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Sex on Campus Ch. 01

By: leBonhomme



I was lying in bed with Evangeline. That was not really her name, of course. It was early Sunday morning in a motel at the east end of Long Island. She was a graduate student at the women's college where I was a professor of English literature and composition. I suddenly recognized that I had skipped over a facet of my life that was part of my autobiography. I had begun to write it, thought that I could publish it. An autobiography should be honest, something I had been telling students for years. I will try.

Starting again, I was lying in bed with Evangeline's head on my shoulder, her thigh on mine, the way we had fallen asleep a few hours before. 

The two women who had just read these lines, looked at each other with wry expressions, shrugging. After their father's death in 1990, one Saturday afternoon, they were going through all the papers in his retirement apartment. They had found a carton labeled "Random Recollections for my Autobiography." It was full of papers. Some were hand written, others typed. It appeared that recollections about his youth and college years were typed final drafts, as were some about the professional side of his career, starting as a junior professor at the college in 1955. The typed pages they had just discovered bore a penciled title: Sex on Campus? 

A quick flip through the pages showed several corrections; the text was not a final draft. His daughters glanced at each other again, shrugging, this time with wry smiles. They nodded and laid it aside, and returned to sorting through his papers. Before they left his apartment, the elder one grinned at her sister and said: 

"You're too young to read that," and snatched the pages from her sister's hand. 

"Afraid you're mentioned?"

"Not me, but maybe you?"

"Not me, but if you could think so ..."

"I'll tell you, and let you read it."

"I won't be, not like Evangeline, that's for sure."

"Disappointed?"

"Hmm! Sounds like she wasn't. Are you?"

They shrugged again with grins. The elder one took the pages home and spent the evening reading.

Starting again, I was lying in bed with Evangeline's head on my shoulder, her thigh on mine, the way we had fallen asleep a few hours before. That had never happened before, not like that. I will have to let her tell how that happened, but while I was lying there, I had to admit to myself that to be honest I had to relate other incidents. 

As a young professor at a women's college in the late 1950s and 1960s, of course, it was nice to have young girls as students. I have to admit that I was the youngest professor at the time, married with two young daughters. Instructing English literature and composition was more personal than other subjects. The students could choose what to write in response to the themes I suggested. An easy and very open one was asking them to describe a personal situation. Some girls wrote about a meaningful conversation with a grandparent, others about a walk in autumn leaves or the like. I was very surprised when one girl wrote about what seemed to have been her first college date to a football game. They never went to the game. In her paper, he did everything two young people could with each other. It sounded like she had been badly taken advantage of. 

I started inviting students to have sherry before dinner a couple of times a semester, thinking that was a nice touch, something like at an English university. The sherry parties were a lot of fun, and my wife also enjoyed them, our young daughters too. After one of them in the spring, a student came to my office and asked if there was anything – ANYTHING – she could do for a better grade. Was I too young or innocent to understand what she was suggesting? My telling her that it seemed unlike that she could improve her final grade was not what she wanted to hear.

When that happened again, I did then understand the proposition. I told her that she could only get a better grade by working harder, but she insisted that that advice was worth what she wanted to do. Or was that all she really wanted to do? We did – my fall from grace. She did earn a better grade, but not for that reason, I swear! I never gave a girl a better grade for that. 

Others tried. Some I told outright that there was no way they could improve their grade. They usually changed their major; some didn't show up for the course after that. With others, I was in a quandary. If I simply refused, would they give up and do even worse? Did I think they could do better, that my letting them think they had influenced me to give them a better grade would result in a better effort on their part? 

Sometimes it did, but some disappointed my estimate of them, and I disappointed them. "Some" sounds like that happened more often than it did, less than once a semester or year. One semester was an exception. After the first girl came to me one spring term, and we did, two others also came. I hope now that we didn't. 

Over the years, I could not help but notice that the girls had more experience. The first ones in the late fifties and early sixties were not virgins, but obviously inexperienced. They were blushing when they said "anything" and picking at their blouse buttons. They didn't seem to expect that they would have an orgasm and usually didn't. Later, in the seventies, they still blushed at first, but if I agreed, they often repeated "anything" with a knowing smirk. Their idea of "anything" was really that, and they knew how. To be honest, it was more of a pleasure with them, and they all wanted to have their own orgasms and usually did. Again, that sounds like it happened more often than it really did.

I like to think that I was the origin of the story about the professor in such a situation, who closes the curtains and dims the light before replying, then telling the girl: "If you want a better grade, just study harder." I did that once; she looked so innocent, and I was sure that she could do more, if I just told her.

[In the text, he had crossed out the following sentence: "She wasn't very attractive," and penciled in: "She did earn a better final grade."]

Other colleagues had the same experience, of course, but I didn't hear about any from ones at my college. At a conference once before I retired, late one evening at the bar, the subject came up. I did not raise it, but I guess we all smirked slightly, nodding, then admitting that we had not just heard about it. A man from a state college chuckled and said: "She said she wanted sixty-nine, but on our grading system, that would still have been only a "C-plus." We all snickered and finished our drinks.

Evangeline was not one of those girls. She had always been an excellent student, seeming strangely a little shy or reserved, as though she were afraid she might say something inopportune. That continued even when she did postgraduate work, and we saw each other more often. Still waters run deep. This is really her story. That spring, I found a envelope in my in-basket.

The daughter reading the text, recognized that a long letter was clipped to the back of it, but her father had typed it in his text. 

"Dear Professor ... ,

You are the first man I ever wanted to sleep with. When I saw you on campus my first semester, I knew it. Oh, I had been wanting sex since I learned about it, but never had a boyfriend. My mother was a widow, and we lived in a small town where teenagers got married early or had to, if they couldn't wait. Then I had a scholarship to a convent boarding school. 

