there? "But the key is to do a line with...you know, a partner. And then let the spirit move you," she says. She jangles the bag at me the same way Coop did in my dorm a few hours ago. "So. You wanna have a real party?" 

"Uh...I don't know, Jill. I'm pretty drunk already." Not to mention that going out tonight was supposed to be about getting away from that stuff. But there she is, that stupid fucking fairy. Looking at me. 

"Good. Me too. That just makes it better."

"I've never done anything like that before. Snorted anything."

"Tell you what," she says, taking her phone from her bag. "I'll try to...persuade you." She fiddles with her phone and puts on a song. Her speakers are good. I can hear it clearly: Beyonce's "Naughty Girl." She sets the phone down, and starts to sway to the music. "And then you can decide if you want to have sex..." She puts her hands on my shoulders and gives me a shove. I go down on my ass. "...Or if you want to see the face of God." 




IRL Ch. 02



I can only look up at her as she circles her hips, her eyes locked on mine. She crosses her arms and slowly brings the white halter top over her head. Her pink bikini top shows off her B or C-cup breasts. They're not as big as Katy's, but they're pert, and perfectly shaped. Not that I'm thinking about Katy's breasts. There's no reason for me to think about Katy's breasts. There are very excellent breasts right in front of me, and a very sexy girl is running her hands over them as she licks her lips. And that sexy girl wants to do terrible things to me. And that is what I should be thinking about. 

She dances. She's good. She feels the music in the deepest parts of her, and it spills out of her like water. She unbuttons her skirt and peels it over her ass as she drops to the ground and back. With her back to me, she smacks her ass, hard, then looks at me with a dainty hand over her mouth and faux-innocent eyes. She laughs. She throws the skirt at me, and I catch it. "Trust me, Jackson. You need to try this stuff." 

"I have."

She giggles. "No, silly. You need to try it the other way." Beginning at her thighs, she runs her hands up her body, exploring every inch along the way. It's taut and smooth; like she's been carved from a single slab of oak. Her skin is golden and clean. No ink. She should get some ink. Images of clockwork and mermaids run through my head, and I try to smother them. 

When Jill gets to her neck, she unties her top. "And you need to try it with me." She lets it drop, exposing her breasts. She squeezes her small, brown nipples between her fingers. "I promise. It'll ruin you." She lies down. She arches her back and spreads her legs. The lines of her strong, smooth thighs lead my eyes inexorably to a tantalizingly small triangle of pink, which is the only thing that covers what I remember to be an extremely tight, smooth pussy. She crooks her finger at me. "Get over here, boy." As I come to her, she takes the baggy and begins to carefully sprinkle out a line on her firm abs. She uses the edge of the bag itself to make a neat line. "Let's take a ride." She takes a small straw from her bag and hands it to me. ...What else could I do? 

I pull deeply through my nose in one quick huff. I think I did it right. It stings. "Ahh." I crinkle my nose and my eyes water.

"Mmmm. Good boy," she purrs, and then suddenly flips me with her legs. She rips off my shirt and begins kissing my chest and stomach, tracing her tongue over my abs. "Now lie...very...still." She puts a finger to my lips for emphasis, then pours out the rest of the bag on my chest. Before I know it, it's disappeared in one graceful "hffffph." She tilts her head back. "Ah. Fuck yeah." She kisses me deeply. She runs her hands through my hair. I cup her breasts. 

"Now," she says, coming up breathlessly. "I want to see that cock. I want to see if it's as pretty as I remember." Her hands deftly undo my belt and pull my shorts away. My dick springs free, standing proud in the breeze. "Mmmm. Yep. That'll do." 

As she takes my cock in her mouth, it hits me. Warm, exploding pleasure filling crevices of myself I didn't know were there. The grace of angels flooding every vein, reaching the tips of my fingers and shooting outward for miles in brilliant little beams. It's like cumming. It's like love. Beyond love. I've been in love once or twice, I think. This is better. 

"Oh, God yes," I moan. She's not wasting time, or easing into it. She slurps enthusiastically on my cock, bobbing up and down with wild lust. Everything's heightened. Her warm, wet mouth feels amazing. But it's not just that. I can feel a little drop of her spit as it dribbles down my shaft; feel it like the most intense sensation I've ever felt. I can feel the cool ocean breeze across my face and chest, like a caress. The sand beneath me feels like the sturdy embrace of a million hands. 

"Mmmm. Yeah. This is what I wanted," Jill growls. She pumps my dick with one hand while the other slides beneath her skimpy bottom. "I'm so gonna get myself off on this dick." 

"Yeah? What are you going to do with it?" I ask. "What does a dirty coed like you do with a thick hard cock when she gets her hands on it?" It's more than she can resist. She unties the string of her bikini and tosses it quickly aside. She straddles me, her pink, shaved pussy an inch above my pulsing cock. 

"What I'm going to do," she stares deeply into my eyes. "Is make you forget about every other girl you've ever touched." And she lowers her wet folds onto me slowly. As her slick pussy touches my swollen head, we both shudder with the intensity of a million nerve endings on overload. She takes just the head. "I'm going to make your wildest dreams come true." Her hips rise, and she sets herself back down, taking an inch more. I'm desperate to have her take all of me, but she goes painfully slow, working me into her bit by bit. "I'm going to fuck your brains out." She rolls the last words slowly out of her mouth, enjoying each one as it passes her lips. And then she slams herself down on my cock, taking me to the hilt. "UGGH!" She throws her head back. "YES! Ooooh, God." She sits on it, adjusting to me. I thrust my hips up at her to force my way even deeper, and she gasps. "Oh! Yeah. There it is. Mmm. God. You're cock feels even better than last time. I love this Fairy shit." She leans forward, hands against my chest, and starts to ride me at a steady pace.

"Mmmm, yes," I groan. "Fuck me like that." Her phone has switched to the next song. More sexy hip hop. She's still dancing, still moving her hips to the rhythm. But now every movement takes me in and out of her. Her pussy is tight and dripping wet as it plunges down my length, over and over again. The sensation—it's on a different level. It's the salty taste of your first kiss, and the feeling of scoring the game-winning goal, and the embrace of an old friend you thought you'd never see again, all wrapped around my cock. "Fuck me faster," I say.

"Oh, yeah? Is that what you want?" She pants as she complies. "You want to watch these tits bounce as I fuck myself on your big dick?" She runs her hands through her hair to give me a better view of her breasts and the tight circles they swing in as she starts to work up a sweat riding me fast. "Is that what you like, Jackson?"

"Mmmmhmm. Yeah. I...that's..." But I'm having trouble finding the words. I'm having trouble seeing clearly. It's like the bliss is too much; it floods my head, swirling together with the alcohol and fogging everything up. 

"I know that look," the mess of blonde hair says as she keeps working her long, lean thighs against mine. "The stuff's working. Go with it." She leans down, hands on either side of my head, and looks into my eyes. She's searching me with those piercing blue eyes. I don't like them. I wish they were softer. Brown. I don't want to look at her eyes. I kiss her neck, instead. I softly bite her flesh, and she cries out. "Ah! Oooh, yeah. I like that." I grab her breasts roughly, squeezing her nipples. "Ooooo, so good. I love the way you touch me," she says. Katy said that. Last night. Her voice sounds almost like Katy's. With my eyes closed, kissing her, they could be the same voice. 