"We learned about sex the only way we could, reading books we had to hide. Junior year, we devoured Lady Chatterley and Lolita. At the end of the year, the seniors invited us to a late evening meeting. It was very conspiratorial. They laid two well-thumbed paperbacks on the table, one girl holding her hands on the covers and stating solemnly: 'Since you all will have to be here for a year more.' That is all she said, taking her hands away, and the seniors all slipped silently out of the room.

"We juniors just looked at the books in silence: 'My Life and Loves' by Frank Harris, 'My Secret Life.' Finally, two girls reached out to pick them up, and we discovered that the binding of each thick book had been cut, so that there were eight sections. Bolder girls quickly picked up the six other sections. The rest of us made them swear to bring them back after summer vacation, all of us then eighteen, two already nineteen.

"They did, grinning and smirking, eager to read more. We all did, deprived, depraved girls, turning pages with wet fingers. We learned more about sex than we had imagined there was to know, and did what we could to enjoy ourselves. At the end of the year, we passed the books on to the next class with the same ceremony.

"I don't know what the other girls did that summer, just knew what I wanted to do, but didn't, promising myself that at college it would happen, but with whom? Then I saw you, too late in fall term to change courses. I would have taken chemistry or calculus to be in one of your courses, but was delighted that you taught English. The next semester I registered for your composition course, a subject I liked. 

"By then it was too late for you to be the first man I slept with, but I was just as desperate about wanting to, so much so, that I was afraid I might blurt out something when I talked to you. How could I catch your attention in that context? Maybe you remember the paper I wrote about a personal experience. I didn't title it 'My First Time,' but it was, about a date to a football game that we never went to."

I had read hundreds of papers, but immediately recalled that one, not having remembered that Evangeline had written it. I had been shocked by the story, that the girl had dared to write it, wondering if it were true, hoping it was not. I returned it with a note, suggesting that she could talk to someone on the college's psychiatric staff. That was not the response she had wanted, I discovered, continuing to read her letter: 

"I was very nervous about writing it, but I wanted you to think of me in that context, wanting, hoping that you would call me in to discuss it. Oh, I would have been very embarrassed, probably more than I imagined, but you didn't. Your note was sweet, but maybe would have been more helpful for him. Once I got into writing it, forgetting my intention, it was fun. It all happened, but I was the one taking the initiative. He didn't know what to think, but I knew everything I wanted to do after reading those books, and we did. But it didn't work with you the way I had wanted it to. If you had asked if the story were true, I had the wild idea of explaining that I had been in charge and that I would climb over your desk and prove it. 

"I think there were sexual overtones in everything else I wrote: women seeing phallic symbols wherever I could – now that I had seen a phallus. Men saw hills as breasts or hips. You may remember a story in which the woman points out to the man that the shrubs around a spring between rolling hills reminded her of her pubic hair. I actually saw that somewhere in northern California. The story ended discreetly before he saw hers, but you didn't see mine, just gave me another good grade. You never got to see the conclusion that I had fun writing, in which he doesn't just see her pubic hair.

"I took another tack, and wrote a really bad piece, lots of incorrect punctuation and spelling, but you recognized that it was intentional, and returned it with the comment that it was a good story, but that I shouldn't make fun of how poorer students wrote. I thought you would have to call me in for blatantly copying something from Frank Harris, just changing the era and place, but you just gave him a good grade. Remember? The woman wanted to feel him 'thrill'."

That sentence let me immediately recall that paper, and that Evangeline had written it, kicking myself mentally for not having read Frank Harris's book. In his or her story, the woman wanted to feel him "thrill" in her mouth. He did write well, but so did she, so her plagiarism had not been apparent, as it was when poorer students copied another writer's work. Had Harris influenced her style? By then, I was accustomed to her direct or subtly sexual stories, enjoying them. Other students sometimes played around with less overt sexual implications. I had assumed that she was vicariously putting in words what she was missing in life. Other students did that too, idealizing family relationships: writing about happily married parents, non-existing siblings, visits to grandparents whom only Norman Rockwell could have painted. 

It was almost painful to realize that I had not understood Evangeline's intentions with all the sexual over and undertones in her writing. She had explained why she was shy and reticent about talking to me, afraid she might blurt out what she really wanted, had been wanting for almost five years, now in her letter telling me so directly. She certainly was not unattractive. It was embarrassing to have to admit to myself that I had had sex with less attractive students who only were hoping it would improve their grades. Evangeline had never needed any incentive to do excellent work. If any of my students ever had merited such "special attention," she did. 

Maybe – no, surely – it was better that I had not understood her desire. If I had, it would have become an affair; once wouldn't have been enough, especially when I recalled what she had said she had done in the first paper she had mentioned. Had she told that young student that she wanted to "feel him thrill"? She had, with or without those words. That she could write that and submit it in a paper?! "Deprived, depraved," her words describing herself and her classmates before she came to college. What else had she written? That paper that filled in what happened between two chapters of a book by Henry James in which she had caught his style very well, much more discreet than Frank Harris's, but still explicit enough. What else was in her letter? 

"I just could not do anything to make you call me into your office to talk about what I wanted. Oh, we talked, but not about that. I got a little more comfortable with that, but my desire was always in the back of my mind, more often in the front of it, when I had heard about your 'helping' poorer students to work harder. I couldn't use that as an excuse." 

How many other girls had known about that?! How did she? At least, I never heard anything, maybe a secret all professors had? If she knew about that, what reason could I have not to let her have her wish? Did I want one? Shouldn't I let her? Wouldn't it be more honest to respect Evangeline's wish? Suddenly, I thought of the liturgical expression: "meet and right," terribly in the wrong context. But if she wanted to, what excuse did I have? I couldn't think of one, and read the last few lines of her letter: 

"I still want to sleep with you, not like those girls in your office. It won't happen again; there are just a few weeks before I leave here and go to England, to Cambridge University. You probably know that. Please. I'm good at being bad. Please be bad at being good."