But she pulls back. She takes my face in her hands. There are her eyes again. Her face. It's not Katy's face. "Yeah. I want to look you in the eyes while I fuck you," she says.

"Mmm. It might be even hotter if you...turned around?" I say. "Rode me backwards?" She grins.

"Ooooh, yeah. You want to see my ass bounce on that cock?" And she swings her legs around and reverses. "Yeeeeess," she cries, sliding onto it again. "That feels so fucking good. I've got such a good buzz, right now." She bounces her ass up and down on it as she begins to rub her clit with her fingers. Now she's facing away. I can look up at the stars; at light completing its journey from millions of miles away. It came so far, just to shine on me tonight; just to fill my soul and make me whole again. I can look at the stars and I can imagine, as this woman fucks me. I can imagine Katy's ample, round ass bouncing on my cock. But the tan legs are talking. "You like that pussy, Jackson? You like how tight it is on your hard dick?" I should say something. But I'm lost. I've left. I'm not here. "...Jackson?" And she stops. She lifts herself off my cock. It feels so cold in the breeze, wet with her juices. 

"Why did...don't stop," I say, struggling through the haze. She lies on top of me, her hard body pressed against mine. She strokes my face. 

"Where'd you go, kid?" She asks with a tender smile on her face. 

"I—nowhere. Keep going. It felt so good." 

"Like I said, Jackson. This is about getting off. That's all. But it's no fun for me if you're not into it. ...What do you really want?"

"Nothing," I say. "Just you." 

"Look at where we are, Jackson." She gestures to the line in the sand, which still encloses us. It now seems to glow in the starlight. Like a sacred rune. "We're in the Circle of Truth." 

"...There's someone else," I say. She smiles. She doesn't seem mad. But I don't know. Nothing's clear. My head's swimming. 

"Close your eyes," she says. "Just close your eyes and relax." I do, but I don't see blackness. I see bright, frenzied color. I see the speed at which the Earth hurtles around the sun. She kisses my check softly. "I can be whoever you want me to be," she whispers in my ear. She kisses my neck. I remember Katy's soft, round lips. I run my hands through her hair. That wavy, dark hair. She kisses my mouth. She reaches out for my still-hard shaft, and guides it to her slick opening. She sighs deeply as she takes me inside her again. She begins to fuck me again, slow and deep. "Look at me," Jill says. Her voice sounds different. But familiar. "Look at me." 

I open my eyes. Katy's deep, brown eyes look back at me. My blood goes cold. I try to yelp, terrified. I try to get up. But I'm stopped by Katy's finger on my lips. 

"Shhhh," she says. "It's okay. Just relax." She smiles sweetly as her pussy swallows my swollen cock. "Mmmm. What's the matter? Don't you like the way I ride your cock?"

"God, yes." I carefully trace my fingers over the gears of the clockwork on her shoulder. I expect my hand to pass through it. But it's there. She's there. As real as last night.

"Don't worry," she says. "I'm right here, darling." She takes my fingers in her mouth and sucks them passionately. She moans and the vibration travels through every part of me. Katy's pussy feels incredible. But it's not hers. It's Jill's. Isn't it? Does it matter? "Just be here with me, Jackson," she says, like she knows my thoughts. She runs both hands through her hair as she works herself against me. "Just let go." 

And I do. I grab her neck and pull her down to me. I join my mouth with hers and my uncertainties melt between our tongues. Her huge tits press against my chest and they feel so fucking warm. The heat of her heart meets the heat of my heart and we circulate together. I thrust my hips to her, fucking her back, trying to get ever deeper inside her. 

"Oooh. Greedy boy. You wanna fuck me?" She asks. I growl, and hold her hips in place above me. I slam my cock into her with violent thrusts. "OH, GOD!" Katy cries, snapping her head back and closing her eyes. Her cries sound just like they did last night, as she squirmed beneath me on the desk. "Faster!" She pleads, and I fuck her as furiously as I can. The 'pop, pop, pop,' of my cock bottoming out against her swollen, dripping mound seems to echo off the nearby cliffs. "Ugh! Ugh! Oh! Yes!" She collapses against my chest, quivering, unable to support herself any longer. It feels so good to hold the weight of her against my chest. She's not a small woman, Katy. She's full, curvaceous. But I can hold all of her. I could hold her forever. "Fuck me," she whimpers. "Fuck me deep, Jackson." I want to go even deeper. I want unleash everything that's coursing through me on her, without mercy.

Without leaving her pussy, I grab her and roll her over. "Ooh!" She cries. The look of shock and pleasure on her face turns me on so much. I take her by the knees and start to pump in and out of her with long, slow strokes. "You just take what you want, don't you, bad boy?" She coos as she wraps her legs around me. I start to quicken my pace. I grunt. I'm barely sentient now. The heat in my veins me feels like it's going to vaporize me. "And you want me, don't you?"

My first reply is just a deep, guttural groan. I pound into her harder, slamming my full weight against her. "Yes," I manage to pant. "I want you so bad, Katy. I thought about you all fucking day," I say. 

"Mmm. And you're thinking about me now." She drags her nails down my back as she stares deep into me. "Even though we both know you shouldn't be. Even while you're with someone else."

"...Yes," I say. Hot shame overtakes me. It doesn't drown out my frenzied lust. It just burns with it; it fuels the fire. It makes me fuck her even harder. I can hear my balls slap against her flesh as I piston into her burning pussy with abandon. I'm getting close.

"It's alright," she says. Her voice is sweet and soothing. "You're allowed to want things. Things you can't have." She brushes my hair away, and her hand lingers on my sweating face. "It's okay to want things that aren't even real." 

"But you are real," I pant, slowing my pace to long, steady strokes, like the in-and-out of the tide just beyond us. "You are. I was with you just this morning. We were joking. We were laughing."

Katy laughs. "Jackson. Dear. I think you know her and I aren't the same thing." The menacing truth of it punctures my perfect sphere of euphoria. "But it's okay, darling. I'm better. An idea is always better than the real thing." Her eyes are so soft and forgiving as she gently strokes my face. "I would never shut you out like she did, with her 'boundaries.' Me, you can have. Me, you can love." She brings her flushed check to mine and whispers in my ear. "And I can love you." The sound of those words in my ear makes my overheated insides burn even brighter, until I am sure I will explode into a cloud of pure, ephemeral bliss. "I can be enough for you, Jackson," she says. "Take me. I'm yours." I'm yours. It echoes in my head as she kisses me, deeply. Her lips soak up my disgrace. She takes it all away from me. Leaves me clean. I lose any control I had left and begin to rail her relentlessly again. "Yes! Yes!" She screams. "Harder! Faster!" Sweat runs down my chest; both our bodies glisten under the moon. I burn with the tension of my fast-approaching orgasm. 

"I want you to cum with me," I beg as I crash against her, over and over, like the waves that made this sand. 

"Mmm. I'm already close. I think we'll have better luck this time," She says with a wry smile. "Don't stop. Keep fucking me. Keep fucking me like that. God, you're so good!" I fuck her wildly. Desperate, heaving noises escape my chest. Now it's my turn to collapse against her. Our chests are slick against each other. "Yes! Yes! Don't stop!" My hips thrust my cock in and out of her madly. I can feel her juices running over me. "That's it. FUCK ME!" My forehead is pressed to hers. Our eyes are locked. "Make me cum. Make me scream your name as I cum all over that fucking dick!" My fingers intertwine with hers. I squeeze her hand. All four of her fingers break off. I stare at them, lifeless in my hand. 

"Wha...what the fuck!" I cry. 

"Don't worry about it." She smiles at me. But it's not a sweet smile, like before. It's twisted. Sinister. "Just keep fucking me." The cylinders in my hand don't feel like flesh. They feel cold. Clammy. They are breaking apart. The nubs on her hand look like the ends of used-up candles. Then I realize: 

They're wax. Her fingers are wax.

"What's wrong?" She pouts. "I thought you wanted me. That it didn't matter to you?" Her face distorts. It's melting. Dripping away. But she's still smiling. "You see it. You feel it. Doesn't that make it real enough?" It's her mouth moving—her melting, wax mouth—but it's my voice. From earlier. From class. 

I scream. I run. To the water. 

"Don't run, Jackson. You can't run from this," Katy's voice shouts. But it doesn't come from behind me. It comes from everywhere. It shakes the stars. It boils the sea. It fills everything. "This is what you want. This is what you need."

"NO!" I scream. I hurl the fingers into the ocean. 

"You need my fake love. You don't have the balls for the real stuff." 

I fall to my knees, sucking desperately for air. I'm so hot. My skin burns. My veins are still on fire. Oh, God. I'm going to melt, too.

"Jackson, what the fuck?" The voice is smaller now, different. 

I reach for the water. It's cold. I grab what I can and throw it on my face. The salt stings, but it's cool. I splash more. 

"Oh, shit," she says. "What happened to you?" 

I turn around. It's Jill standing there. Naked, but with all her fingers. I slowly get to my feet. "I'm...I'm sorry."
"Jackson, what the hell? Did you just have a bad trip or something?" I stumble to my clothes. I start to throw them on as quickly as I can. "Let me take you home. You're a fucking mess." 

"No. It's fine. I just—I have to go. I'm sorry." And I take off down the beach.



IRL Ch. 03



Like all of us, college senior Jackson has fantasies. Lately, all of his are about his philosophy professor. But Jackson has stumbled upon a peculiar way to go a little deeper into his fantasies. Maybe too deep. As he drifts further and further from reality, he is pushed toward a dangerous choice: Does he want the girl of his dreams, or the uncomfortable truth?

This story is sequential; Part Three probably will not make any sense if you haven't read Parts One and Two.

All rights reserved. 



I rest my aching head against the door of Katy's office. Which is locked. Which is dark inside. I check my watch. 6:30. Exactly an hour past our appointment time. Part of me is relieved that she forgot. How can I possibly face her and act normal, after whatever the fuck happened twentyish hours ago? 

I've spent those twenty hours trying not to play the whole thing on the beach back in my head. It's like trying not to think about an elephant. I showered three times. I kept finding sand behind my ears, under my toes. I showered three times. I told myself I was trying to finally get the sand off. But if I'm being honest with myself, it was more than sand that I was trying to wash away. I tried to sleep. I couldn't. I told myself Coop was right; I had developed a dependence to Desitrol. I couldn't fall asleep without it. But if I'm being honest with myself, it was more than withdrawal keeping me awake. I was afraid of what I'd find in my dreams. I was afraid of the feeling of cold wax fingers in my hand. I was afraid of what it meant about me, that I had seen and heard those things. 

So I didn't sleep. Instead, I feverishly rattled off a final project proposal and sent it to Katy. So we could talk about it at this meeting. Which she forgot about. 

I should just go home. It's Friday night. She's out having a life, like a normal person. I should try to do that too. Or at least sleep. 

But I don't do these things. I tell myself that I really do need to meet with her about this project, or I won't be able to work on it over the weekend like I need to. But if I'm being honest with myself, I just need to see her face. Her real face. Last night took me to the edge of sanity's gravitational orbit. I feel myself drifting away. I need to retouch solid ground. 

I call her. She listed her cell phone on the class syllabus. This came from a similar motivation, I think, as the failed coffee shop sessions—she wanted to lessen the space between her and her students. She wanted to be the cool prof. 

"Hello?" She answers after two rings.

"Hello, Professor Donahue? It's Jackson." 

"...Oh, shit!" She exclaims. She remembers now. "Jackson, I am so. so. sorry."

"It's okay."
"I just—I put it in my phone calendar, but I don't know how to work that damn thing, and I thought I was done for the day, so I went home and—damnit. So sorry."

"Really. It's fine," I insist. "We'll reschedule." 

"No, I don't want to do that to you. It's my fault. I'll uh...I'll be right over. But I'm coming from across town, in Clearwater." This is a cute little artsy neighborhood several miles from campus. "So it'll take me like twenty minutes." 

"Oh? You live in Clearwater? I live in Clearwater." This is not true. I live in the dorms on campus.

"...Oh," she says. Then there is awkward silence. 

"So, I mean. I would be headed that way anyway." 

"Right."

"So it would be stupid for you to come all the way here just for both of us to go all the way back," I say.

"...Right. I guess it would be," she says. Then there is a painful silence. I wait for her to shoot me down. I wait for her to say it wouldn't be appropriate. "...Well. If you don't mind my place being a mess, I guess you could just stop by?" She sounds hesitant. But I'll take it. 

"Yeah. No problem. Text me your address. I'll swing by." I try to sound nonchalant as I bound for the door. 

***

"...Come on in," she says. She leads me into the cramped but functional living room-with-attached-kitchen of her one-bedroom apartment. She wasn't just being modest when she said her place was a mess. It's the kind of clutter that seems more befitting a college student than a college professor, right down to the Chinese take-out boxes and beer cans left on top of a book shelf. But there is also an immense amount of reading material—books, journals, loose-leaf paper. In random towers that stretch toward the ceiling. It's exhausting to think about reading even a fraction of the words in this apartment even over the course of a semester. 

"Have a seat." She motions toward a little loveseat that looks like it was rescued from the side of the road. 

"Thanks." I sit. "I like the place." 

"Oh, shut up," she says. "It's a dump." She plops onto the couch across from me, putting a dishearteningly wide void between us. "Financially-speaking, I am still a student, remember. No salary." 

"But still. It's a charming dump. It's very...you," I say. 

She chuckles at this. "Thanks, I guess?" 

"And it smells good. What is that?" A sweet, homey aroma catches my nose. 

"Oh, it's a scented candle. I get them from a woman down on the boardwalk," she points to the flickering flame on her windowsill. "That one's 'Cherry Pie,' or something," she says. I like it. I like it here. It feels safe, but exciting. Katy plucks a half-full glass of red wine from the coffee table and swills it. "Would you like some?" She offers. "It's just the three dollar stuff. Again, I call your attention to the me-not-being-paid thing." 

"Sure. I'd love a glass." I say. We are in her apartment. On a Friday night. She is pouring me wine. Whatever the 'boundaries' were, they appear to be stretching.

"Thanks so much for agreeing to come by," she says as she pours. "That was cool of you. I hope it wasn't too out of the way." 

"Not at all. Is it alright that I'm here this late?"

"Oh, no. It's fine." Her fingers graze mine as she hands me the glass. "I was just working. ...Like always," she sighs. Sure enough, her laptop and a stack of unorganized papers sit on the small table between us. 

"Oh. I thought you'd have exciting plans on a Friday night." She's not exactly dressed to hit the town. She wears blue jeans and a t-shirt with an inexplicable dinosaur on it. I still find it an incredibly sexy look for her. The casual clothes do nothing to hide her voluptousity. 