I had to chuckle at her last turn of phrase. She had already mentioned that she knew that I could be less than good at being "good." Had she recognized that she almost had me trapped with her clever phrase? Or did I just want to see it as trap? I admitted to myself that I did, chuckling again with the thought that I had no choice but to try to be good at being "bad at being good." 

She had signed the letter with just her name, not "Evangeline," my alias for her, chosen after "meet and right" had popped into my head. The name is related to Latin "evangelium," the gospel, the good news. It seemed appropriate after I had admitted to myself that I wanted to sleep with her, that her letter was good news. She would certainly think my agreeing was good news.

How should I reply? Just "YES" on a sheet of my letter paper seemed too blunt; her long letter deserved a better response, lighthearted, witty. It was a good thing my wife didn't know what I was thinking about that night. In the morning, while shaving, I remembered that she liked music, the melody of "Quando, quando, quando" suddenly ringing in my ears. That was it; I would find the notes or pick them out on the piano and write them on a page, leaving it for her to remember the words: Tell me when, when, when.

It took me another day to do that, but I was very pleased with myself when I put it in an addressed envelope in my out basket. By then I was completely attuned to her suggestion, anticipating her reply with delight. It was wickedly charming to be planning a rendezvous. 

The next day I found an envelope in my in basket. In it was my sheet. She had added an exclamation mark after the notes, and drawn a big smiley, one eye winking. Beneath it she had written: "Not x/y-z," the dates of a weekend, followed by an oversized period. I nodded with a slight smile, understanding. I hadn't thought about that. "Latest" with another weekend date followed. She was assuming it would be a weekend rendezvous. I hadn't thought of that either, though I could have, since she had written that it wasn't going to be like with those girls in my office. Anything she wanted, I thought, then having to smile wryly at my thinking like those girls who had offered to do "anything" for a better grade.

A weekend sounded delightful; she deserved much more time than those girls, and I wanted her to have it. I wanted it too. I hadn't started to think about what I was agreeing to, but she had already. Anything she wanted, but when, where? My wife was going to pick up one or both our daughters from their colleges after their final exams. When? 

They had chosen not to go to the college where their father taught, which was just as well, after I had "helped" a couple of girls to study harder - especially now that Evangeline had revealed that other girls knew about that. After one of the sherry parties, the younger one, then sixteen, had said something about the girls' looking like they were hanging on my lips, "but not for pearls of poetic profundity." She got a scholarship to Wellesley, the other one at Mt. Holyoke. 

The older daughter, who was reading the text that she had snatch from her sister, chuckled and had a another sip of wine. It was her second glass. She refilled her glass. While reading, her expression had varied from surprised frowns to wry smiles, chuckles. Once she had murmured to herself: "Yeah, Dad, your Evangeline; you would have had to think of that. Hmm! 'Meet and right'!" 

She took another sip of wine and returned to reading. 

That evening, I checked my wife's calendar, relieved that she wouldn't pick up the girls the weekend Evangeline would have her period. She and the girls were going to spend a day or two in Boston, so it was certain that weekend would be all right. I had a little guilty conscience about planning a weekend rendezvous around the rest of my family, but just a very little one. I returned our sheet of paper with the dates of that weekend and a question mark, plus a smiley with a crooked smile. 

This was being fun, not to mention my anticipation of how she would reply. My anticipation faded, when I didn't get a reply the couple of days before the intevening weekend. Monday morning, there was a folder of freshmen papers from her seminar in my in basket. I had to deal with more immediate items, taking the folder home in the evening, as I often did. After dinner, I settled in my armchair, resigned to having to thumb through the papers and see if I agreed with her comments. I almost always did, and did for the first few I read. 

The comment at the top of the next one was only in pencil "good or bad A or D?" That was very unusual. When she wasn't sure about her marking, she did use pencil, allowing me to clip a note with my opinion, so that she could erase her question and revise it. That made the paper more interesting, at least, also its title: Montauk Lighthouse. 


Sex on Campus Ch. 01



"It was a lovely early summer day, when he picked her up for a date to visit the Mystic Seaport Museum in eastern Connecticut. She didn't know him that well, but they had a common interest. The drive from north of New York City was very pleasant, discovering that their common interest was stronger than she had expected. They almost held hands when walking around the museum, enjoying telling each other the books they had read about seafaring: Slocum's 'Sailing alone around the World,' Richard Dana's 'Two Years before the Mast,' Kipling's "Captains Courageous, 'Moby Dick.' Did they both glance at each other when that title was mentioned. They certainly did, when he asked with an innocent expression: 'I wonder whom Melville thought "Moby" was?'

"They both chuckled. She wanted to suggest 'mobbly,' then recognizing that she was thinking 'bobbly dick,' feeling her nipples pop out. They still were, when he glanced at her. She hoped he had noticed, wishing she hadn't worn a bra, so that her boobs could bobble."

Reading the paper, I had to wonder if she had a freshman student who wrote so much in her style and with her choice of subject. What made her think that it could be either an A or a D? The story was clearly too interesting to be a D, unless it suddenly fell apart. I read on: 

"He wanted to look at all the old sailing ships, and she did too, but surprised herself, suggesting: 'We can come here again. It's such a lovely day. I've never been to Montauk Point.' He hadn't either, just remarking that they wouldn't get back until quite late. She smiled with a nod and replied that she didn't have to get back early. He smiled and they almost hurried back to his car and drove to the ferry to Long Island. Waiting for the next ferry, he said that it could be very late. She nodded with slight smirk and replied that no one was expecting her to be home. He smiled with a nod, agreeing that no one was waiting for him." 