"Nope. Cheap wine and my dissertation. That's pretty much as exciting as it gets. With my defense before the committee coming up in a month, this godforsaken paper is kind of my whole life right now." She picks up the wine glass and swills it. "What about you, college boy? Don't you have beers to be bonging or something?" 

I laugh. Then I shrug. "I'd rather be here, I guess." I watch for her reaction. At first, she avoids my eyes, pouring herself another glass. But then she looks up at me and slowly smiles. 

"...I'm glad you are," she says. 

"Though I have to admit," I say. "I was sort of surprised you offered. After your boundaries thing earlier." 

She sighs and runs her hands through her hair. "Look. I'm sorry about that. This isn't easy for me."

"What isn't easy, exactly?"

"This job. I think of you guys as peers. Especially you, Jackson." I wonder what that means. "So I treat you guys like peers. But the other week I got kind of a...talking to, by my department head." 

"A talking to? About what?"

"About my role, as a teacher. And making sure lines didn't get blurred, and stuff."

"Oh."
"And it got me all in my head about it. And then maybe I overreacted, yesterday. I don't know. I suck at this." She takes another gulp of wine. 

"Well I didn't mean to put you in a bad position, by asking you to lunch. I'm sorry."
"No, it's not your fault. And I didn't want to say no. I hope you know that." 

"Well. I wouldn't want you to get in trouble."

"I know. But it's not just about getting in trouble."

"...What else?"

She's squirming now, increasingly uncomfortable. "I just...I don't want things to get weird. Between us. I hope that, when the class is over, we can still be...you know, friends." That's not the word I wanted to hear, of course. But still. The idea of Katy still being in my orbit after this semester is really nice. It certainly beats never seeing her again. "I hope that I can be a resource for you, in the future. You know, as like, an older, wiser friend." 

"You're not that much older," I remind her. "And possibly not at all wiser." She sticks her tongue out and throws the wine cork at me, which I nimbly dodge.

"All I mean is, I like you. I like being around you. And if anything happened—between us—and that got ruined...well. That would really be a shame," she says. 

"...Yeah. No. I totally...yes. It would." Maybe she's right. Maybe it's better to leave it how it is; to be friends. "But. This is okay...right?" I ask. 

"Yes," she says emphatically. "I mean, we have to talk about your proposal, right? We were supposed to do it at school. I screwed up. You did me a favor and came here. To talk about your proposal. I mean, what could be blurry about that? Right?" I'm not sure who she's trying to convince, anymore. She tosses the last of her wine back. "So. Your proposal. I just read it." 

"Oh. Yeah. So that was a really rough draft," I say. I'm horrified at what she must have thought of the frantic gibberish that I clattered out this morning. "It's just something I did really quickly. It's not really fully formed, so don't..." But I stop as I notice her rolling her eyes at me.

"Oh, Christ. Don't do that. Don't do your self-deprecating thing. It's a really good idea." 

"...Yeah?" I try not to smile too broadly. 

"Yeah. I found it really intriguing, actually." She taps her laptop to bring the screen to life. "'IRL,'" she reads. "'An examination of the 21st century flight from reality.'" She considers my title for a moment. "What is that?" She asks. "IRL?" 

"Oh. It's an abbreviation people use online and stuff. For 'in real life.'" 

"Oh. Shit. Am I that out of the mainstream?" She asks. "I don't even know the latest internet abbrevs?" 

"Well. At least you know enough to abbreviate the word 'abbreviations,'" I say, and she laughs. I laugh. We laugh together. And I get that feeling again. Like before, at the vending machine. I wish I could just bottle that feeling. Or...encapsulate it. In little pills. I wish I could take a hit of it whenever I needed to. 

"In real life as opposed to what?" She asks. "I mean, how could that possibly come up often enough that it needs its own abbreviation?"

"That's—yes! See. That's exactly my whole point here."

"What do you mean?"

"So, 'IRL' is something that, for instance, my friend Coop might say while playing this online role playing game he's kind of obsessed with, one of the ones where you pretend to be a wizard or whatever. Like, if he wanted to tell his internet friends that he met someone—like actually, physically met them in person—he would say he met them 'IRL.' But my point is: how messed up is it that he has to specify? What does it say about us when so much of our life is something other than real?" 

"Ah. So you're saying that for the players in this game, there's been a kind of inversion in how they experience the world: the fantasy has become their primary experience and reality a secondary one?" She asks.

"Yeah. I think so. But it's not just role-playing games. That's just Coop's escape. Most of us have one. Facebook. Pornography. Drugs. Romance novels. Alcohol. Anything that absorbs us. That allows us to reject reality for something preferable," I say. I can hear Katy's words from last night echo in my head. 'It's okay to want things that aren't even real.' 

"Mmm-hmm," she nods along. "And how do you see this fitting into the course?"

"Well, philosophy is all about the search for truth. Take a guy like Descartes. He was desperate to figure out how to be certain about what was real. And my argument is that most of us today, we're not searching for the truth; we're trying to escape it." 

Of course, when I sat down and wrote the proposal this morning, the "we" was less of a societal "we" and more of a veiled "I." I couldn't stop thinking about what happened on the beach with Katy. With Jill, I mean. I told myself that it was just a bad trip. I had a weird hallucination; that's out of my control, right? But if I'm being honest with myself, I know I saw Katy because I wanted to see her. I wanted it so badly that my drug-addled eyes and ears and hands and dick made it real. And everything she said and did, it came out of some throbbing, oozy place of need inside me. I wanted Katy. But not real Katy. Fantasy Katy. The one I could actually have. The one who was perfect. The one that would fuck my brains out and tell me she loves me, not the one that wants to be an older, wiser "resource," whatever the hell that means. But at the same time, I hate that I want that. I hate that I spent the whole day thinking about taking another pill. I probably would have, but I couldn't find Coop, who still had my only stash. So I sat down and wrote this proposal as half philosophy assignment, half secret confession to Katy about my own pathetic fixation, half weak attempt to convince myself I could change; that I could want the truth. Yes. That's three halves. Deal with it. 

"Uh-huh," Katy says after silently re-reading the rest of what I wrote. "Yeah. I dig this. This is a great idea for a term paper." She nods enthusiastically. 

"Thanks." I guess losing your mind has its benefits. 

"So. What's yours?" She asks.

"Hmm? What?"

"You said most of us have an escape. A flight from reality. What's yours?" 

"It's an essay. Not a memoir."

"Deftly deflected," she smiles. "That's okay. You don't have to tell me." 

"What's yours?" I ask.

"Me? I'm more like Rene. I wish I could escape, sometimes. I would love to be into trashy romance novels or World of Warcraft. Or jogging, or heroin, or something. But I have this compulsion to neurotically dissect the truth. I guess that's why there's all...this." She spreads her arms toward the piles of prose; the scattered mountains of questions without answers. 

"But what about when you don't like the truth?" 

She shrugs. "I suppose I'm inclined to think the ugly truth is preferable to even the most appealing lies," she says. Her words from last night echo in my head, as if in retort. 'I'm better. An idea is always better than the real thing.' "But look where that leaves us," real Katy says. "We're right back at the question you posed yesterday in class: why should we care whether a thing is 'truly' real? If Coop gets meaning from his fantasy world, if it feels real to him, should it matter that it's artificial?" 'I thought you wanted me,' the echo mocks. 'That it didn't matter to you?' 