I suddenly realized that my Evangeline was telling me how she was anticipating how our weekend should be. I wanted it to be an A, then stifled a snicker; I was sitting in the living room with my wife. Did Evangeline want a D for deprived, depraved? Was she going to tell me everything she wanted to do with me? Clever of her, very clever of her! I surreptitiously adjusted my cock in my jockey shorts and continued to read: 

"On the ferry, when their hands brushed, she grasped his, and he squeezed hers. They didn't release them until they had to get back in his car. At Montauk Point, they grasped hands again. She was tempted to say something about lighthouses being phallic symbols, but didn't, not directly, just humming and remarking: 'It's so big and tall, looks stiff enough to stand any storm.' She blushed at what she had said, and was sure this time that he noticed, also her erect nipples. She rubbed an arm over them just to make sure. When he grinned in response, she did, squeezing his hand. He did what she had not dared to do, scratching a finger in her palm. 

"'Um-hmm' she nodded, and then did scratch her finger in his palm. They exchanged glances with slightly aroused expressions. His finger scratched again, and hers did. They both hummed with a sigh. She knew that her panties were all moist, pale blue cotton panties, darker where they were wet. She ventured a glance down at his trousers, suppressing a smile at seeing the bulge, especially liking that he didn't wear jockey shorts. She squeezed his hand again and then scratched more than before in his palm. He nodded, just squeezing her hand. She murmured: 'We don't have to go back tonight.' 'If you don't want to,' he replied softly, squeezing her hand again. She shook her head. 'On a first date?' he murmured. 'We could have had enough before,' she replied, squeezing his hand. He nodded. She murmured: 'Motels don't see that we don't have any baggage.'

"They hurried back to the car and found a motel. What they did then is left to the reader's imagination."

My imagination was not what it should have been, sitting in the living room with my wife, especially when she looked up and asked: 

"Good paper?"

"Quite. Nice to see how much better some freshmen can write."

"Like our daughters, but they grew up close to the subject."

I nodded with a smile, slipping Evangeline's paper to the back of the folder. That night, my wife really shouldn't have known what I was thinking as I went to sleep, nor some of the following nights, as I recalled the sexual connotations in Evangeline's other stories. The next morning, I attached a note to her paper: 'A for anticipation, D for deprived, depraved.' When we saw each other, she nodded with a grin. We kept out of each other's way, otherwise.

The weekend arrived - our weekend, I had begun to think. We had telephoned very briefly, just time and place to pick her up. I did. We both seemed a little embarrassed, exchanging slightly wry smiles. I murmured: 

"You were right, either an A or D."

"Hm-hmm! Hadn't thought of that, just didn't want to give myxself an E."

"For excellence but A and D were better."

"Hm-hmm! And if I had suggested B or C?"

"B and C? Hmm? You want body parts?"

"Oooh! Hadn't thought of that. Hm-hmm! But if you want them?"

I glanced at her breasts, her aroused nipples obviously not restrained by a bra, and replied: "Bobble!"

She shook them, grinning at me, then asking: 

"And C?" 

"Cheeks."

"Uhn? Which ones?"

"All four of them. ... Or were you thinking of something else?"

"Hmmm! Now that you ask!"

We grinned at each other, she apparently as pleased as I was, that we had so quickly found a way to share implications about why we were together, about how we knew we were going to spend the weekend. She confirmed my understanding, being even more direct: 

"Don't make my panties wet too soon."

"The pale blue ones?"

"Um-hmm! Oh, I reserved a room at the motel, my treat; I didn't want you to have any feelings that you had planned this."

"I sure haven't, but I sure like that you finally took the initiative."

"After almost five years? And you never did."

"Don't ask why. Reading your letter, I thought that if I had, it would have become a real affair, you know, not just once."

"Don't know if it wouldn't have. Hmm? Probably wouldn't have wanted it not to be. Oh, we're not going to Mystic Seaport; that was just a diversion."

"Kind of thought so."

"Had to let the couple find each other first, in case the paper got in the wrong hands."

"An A for that. Hm-hmm! Took me a while to understand that it wasn't about them."

"But then you did."

"And how, wanting to know how far the story would go."

"I didn't want to anticipate too much. Oh, I did, but not to put it on paper."

"Won't tell you then what your reader could imagine."

"Mmmm! I hope it was good!"

"It was, just not sure it can all happen."

"Hmmmm, we can try; I told you that I'm good at being bad."

"Hm-hmm, what let me think that maybe I couldn't be good enough at being bad at being good."

We both snickered, then were silent for a mile or two. I had packed an overnight bag with my toilet kit and change of underwear, and she also had a small bag. I suddenly remembered from her story that she didn't like jockey shorts, wanted to see a bulge in my pants. Then she spoke: 

"I shouldn't ask, ..." and didn't.

"My being able to get away for a night?"

"Um-hmm."

"We're lucky; she's picking the girls up at their colleges, Holyoke and Wellesley, spending a couple of days in Boston." 

"We are lucky."

"I think I would have found an excuse: called to a conference in the City or something."

"That's nice; I was worried that you might find an excuse why we couldn't, shouldn't."

"Hmmm? Should I have? I didn't. Guilty conscience? I talked myself out of it, reading your letter, or maybe better, you talked me into it – not a guilty conscience."

"I'm glad."

"Me too. Funny - a little - while reading it and thinking about those other girls, suddenly the liturgical phrase "meet and right" popped into my head, that it was better and more justified to do it with you than it had been with any of them."

"Mmmm! That's nice too."

"Um-hmm! Hm-hmm! 'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; ...'" 

She laughed, and I did.

"What the 'dickens' made you think of that?" she replied, emphasizing 'dickens' to show that she recognized the closing line of "Tale of Two Cities." 

"Seemed just too appropriate."

"But you're not going to your execution." 

"I sure hope not, but an 'execution' does not have to be a beheading."

"Hm-hmm! It sure doesn't!"

We laughed again. Then she smiled at me and said: 

"This is being a lot more fun than I expected."

"For me, too. Maybe it's a good thing that we didn't find out earlier than it could be."

"Um-hmm, ... but just maybe."

"Um-hmm," I agreed and drove on. As I turned off the highway towards the ferry, she murmured: "I'm going to want to hold your hand, but if you don't want to ..."

"I do too, just hope no one who knows me is around."

"Of course, not then. We can walk around, until you know."

I reached over and grasped the back of her hand, and she closed her fingers around mine. When I released her hand and put it back on the steering wheel, she murmured: 

"Just like I hoped, when I was writing my story."

"Too good: an A-plus."

We waited for the ferry, both of us looking to see if we recognized anyone we knew, the backs of our hands brushing, as we softly discussed a reason that could be an excuse for our being seen together. I thought that I could say that I was just taking my grad student for an outing on Long Island as a farewell before her going to Cambridge. She thought that was still suspicious, suggesting that I was just taking her to stay with friend for the weekend. We both chuckled softly, not looking at each other, murmuring that both stories would be true. 

We didn't recognize anyone gathering to get on the ferry. When I drove on it, we agreed to separate and walk around to make sure, agreeing that if we happened to see someone we knew, we could be surprised that the other one of us also was there. While I was wandering around the decks, I saw the men's toilet, recalling that it was called the "head" on a ship, then recalling our conversation. I wasn't going to be beheaded, but I had another head in my jockey shorts, and she didn't like them. I ducked in the small men's room, in the toilet stall, and struggled to get one leg out of my pants and shorts and back in my pants, shaking my shorts down my other leg while I used the toilet. I took my shorts off my other foot and stuffed them in my pocket. 

As I left the men's room, enjoying feeling my cock and balls moving freely in my pants, it occurred to me that it could be embarrassing if I found her talking to someone she or both of us knew, if my cock suddenly remembered why we were together. Don't think about it, I admonished myself and my cock. 

We found each other, both smiling and shaking our heads. We held hands and walked to a railing where we couldn't be easily overheard. When she scratched in my palm, I nodded with an "um-hmm," but murmured: 

"Don't do that. I remembered that you don't like jockey shorts and took them off."

"Oooh! Mmmm! Then maybe not, but I like that."

"I do too. Anyone tell you how it feels like that?"

"No, but I like that the first man I wanted to sleep with does."

"Good. At least, that is a first."

"Maybe a little like my boobs feel."

"More sociably acceptable."

"Um-hmm. Girls don't really mind that men can see their nipples."

"Wicked women! I don't want anyone seeing ... but you, of course."

She scratched in my palm again, murmuring: 

"And if I want to? No one else can, here."

"Wicked woman." 

My cock was pressing against my left pant leg. She glanced down, chuckling softly as she squeeze my hand. I tried to change the subject: 

"And what do we do when the ferry lands?"

"Hmmm! A light lunch, maybe a walk around my phallic symbol. Can't check into the motel before two o'clock."

"Uh-ho! And then?"

"Better not ask, since you don't have any shorts on."

Her finger was scratching in my palm again.

"And your panties?" 

"Want to be wet."

"Already?"

"Hm-hmm! Give me a double A for already anticipation."

"A double D for deprived, depraved."

"Even better!"

My cock was trying to slide around. I was about to put my hand in my pocket to help it, but then snickered and murmured: 

"Even if your panties aren't yet wet ..."

"They are," she interjected. 

Both of us were looking out at the sound, as though we were just talking about the view. 

"Then you can help me." 

She responded with a nod and deep chuckle, releasing my hand and sliding hers around my thigh, chuckling again as her hand slip over my cock, grasping it as best she could, then shoving it up and around, until it was vertical, turning her hand to hold it again, and humming deeply. She murmured: 

"They're even wetter."

"Just don't make me want to be." 

She nodded and reluctantly removed her hand. I grasped it and murmured: 

"I'd better keep you from wanting to do more."

"Um-hmm!" she agreed cheerfully, squeezing my hand. We both chuckled. I wanted to change the subject, but couldn't entirely: 

"That lucky guy, when you didn't go to the football game?"

"Hm-hmm! I couldn't tell in the paper everything I did; he couldn't have made me do that. I wasn't sure I wanted to, but ... well, if I was going to do everything I had read about."

"Wanting to feel him thrill?"

"You guessed it. I just had to do. Was he surprised?! Hm-hmm! I washed it down with the rest of my Manhatten."

"Lucky guy!" 

"He probably thought I was a slut that had done it before. Maybe I was a little, having read so much about it."

"I never thought you were."

"Why we're here, thanks, but maybe I was. At least, he was willing to do it to me. Hm-hmm! Good guy, very willing, doing what I told him to do."

"Maybe lucky you."

"Hmmm? If you really want to know, almost as good as my roommate the next year could."

"Hmm!"

The daughter, who was reading her father's text, had emptied her wine glass and drunk the rest from the bottle that she poured in it. She smirked to herself, nodding and chuckling. She got up and went to her kitchen, opening the cabinet where the bottles were. She reached for a second bottle of the wine she had been drinking, then took the open bottle of cognac and half filled her wine glass. She returned to her chair and took a sip, picking the text up again, finding again the where she had been reading: 

"Hmmm? If you really want to know, almost as good as my roommate the next year could."

"Hmm!"

"Surprised?"

"Just a little, but you had suggested that that had happened your last year in the convent school."

"Oh, we did; you're right! I was a little surprised that my roommate wanted to. Never asked her when she first had, and she didn't ask me."

"Mmmm! Sounds like a challenge, that I have to, too."

"You haven't?"