"...I really don't know, anymore. Should it?" 

"That's a deeply personal question, Jackson. And it's one you're going to have to wrestle with as you write this paper. Me? I say yes. I want to believe that there is such a thing as a reality outside my own head, and that I can know about it, and be a part of it. So I struggle to try to understand it—like Descartes. But that's my choice. You have to make your own." 

I stare into the steady brown of her eyes. They betray nothing. I never know what real Katy is thinking. But they look so much like the eyes that stared at me last night, the ones filled with gentle understanding—with exactly what I needed. No questions. No doubts. Just truly unconditional love. I could be lost in those eyes again. Soon. I could leave and track down Coop, get my pills back. I could be in my bed and on my way to her in an hour. 'Me, you can have. Me, you can love.' 

Or I could stay. And I could push my luck one last time. I could find out for certain what Katy and I can or can't be. And be rejected. Crushed. Slapped in the face with the ugly truth. 

Do I want the reality outside my own head? 

"...Jackson? Going somewhere?" Katy asks. I cross the room to the windowsill.

"...I think I understand now," I say. "Why Descartes needed to know if it was all real." I pick up the candle. The one that smells like cherry pie. The wax pools at the top—a little molten lake. "If it's real, you can trust it." I walk back toward her, candle in hand. "Reality is always there. Relentless. Merciless. Whether you like it or not." I sit next to Katy on the couch. We almost touch. She doesn't move. "But if it's all in your own head? Then even if it looks real. Even if it feels real..." I tilt the candle and let the wax plummet down the side, toward my fingers.

"Jackson! You're going to—!" It runs over my fingers. It stings. I don't care.

"...Then it could all fall apart at any moment. It could just melt away." I put the candle on the table, its flame still dancing. I examine the gooey red on my fingers. "...Like wax," I say. 

"Shit. Here. Let me—" Katy scurries to the attached kitchen and grabs a dish towel. The red goop is already starting to harden in the cool air, like coagulating blood. She returns and gingerly takes my hand in hers.

"...Maybe you're right," she says, as she wipes the wax away with the towel. "Or maybe he was just...lonely. It's very lonely, I think. To spend all that time in your head, wondering if you're the only thing that exists." She doesn't use her professor voice. She's put that away for the evening. This is something less steady. More brave. "It must be so sad, and scary. To not be sure that the things around you are really there. Or the people around you." She tosses the rag aside and lightly traces her fingers over mine. They are clean now. "I guess the most frightening thing about the truth is also the most comforting: it's so much bigger than us." 

I let her words hang in the air for a second. I feel the warmth of her hand. We both stare at the candle, flickering in the dim light. "So what's our truth, Katy?" 

"What do you mean?" She pulls her hand away, and avoids my eyes.

"Forget the rules. Forget screwing things up. Suppose we were just two people. Sitting on a couch." I lean in, trying to shrink the distance between us. 

"...Yeah?"

"Then, I would tell you that I like you. And not just I-enjoy-your-class like you, or want-to-be-friends like you. Like, want-to-kiss-you-on-the-mouth like you." I can barely keep my voice steady. My adrenaline is out of control. But it feels good to say it out loud. Whatever else happens, at least it's out there. "And unless you're just willfully unaware, you know that already." 

"...Yeah." She picks at the fabric of her jeans. I'm close enough to smell her, now. Her hair. 

"And you would say...?" My heart pounds. 

She finally looks me in the eyes again. I don't know what's going on in there. The soft light hides them. All I see is the candle's flame reflected off her glasses.

"I would say that, on the subject of you kissing me on the mouth..." she goes slowly, in a low, hushed tone. The kind we use when we have to say dangerous words. "I would...describe my position as...favorable." I try to stop my hands from shaking.

"...Favorable?" Our faces are a little closer. I'm not sure who moved. I can feel her breath. 

"Yes." She's trembling, too. Our lips are perilously close now.

"That's...good. Favorable is good," I say in less than a whisper, my mouth almost on hers. I finally close the gap, and bring my lips to hers. She is still. My hand trembles and reaches out for hers. Our fingers intertwine. I press my lips against hers harder. My other hand wraps around her shoulders and pulls her into me. She opens her mouth to me. I wasn't quite ready for it. I feel her teeth against my lips. She realizes her error and quickly backs off, but I've already tried to open my mouth to accommodate her, so now we've got the inverse problem going on, and my tongue darts out and finds her closed lips. 




IRL Ch. 03



But we settle in, after only a second, and our tongues find each other. We chew at each other with frenzied, clumsy passion as we breathe nosily through our nostrils. She tastes different than dream Katy. Dream Katy did not taste like marinara sauce. It must be from dinner. I clutch her desperately, pulling her in closer. She's so warm. Her heavy breasts against me feel so comforting. Like a soft bed. 

She makes a sound in her throat. "Mmm." At first, I think it's a moan. "Mmmhmm!" But the next one is louder, more insistent. She wrests her hand from mine and pushes me back. 

"No. No, we can't do this," she says as she catches her breath and wipes a dribble of my/her/our spit from her chin. "We cannot do this!" She repeats, slapping her knee. "I'm your teacher."

"For like, four more weeks," I say. 
"Yeah? And then what?" She snaps. She looks pissed. "What then, Jackson?"

"Uh...then there won't be a problem anymore? Because I'll have graduated?" 

"Exactly!" She storms to her feet and paces the room, hands on her head. "I won't be your professor. And this won't be cool or sexy for you anymore."

"Whoa. Wait a second," I try to protest, but she steamrolls me.

"Look. I don't give a shit about the rules, Jackson. I never did. But I am busy fucking person with a lot on my plate right now. Do you understand? I teach two classes while trying to cobble together the mess of my fucking dissertation, which is at least three months behind where it should be. I sleep four hours a night. I have 82 dollars in my bank account. I am a busy. fucking. girl." She seems to pin me to the couch with her jutting finger as she advances on me. "So I do not have time to be your Letter to Penthouse fantasy. I am unavailable to stand in for the role of 'exotic forbidden fruit' in this evening's performance. There are entire websites full of student/professor pornography. I suggest you go home, find them, jerk off, and leave me to lead my very real, very busy life." Her face is red with fury.

"...Did you ever stop to consider that maybe that isn't what this is?" I ask slowly and carefully.

"Well. Isn't it?" She's almost trembling. She looks...scared, almost. 

"No. I like you. Actual you. It's got nothing to do with you being my professor." I'm not sure which of us I'm trying to convince, anymore. "I mean, I don't know. Maybe it did, at first. But then I got to know you. And you're brilliant, and funny, and fascinating. I like the way you think about things. I like the way you make me think about things."

"Oh God." She laughs bitterly as she collapses on the love seat. "It's worse than I thought. You've passed straight through 'hot for teacher' and moved on to Manic Pixie Dream Girl." 

"What? No."

"Bad news. I can't be that for you either, Jackson. I don't wear scarves. I don't listen to The Shins."

"Would you stop trying to tell me how I feel? It's annoying." 

"I've seen this before. You like that I'm older. That I've traveled and have tattoos. You think I'm full of mystery and adventure." 

"Oh, you're full of something, alright." 

"You want me to take you on a soulful journey of enlightenment, wherein I open your eyes and show you how to truly live." I laugh. "Come on. Admit it," she says. "Isn't that what you want?"