"Oh yes, but didn't know that I would be competing with what girls did with each other, probably knowing better what the other one was feeling."

"Hm-hmm! You're right, but I want you to."

"I'll try, enjoy trying."

"Can't ask more. ... They're all wet, my panties."

We chuckled. Despite our conversation, my cock had relaxed. We returned to my car and waited till I could drive off the ferry. When I had, seeing a seafood restaurant near the dock, I parked. My Evangeline was surprised, but immediately agreed to my suggestion of lunch. When I order a dozen oysters for each of us, she smirked. We enjoyed them with large glasses of beer, smirking as we dipped them in sauce and ate them, pursing our lips at each other and smiling. Her nipples were evident to anyone who looked. My cock would have been, if someone could have looked under the table. 

When I had paid, it was still too early to go to the motel. In the car, she reached over and put her hand in my crotch. My cock responded. I smiled at her, and her fingers slipped around it. 

"Your big, stiff phallic symbol," I murmured.

"If we have to."

"We do, even if it gives you false expectations.

"Hm-hmm! This one is just the right size," she replied, squeezing my cock.

Somehow we managed to spend the time till we could go to the motel. Not just somehow; when I put my arm around her waist, and hers slid around mine, my cock sprang up again. We wandered away from other tourists and embraced, both of us enjoying feeling it between us, rocking our hips together. She drew hers back, looking up at me and murmuring: 

"Not yet."

"Hope not." 

"Didn't know if we would want to kiss, ... of course, then."

"Now," I replied, and we did.

I almost came in my pants, having to pull my hips back to rescue my cock from the arousal of the movement of hers. I hummed and murmured: "Not yet."

She moaned and nodded, but loosened our embrace. We returned to the car, my cock still bulging against my pants. Her hand started to hold it again, but then didn't. At the motel, she had to register, since she had reserved the room, giving my cock a minute or two to relax. I got our bags out of the car and waited to follow her to our room. 

As Evangeline had suggested in her letter, the rest should be left to the reader's imagination. The next morning, I was lying in bed with Evangeline's head on my shoulder, her thigh on mine, the way we had fallen asleep a few hours before.

That was the end of the typescript. His daughter gave a disappointed frown and had another sip of her cognac. Then she turned that page up and discovered that there were a several more typed pages between it and the letter from his Evangeline. When she saw that the first page started with their returning to the car and driving to the motel, she grinned to herself and murmured: "Yeah, Daddy, too good just to leave to your imagination." She had a better sip of cognac, settling back to read.

I got our bags out of the car and waited to follow her to our room. When I joined her, she smiled and said: "Didn't have to give your name," and unlocked the door. 

I tossed our bags on the chair, expecting that we would immediately embrace again, but she started to take off her skirt with a grin and said: "Before I really wet my pants, want to see?"

She didn't wait to let me look, just letting her skirt fall, kicking off her sandals and turning to the bathroom with a nod for me to follow. I did, fishing my shorts out of my pocket. She flipped the toilet lid up and whipped her panties down and sat down, then grinning at me again. We both looked at the darker blue wet spot in the crotch of her panties, as she slip them past her knees, and I heard the hiss of her going in the toilet. She smiled wryly, nodding when I showed her my jockey shorts. She grinned again and said: 

"Show me. Let me see," and reached out and fumbled to find the tab of my zipper. As she did and pulled it down, I murmured: 

"Maybe you would have climbed over my desk."

"I doubt it. Haven't done this either."

"I've got to go too," I murmured, undoing the two hooks that fastened the waistband of my pants. 

She chuckled and grasped them at my hips, pulling them down. She hummed and murmured: 

"The first one I wanted to see."

"Better late than never."

"Hm-hmm! And the kind I like best." 

For a moment, I wondered what she meant, if she was just making a compliment, but then remembered that most other American men were circumcised. By then, however, her fingers were shoving my foreskin up on my swelling cock, more shoving it back, as it rose in front of her face. She hummed again, and murmured: 

"You'd better go, before I want to do more, right here."




Sex on Campus Ch. 01



"Feel me thrill?" I suggested, a little surprised at my own directness.

"That too, but not if you have to go." 

She stood up and went to the washbasin, and I went, my pants still around my ankles, making sure she could hear my stream splashing in the toilet bowl. When I flushed and shuffled around, she was naked, smirking at me with erect nipples. She had lovely breasts, but they all had been when I saw them, young women's: some round orbs: some innocently small, looking like they had never been held, but with nipples wanting to be sucked; a couple worthy of a Playboy centerfold; but all lovely. Evangeline's were lovely, not too large, hardly a crease under them, her nipples protruding in the center of small rosy circles. 

She hummed, her eyes looking down at my cock, then dropping lower, and she chuckled at seeing my pants down around my feet, chuckling again, when my eyes dropped down and looked at her pussy, an attractive small triangle of hair, not a bush. She slid her fingers over it, humming again as they squeezed between her thighs. My cock was rising. She moaned softly and murmured: "Hurry."

I did, slipping off my loafers and holding the cuffs of my pants to step out of my pants. She nodded and went back in the room. I followed her, stripping my shirt and undershirt together over my head. When my head was free again, I saw that she had flung back the covers on the queen-sized bed. She was looking at me with an aroused expression, breathing deeply. Despite that, or maybe because of it to release my own nervous tension, I murmured: 

"I'll do anything you want, anything, if you'll give me a good grade." 

Her expression changed, smirking as she chuckled and nodded, replying: 

"We'll talk about that latter. Lie down."

I did, rolling on my back to the middle of the bed. She almost dove down on top of me, grinning with her face over mine. I grinned back and remarked: 

"Maybe I should have used that line."

"Hm-hm-hmm! And given them a better grade if they had been better?"

"I never gave them a better grade, unless they then did better work."

"I'll have to believe you."

"It's true. Some of them then did."

"The placebo effect: if they took the medicine, they thought they could do better."

"Oh, that's good. If the subject ever comes up again at drinks during a conference ..."

"It does?!" she interjected. 

"Did once, maybe more often at state colleges."

"And?"

"One professor told that a girl had wanted sixty-nine, then explaining that on their grading system that would still have been only a C-plus."

She chuckled. Her stomach's moving on mine felt good. Then she smirked and said: 

"You know how you can be sure that I'll give you at least a C-plus."

"Mmmm! And for a better grade?"

She didn't answer, lowering her face and finding my lips with hers, our mouths both open, tongues meeting. 

This was being a lot better than I had imagined, also because of our bantering. When my cock rose between her thighs, she slid then off mine, and it sprang up. She chuckled warmly and pulled herself higher up on me, my hands on her ass helping. She wanted me to suck her nipples as much as I wanted to. I licked and nibbled, and she moaned, rocking her hips down, and wanted me to suck more than I was, murmuring "harder," and pressing the one I was nibbling down on my mouth. I sucked harder - anything for a better grade. She nodded with better moan. My cock was twitching, not touching her with her so far up on me. I didn't have much experience in this position, but my hands instinctively gripped the cheeks of her ass closer to her pussy, separating them.

"Um-hmm," she responded with a nod and pushed herself back. The head of my cock touched her, and she nodded again, rocking her hips up and pressing back. "Find it," she murmured, raising her hips a little, rocking them, the head of my cock sliding, twitching between her pussy lips. 

We found it. She rocked her hips down, her pussy sliding down around my cock, both of us moaning. She spread her thighs more, settling further down on it, moaning and looking down at me with an aroused, longing expression. My cock twitched, and her pussy squeezed it, both of us moaning again.

"Beheaded," I murmured. 

"Uhmmm! Don't make me laugh. Execution!" 

We "executed," our hips both rocking, better, when she drew her knees up and could ride up and down on my cock, our tongues also plunging, hers in my mouth, then mine in hers. But then what we were feeling in her pussy was too arousing to do anything but gasp and moan. 

Fuck! I didn't want to use that word, but "copulate" was too literary for what we were doing. We were fucking! My moans began to sound like grunts, and hers became pulsing, desperate, almost pained sounding ones. 

Fuck! We did, we had! Those younger girls had never come like my Evangeline did. She lay inert on me, both of us drawing deep breaths and sighing with long moans. I rubbed her back. She nodded with a soft "um-hmm" and slid her legs back, my cock slipping out, feeling her pussy drip.

Finally, she murmured: 

"That was worth waiting for; it wouldn't have been like that when I first wanted to."

"For me too, even though I didn't know you had been for so long."

"Mmmm!" 

She raised her head and kissed me, just a little kiss, and rolled off me. I rolled towards her, and we embraced, our legs comfortably interlocked. When she smiled, chuckling softly, I ventured to ask: 

"Better that a C-plus? I thought it was."

"Hm-hmm! A lot better. Oh, maybe I shouldn't admit that. Hm-hmm! You could be satisfied with a B-minus, but it was better than that."

"I hope so. Not sure how much better it could be."

"Hmm? I'm not either, but we have lots of time to try to find out. I want to give you the best grade I can."

"An A-plus? Seems unlikely."

"Hmmm! Just try. Oh, I know: execution. If you can give me a 'petit mort,' that would be an A-plus."

"I may have to be happy with just an A, or even just a B or B-plus."

"That sounds good too."

We chuckled and held each other closer with another little kiss. Then she murmured: 

"Oh, this is being so good!"

"It is! And a lot more fun than I imagined - our talking."

"Very! I don't know how I thought we would get here, like this."

"Nor I, but we didn't have any trouble getting here, like this."

"With your quoting Dickens and telling me that you thought it was "meet and right'?" 

"Better not remind me about that."

"But it is, especially now that we know it is being."

"Like this and the talking," I added.

"Um-hmm." 

She hugged me again, and we kissed again. Then she murmured: 

"Maybe a good thing that you never asked me in to discuss one of those papers."

"Um-hmm, even if you didn't climb over my desk; maybe I would have, at least, knowing what I do now." 

"Knowing me, like in the Bible."

"Hmm? For sure, not that I should."

"Too late." 

"Too good!" I agreed, this time hugging her first and kissing. 

Her tongue suggested it should be a better kiss. Mine did too. 

His daughter nodded with a hum and took another sip of cognac, then emptying the bit still in her glass. She looked at it, wobbling her head questioningly, and then got up and returned to the kitchen and poured a little cognac in her glass, topping it up with water, and returned to her chair and continued reading, just sipping at her diluted cognac.

Her tongue suggested it should be a better kiss. Mine did too. Our thighs twitched together, and I felt my cock swell again. When it moved, sliding off my thigh, I murmured: "My C-plus." 

She nodded with a chuckling moan. Then she snickered and replied: 

"Your C-plus. Was it a C-minus before, or a straight C. 

"Hm-hmm! It wasn't straight; must have been a minus."

I was a little surprised at what I had said, that I had taken the initiative, but I wanted to lick her pussy. I wasn't really thinking about her wanting me to, that I would be arousing her, or that I was suggesting that she arouse my cock. I wanted to lick her pussy. I turned around on the bed. When she drew her thigh up under my head, I drew mine up. Her head was raised to let it slip under her head, and her hand drew my hips closer. Mine did too. 

I was reminded how my wife's pussy had been before our daughters were born, delighting at exploring Evangeline's with my tongue, but I couldn't forget what hers was doing on my cock - "good at being bad." So good! 