"Are you kidding me? You're at home alone doing homework on a Friday night. Exactly where and how would the mysterious adventure start?" She laughs, despite herself. She seems to exhale some of her anger. "I think you're a dork, Katy." 

She lets a smile creep out. "...I think you're a dork, too."

"Then what exactly are you afraid of?" I ask.

She sighs. "I'm afraid that you don't want me. You want the idea of me. Whatever it is you think I am at any given moment—sexy professor, manic pixie dream girl, dork. You want the me in your head. The character in your story. And I'm afraid that she might have very little to do with the actual person sitting here." ...Wow. She's good. "Because you'll find out, pretty quickly, that I'm not any of those things. I'm just a human. With all sorts of human stuff going on. Canker sores. A lot of debt. A bizarre phobia of trains. And when you do figure that out, you'll bolt. Won't you?" 

I think about what she just said. I think about what dream Katy said last night. 'You need my fake love. You don't have the balls for the real stuff.'

"No. You're wrong," I say, to both of them. And for the first time, I'm sure it's true. "You're like, exactly, a hundred percent wrong. With you, for the first time—maybe ever—I don't want the idea of the thing. I want the thing. The actual thing." I smile, giddy with the truth of it. 

"How can you know that? You don't even really know what the thing is yet."

"Yeah, but I want to. I want to find out."
"And if we don't like what we find out?" She asks. "If we realize we're just in hopelessly different places in our lives? Or if you hate all the movies I like? Or if you do some weird thing with your fingernails I can't stand? What if the real thing sucks?" 

I shrug. "Yeah. It might. Or it might not. But...you know. There's only one way we'll ever find out." 

She stares at me for a moment. She lets the tension in her face fall, as she sighs. "Well. Fuck," she says, throwing her hands up in defeat.

"...So...?" I ask

"So. Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to come over here and blur some fucking lines?" I grin. In less than a second, I am over on her loveseat, wrapping my arms back around her. She fits so well. I kiss her softly. This time, our passion is all the more instant, explosive. There are no more reservations. There is nothing else to say. Our kisses are hungry and wet. Our tongues strike at each other's like snakes. We almost cannot breathe. Our hands start exploring, greedily grasping at whatever they can find. Hair. Neck. Ass. She whimpers into my mouth and I feel myself getting hard.

"God, Katy," I breathe between kisses. "I wanted this for so long."

"Me too," she pants before her tongue plunges back into my mouth. 

I think about grabbing the hem of her shirt to remove it. I stop, because I don't want to move that quickly. I don't want to give her the impression that all I want to do is see her tits, and that I'm not interested in kissing her. Of course, I do want to see her tits. Badly. But I do like kissing her. She's not a great kisser. There remains a definite teeth issue. But I don't care. I want her teeth. I want her everything. So I wait. We make out for ten minutes. 

Then I grab the hem of her shit and lift it, just a little, without breaking the kiss. I wait for any sign of disapproval. There is none; she just continues to kiss my chaffing lips. So I yank it off. Or I try to. But it gets stuck at her boobs. They're too big, and the shirt's unreasonably tight. I have to pull away and use both hands to get over her spectacular mounds, which are spilling out of a somewhat raggedy white cotton bra. "Ooouph!" She cries out. The tight band of the shirt is now stuck under her arms. She looks like she's in the stocks. 

"Here. Let me—" she tries to say, but I continue to yank.

"No, I've got it. I just need to—gah." I pull, and the shirt covers her face. It is still stuck.

"Seriously, let me do it," she says, her voice muffled, as her entire head is trapped in a t-shirt. But with a strong pull, she removes it, and casts it aside with a victorious grin. Her glasses get pulled off with it. Her hair is now hopelessly frazzled. It looks great. 

"Sorry," I say sheepishly.

"Don't worry about it." Then I notice something. As my eyes take in her body, I notice her left shoulder, where a clockwork tattoo isn't. "...What?" Katy asks. She sees where my eyes are. She self-consciously touches herself.

"Oh. No. It's...nothing." It should have occurred to me earlier, but I just now realize that some part of my brain made up that gear tattoo. It was never there. And there, on her ribcage, is a beautiful oak tree with a tire swing hanging from it that I had never contemplated. "I just...I like your tattoos." I run my hand gingerly over the wolf on her right shoulder. 

"Thanks. You keep playing your cards right, Casanova," she smirks, "and you just might see them all tonight." She pulls my face back to hers with both hands and kisses me fiercely. She grabs at my shirt. She removes it much more deftly than I did hers. Our hands roam each other's freshly exposed skin. She wraps her arms around my back as she slides further down, so that I'm almost on top of her. My hands grip her waist. Her belly hangs just a little bit over the tight waistband of her jeans. Her flesh feels wonderful in my hands. 

I can't resist any longer; I have to free her tits. I reach for the clasp behind her and fumble with it. There's three hooks. I'm still struggling with the first one when she starts to giggle, her mouth still on mine.

"What?" I say. "What are you laughing at? I think it's like, broken, or something." She smiles coyly at me, reaches behind her, and undoes it in a second. 

"Don't worry," she teases. "You'll get better with practice."

"I've had plenty of practice, for your information."

"Oh? So you've seen quite a few of these?" She starts to slip the straps over her shoulders, viciously slow. "Do tell me, where do mine rank?" And she casts the bra aside.

"...Holy shit," is all I can say. They look different than in the dream. They defy gravity less. They hang lower, and spill everywhere. But they're incredible. So...substantial. Oddly, I find myself wondering if it strains her back, to carry these things around. My hands unconsciously move to cup them. Their heft feels so satisfying. She exhales deeply as my thumbs graze her wide, pink areola and her nipples starts to rise. I flick my tongue across one and she gasps. I take it into my mouth, sucking it. I bite lightly. "Oh!" She cries. I can't really tell if it's pleasure or surprise. I decide to stay away from the biting, just to be safe. She runs her hands through my hair and moans lightly as I lewdly suck her tit.

I work my way back up to her mouth, slowly. She seems to really like having her neck kissed, especially this one spot right below her ear. When I kiss her there, she gasps and arches her back off the couch. I file this information away, and hope that I'll have many other occasions to use it. We kiss and grope for a few minutes more, my hands voraciously grabbing at the flesh of her breasts, trying to sear the feel of them into my memory. And then I figure, this is it. We've reached that point of decision, where we have to figure out how far we're going. I don't care if we go any further. Well, I mean, I care. I want very much to have sex with her. But I'd be almost equally happy to keep making out, and then cool it and hang out for awhile, and then walk home through the cool spring air. I'd be happy with whatever she wants. I'm lucky just to have felt her lips once.

But on the other hand. She's shown no signs of slowing down. And she did make that comment about the tattoos. So I creep my hand up her thigh. I reach under her cute little muffin top for the button of her jeans, and undo it. Then the zipper. Then—

"Jackson," she blurts between kisses, and I instantly pull my hand away.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, no. It's fine. I just—" she tries to say, as we talk over each other.

"I mean we don't have to do anything you—"

"It's not that, but I—"

"I don't want you to think that that's what I want, or anything."
"You don't want to?" She asks.

"No! I mean, I do. Of course. But I mean, that's not all I want. It's not like that. And I don't want to rush you into—"

"Jackson, shut up for a second." I gratefully do. "I just...I don't want you to think I do this all the time. On the first date. Or, well, not even the first date, I guess," she smiles, embarrassed. "Because I don't. Do this all the time. Only when..." She thinks about it, and then shrugs. "Well. Only when I feel like it, I guess." 

"...And...do you...feel like it?" I ask.

"Oh hell yes." She grabs my hair and kisses me with violence. "Take my pants off," she orders. I slip my fingers into the waist of her jeans and pull, but it's a struggle. The denim clings stubbornly to her thighs. I tug fiercely, and tug so hard that I actually pull her ass partway off the couch. 

"Oh!" She cries, as she starts sliding to the floor. "Shit. Help me. I'm..." But she's already fallen to the ground with an "omph!" 

"Fuck. I'm sorry," I say. She laughs this wonderful, crinkly nose laugh and I can't help but join. 

"It's okay. Help me up." I do, and she struggles to pull her pants up enough to walk. "Bedroom," she says. "We should relocate to the bedroom." She doesn't take me by the hand or anything. She just walks away, leaving me to follow. As she turns, I see something I never would have dreamt of. 

"...Katy?" She stops in front of her bedroom door and looks back at me. "...Is that a tramp stamp that says 'Cognito Ergo Sum?'" I try to finish the question without laughing. I really do. But holy shit. How could I not laugh at that?

"Uh-huh. Sure is," she says over her shoulder. "...You wanna get lucky tonight, Romeo, or do you wanna keep laughing?" 

"No. I'm sorry. It's...awesome. That's great." I try to stifle my giggles.

"Shut up. I like it. It's equal parts intellectual and tacky. Not unlike myself." With that, she enters her room.

Her bedroom is an equally cluttered disaster, but I'm not looking at the scenery. I'm looking at the goddess in front of me stepping out of her Levi's, leaving them in a crumpled puddle on the floor. 

"Sorry," she says. "About the granny panties. I hadn't planned on disrobing in front of company tonight." And she sits on the bed. 

"Well," I say as I kneel before her. "I was planning..." I plant a kiss just above her knee. I feel her tense in anticipation. "On taking them off..." I kiss just a little higher on her creamy thigh. "Pretty quickly..." My lips travel further up her soft flesh. "Anyway." 

I slide her underwear off quickly and spread her legs. I can smell her pussy strongly. It's wet. It's unshaven, a brown bramble patch above her pink folds. I continue my slow ascent of kisses along her leg, taking my time. I pass the compass tattoo midway up her thigh and continue heading north. I reach the crevice where her thigh meets her pelvis, and I run my tongue along it. She arches her back. She whimpers. I taste her salty sweat and feel her hair on my tongue. Then I look up at her. Her eyes are desperate, pleading. I grin devilishly at her as I go all the way back down to her other knee, and start the journey again. 

"UGH! Oh my god," she groans, throwing her head back. "You are such a dick." I just continue my slow crawl up toward her sex. Once I finally reach her glistening mound, I open my mouth, and just let my hot breath flow over her clit. "Uhhhoooohhh." A desperate whine escapes her as she writhes underneath me. "Jesus. Please, Jackson." I finally lick her clit. Softly, barely making contact. Just once, at first. Then again, and again. She squirms. She coos. I take her knees in my hands to steady her as I lap at her clit, and then dive lower with my tongue to taste all of her juices. She tastes tart. Her hair itches against my nose. Her moans get louder as I work. "Fuck yes. That's so good." She runs her hand through my hair and pulls at it roughly. "Yes. Right there. That's it, yeah." 

I slip a finger into her pussy. It's tight, and blazing hot. "Ooooh. Yeah," she encourages. I start to pump it in and out of her, and she starts to rock her hips in approval. I add a second finger, still licking furiously. I can feel every ridge of her against my knuckles. "Oh shit. That's it. Oooohh," she cries. She's tugging at her nipples. "Yes! Keep going." Almost without thinking, caught up in my raging lust, my pinky finds her asshole and tries to push in. 

"OH!" She shouts, reflexively scooting away from me.

"Sorry!" I pull away mortified. "I'm so sorry." Damnit. Why did I do that?

"No, it's okay," she says.

"I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to—"

"No. I was just surprised." 

"So...do you want me to...?" I look up at her, her juices dripping of my chin, waiting for my cue.

"Yeah," she says, smiling, to my relief. "You should." 

I dive back into her, licking and fucking her with my fingers. She tenses again when I put my pinky there, but as I work it in, she relaxes, and begins to moan louder. It seems to come from deep within her core. "Ooooooh, yes. God. That's actually...wow. That feels really good." My tongue flicks rapidly over her clit. My fingers work in and out of her holes. Seconds or minutes or hours pass as I do; I'm not sure. I curl my fingers to stroke her G-spot. I do everything I can possibly think of that might make her feel good; I'm desperate to please. I touch everything, everywhere, all at once, as many times as I can.

And she moans louder and louder. Throaty, vibrato moans. "Ooooooh, yeeeees." I feel her getting wetter. I feel her muscles tense. "Oh—God—So close!" She digs her fingers into my hair for dear life. Her back arches all the way off the bed. Her thighs lock themselves around me. She is on the precipice. She seems to hang there for an eternity. And then—

"UUUUGGGHHHOOOOPHH!" She shatters the air with a piercing, guttural wail. It's raw, almost barbaric. It is indistinguishable from the sound women make in labor on TV. Her pussy gushes fluid—I mean a lot of it—as it clamps down on my fingers. "OOOOOOH! FUCK! YES!" Her hips gyrate chaotically; I have to hold her down to keep her from wriggling away from me. "GOD YES! I'M CUMMING!" As if she had to tell me. Her juices continue rushing over my face and hand. Her ass clenches so tight I think my pinky may never get free. I keep pumping my fingers in her and lapping up her girl cum until I feel her tension release. 

"Oh my fucking God," she shudders. She gasps for air. Her breasts are heaving. "That was...oh my God." Sweat drips from her brow as she pants. I stand and wipe some of her off my chin. "I'm sorry," she says, blushing. "I should have told you. I'm kind of a gusher." 

"No, it's fine," I say. "It's...great, really." I lick her cum from my fingers.
"Top drawer," she says, still catching her breath. 

"...What?" 

"Condoms are in the top drawer of the dresser. Get inside me, Jackson." 

Trembling from my own lust, I retrieve one. I can already feel a damp spot of precum on my jeans. I rip off my belt. I love the clinking sound the metal makes as I discard it on the floor. I shed my pants and boxers and my achingly hard cock springs forth. 

"Mmm. Hurry up," is all she says. She does not gasp or tremble or fall to her knees and stroke my cock in amazement. She does not wax on at length about its size and majestic beauty or the alpha male dominance it obviously represents. She's looking at my face, in fact. "Please. I want to feel you inside me," she whispers. 

I roll the condom on and climb between her legs. The mattress squeaks under my weight. I hold myself over her and bring my swollen head against her sopping wetness. Our eyes lock. She wraps her arms around my back and neck. I press my forehead to hers. Like last night, on the beach. But not like last night. She's here. Our heavy breaths seem to synchronize, and I push my cock into her. 

She's so wet that I slide into her smoothly. All the way to the hilt. Her mouth goes wide in a silent scream, like her breath is caught in her throat. But her eyes never leave mine. She grips a fistful of my hair as she adjusts to me. For a long moment, neither of us makes a sound. We don't blink. I'm not sure we even breathe. We just stare into each other's eyes, and feel each other's heat. I feel the weight of my body settled against her. So safe. So complete. Then my hips rise, and I plunge into her again. And again. The bed creaks with each thrust. But for awhile, this is the only sound. The creaking and our breathing.




IRL Ch. 03



"Kiss me," she begs, breaking the silence. Her eyes look desperate and terrified. I think they start to water. I kiss her. We kiss maniacally. We try to consume one another. She licks my lips, my chin to taste herself on me. I pump in and out of her harder, and faster. I kiss her neck. I go straight for that spot she likes, below her ear. "Yes," she whispers in my ear. "Fuck me, baby. Please." Her words give me that same hit of euphoria spreading through my veins that I got last night on Fairy Dust. Every atom of my body is glowing and warm. I need nothing else. I need nothing but to live in a world where Katy Donahue calls me that while we have sex.

"Say it again," I plead.

"...What?" She asks, searching my face. 

"...Call me 'baby,'" I say, blushing. I'm embarrassed to ask. But she smiles widely, and my shame melts. 

"Oh? You wanna be my baby?'" She asks, teasing.

"...Yeah. I really do."

"You want me underneath you in bed on the regular, or something?" She already knows the answer, of course. The look on her face is as stupidly giddy as mine.

"Yeah, Katy. That's what I want." 

"...I would describe my position on that as favorable," she says with a smile. I lean back and take her strong calves in my hand. I put her ankles up on my shoulders, and I fuck her even deeper. "Oh! Yes. That's so good. Fuck me like that." I build to a frenzied rhythm.

"Mmmmm," I groan. "Oh, God. That pussy feels so good." I begin to slam into her with all the force my hips can muster.

"OH! OH! YES! Jackson! Baby! Just like that!" The bed mattress eeks and groans as it struggles against the force of our fucking. I pound her relentlessly and—

BBBRRRPPH. A loud, wet, squishy sound breaks the rhythm of our lust. Katy's hands fly to her mouth as her eyes instantly bulge in horror. She's queefed. Loudly.

"Oh, God," she buries her head in her hands. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"It's fine." I laugh. I can't help it. She laughs, too, loudly releasing her embarrassment. 

"I mean, the squirting, now the queefing. I'm sorry if my vagina's more trouble than it's worth," she says, still cracking up. 

"Trust me. That's impossible." I sink myself into her again, and her laughs become punctured with moans. "Would you quit laughing so I could fuck you?" 

"Sorry! Sorry. Yes, done laughing. Keep going." She smiles. It's so easy. It's so safe. It's like we've been at this forever. "Oooh. Oh yes! Get it," she coos. I pound her furiously again. She bucks her hips against me. Her tits swing wildly as both our moans get louder. 

"Here, can you..." she says, fidgeting. "I want to—there. Thanks." She takes one leg off my shoulder and hooks it around me. "I want to rub my clit. I want to cum again." And she starts to work her fingers against her swollen pink nub as I keep fucking her. 

I'm so close. I've been close since I first kissed her, it feels like. After the interrupted dream, and last night...I feel the pressure of my orgasm threatening to tear me apart from the inside. But I have to hold out. It's only been a couple of minutes. I want to satisfy her. I want her to come with me. My desperate attempts to hold it in make me blaze inside and I fuck her even harder, sweat starting to run down my back. 

"That's it. Oh, don't stop, Jackson! Don't stop. I'm close." She tosses her head back and rubs herself frantically.

"I'm gonna cum," I growl through gritted teeth.

"God, I'm so close, baby. Just a little more. I want to come with you," she pleads. I wrap her other leg around me as I thrust in to her wildly. My face is strained and red, sweat running freely down my brow. I can hear my balls slapping against her. My knees burn from their friction against the sheets. "Oh..." She opens her mouth and little more than shuddering breath escapes. She tenses again. Arches her back. Her eyes are shut tightly. "Oh...yes...yes...fuck..." The words barely make it out of her tightening throat. Her pussy clenches down on my cock as it pistons in and out of her. My balls tighten. I can't hold out any longer. I'm going to cum. I'm going to— 

"OOOOOOOOUUUGH!" Her hips rise off the bed as she explodes, her face contorted. "OH MY—AGGGH—UHHHH---YES! JACKSON! YES!" And I feel myself crumble into orgasm in exactly the same moment. I drive into her deep and hard one last time. 

"UUUUGGHHH!" I scream. All of the tension of the last two days courses through my every muscle and nerve, scrunching all of me into one white hot ball of release. "OH, GOD, KATY!" I scream. My cock spurts hot cum into the condom again and again. I collapse against her. I manage to find her mouth and kiss her as we both quake with wave after wave of subsiding orgasm. We moan into one another's mouth, sharing our vibrations. Our sweat mingles. Our chests heave. 

After a moment, I roll off of her. She wraps her arms around me, her head on my chest, as we both struggle to regain our breath. The room reeks of sex.

"...Holy shit," I say. 

"...Yeah," she says. "That was...wow." She purrs contentedly as she snuggles against me. "So. Did I live up to your fantasies?" She asks. I can't see her face, but I know she's got that wry little smile on. I think about the dream the other night. The beach last night. Every other daydream and fantasy I've had about Professor Donahue. And then I think about this. Holding her in my arms right now, her naked skin against mine. 

"This is so much better, actually," I say. 

"Yeah? I mean, I figure there was probably less awkwardness and unfortunate bodily noises when you imagined it." 

I laugh. "Yeah. But I like that. That's the really good stuff." 

"...Yeah. I guess you're right." 

We lay there silently for a moment, our bodily systems slowly returning to their normal levels. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do next. 

"...So," I say, staring at the ceiling.

"...So," she says, her head nestled against my shoulder.

"...What now?" 

"What now, indeed," she says. She starts to slowly stroke my chest with a single finger. "...You're still in my class for another month."

"Yeah," I say. "...That's gonna be weird."

"Yeah."

"But then I graduate," I say.

"Uh-huh. And then you might be off to God-knows-where." 

"...Right." 

"And then I'll finish my doctorate. And they'll hire me. Or they won't."

"Yeah."

"And if they don't...I'll be off to God-knows-where," she says. 

"I guess so."

"But here we are," she says. She curls into me, almost on top of me.

"Here we are," I say. I wrap my arms around her. 

It's a lot of things, this moment. It's scary. It's exhilarating. It's awkward. It's electric. It's hopeful. It's uncomfortable. But whatever else it is, at least it's IRL. 

Also, I have to pee. And I feel the urge to rinse my mouth out. More collateral consequences of sex in reality. 

"Katy, is the door on the left...?"

"Bathroom? Yup." She rolls over to let me up.

On my way out of the bathroom, I notice something lying on the sink that makes me do a double-take. 

"Katy?" I step out into the bedroom. She is putting on pajamas. Green flannel. Very sexy. "Where'd you get this?" I hold up the plastic baggy. 

"Oh. My friend in the English department gave me that. I had been complaining about having trouble sleeping. She said it might help." 

"Did she, uh, say anything else?"

"Uh, something about, I would have 'sweet dreams'? But she said it weird. And I think she winked. Either that, or she has a weird eye twitch. Why?"

"Honestly? I'd stay clear of it, if I were you." I toss the pills back where I found them. "It's...not worth the side effects." 

"How do you know?" She asks as I return to her. "Do you use it or something?"

"No," I say. I wrap Katy up in my arms and kiss her on the forehead. "Not anymore."