"Oh, Daddy!" his daughter muttered, taking a better sip. She just scanned through the next lines, reading at the end of the paragraph: 

God, she had really wanted to feel me thrill! My face was so wet from her orgasm! That had to be better than just a C-plus, at least, what she had done.

We rubbed each other's ass and relaxed. When I then fondled her breast - nice firm breast - she nodded on my thigh, then murmured: 

"How did you know that I wanted to do that?"

"I didn't; I just wanted to."

"And did! ... As good as that roommate did."

"What compliment!"

"Really, well, doing it to you was better than doing it to her."

"That's a little reassuring."

"Any port in a storm."

"I know how much she must have enjoyed it."

"Hm-hmm! Can I give you better than C-plus?"

"Doesn't matter now, unless you're calculating an average for my final grade."

"I'd rather not; just give you the best mark you earn."

"Mmmm! Hmm? Maybe I should stop while I'm ahead."

"You'd better not! If you don't finish the course, you fail, or like in a race, you come in last."

"Hm-hmm! Even if I come a little in ...?"

"Hmm! You're too clever with words."

"My profession."

We both chuckled and then sat up, grinning at each other. She smirked and murmured: 

"Peepee." 

"And shower."

"And a walk before supper."

"If you don't scratch my palm and make me forget supper."

"I wouldn't do that!"

It was her suggestion that we could "peepee" together in the shower. We had more fun than I expected washing each other. She wanted to make my cock stand up, and did, and liked that my fingers did more on her pussy than just wash it. She reciprocated by surprising me, her fingers rubbing my asshole. When I chuckled, she said "mine too," and responded with a better chuckle, when I did, adding: 

"Feels good, doesn't it?" her fingers still rubbing.

"Too good at being bad."

"Um-hmm. Wouldn't have been back then."

We almost didn't take our walk before dinner. Her panties had dried, and I insisted that I wear my jockey shorts, letting her see that I shoved my cock around so that it wouldn't be down by my balls. 

"So that I can scratch your palm," she suggested with a grin.

"If you wear a bra."

"Hm-hmm! Haven't got one with me."

"Want everyone to see them?"

"Yes! Want them to know that you turn me on."

"Didn't I ever notice before?"

"No! They did, but I used to wear the bras mother bought."

"Saved us from an extended affair."

"Hmm? Maybe. Wouldn't have wanted to ruin your marriage."

"Tell your mother thanks."

"I'd rather not."

We nodded and finished dressing and took our walk, chuckling and scratching each other's palm, not with the effect that had had before, and joking about that. She led me passed a restaurant, telling me that we could eat there, and I said it would be my treat: "for anything she wanted, anything!" 

We chuckled, and she scratched my palm and murmured: 

"You could be lucky; you already know what I like to eat."

"Very lucky, but not in the restaurant."

She feigned a scowl and replied: 

"You mean I have to wait?"

"For your dessert." 

"Hm-hmm! As long as you don't want whatever is on the menu."

"That seems very unlikely," I replied, scratching her palm.

We chuckled with smirks and continued our walk. We were the first people for dinner in the restaurant, and quickly served, and quickly finished our meal. Back in our motel room, we immediately undressed and used the toilet; we had share a bottle of wine. Back in the room, we looked at each, both glancing at the bed, then looking at each other again with quizzical expressions, both smiling wryly. 

"It's your weekend," I finally said. She wrinkled her nose with slight chuckle and replied: 

"I know, thanks: 'anything' I want to do."

I just nodded, then she did with a very girlish chuckle, almost a giggle, then smiled very wryly and said: 

"Oh, this is kind of funny. I don't know how I thought this was going to be. Oh, it's being real good, thank you. Hmm?! I guess I was sort of expecting that we would do it as often as we could; I had been wanting to for so long."

"Sort of like for all the times we didn't?"

"Something like that. Oh, I was a little apprehensive how it would start, but we quickly settled that, talking in the car."

"Would have been even funnier, if we hadn't, well, not funny, both of us wondering how it would start, but your paper was a great suggestion of how it should. Brilliant."

"B for brilliance?"

"At least." 

We smiled. I was beginning to feel more like wanting to do something, and her nipples had popped out. I murmured: 

"Anything you want to do."

"Anything I want to do," she almost whispered, as though to herself, looking past me. Then smirked slightly and looked at me and said louder: 

"Appetite comes with eating," grinning, as she let me see her eyes dart down at my cock. 

"Oh, I should have insisted that we have dessert."

"Hm-umm! Just sit down."

I chuckled with a nod and sat down on the bed, not surprised that she was dropping to her knees in front of me. I spread my thighs, watching her look at my not quite so relaxed cock and loose sack. She looked up at me with nice smile and said: 

"Oh, this is going to be good, do something I haven't before, and I want to feel you thrill, like that woman in Chicago with Frank Harris. Hm-hmm! But I'm going to make you wait for it, make you suffer, for not having let me for years."

"Hmmm! I think I could be masochist if you want to make me suffer like that."

"I'll be one too, a little, also having to wait."

"Maybe you can't as long as you think."

"Only one way to find out."

She smiled at me again, chuckling, then looked down again, murmuring to herself: 

"Never did it like this; never just let me." 

I understood that the men she had slept with had never been patient enough to just let her. I hadn't been either, and my wife had only done it when I had been licking her pussy, and not better than a C-plus, to be honest. 

"Daddy, that wasn't nice!" his daughter murmured, taking a better sip of cognac and water.



Sex on Campus Ch. 02



I understood that the men she had slept with had never been patient enough to just let her suck their cocks. I hadn't been either, and my wife had only done it when I had been licking her pussy, and not better than a C-plus, to be honest. 

"Daddy, that wasn't nice!" his daughter murmured, taking a better sip of cognac and water, continuing to read her father's erotic story.

I didn't need prior experience to anticipate that Evangeline would be able to lick my cock where it was most sensitive, but first she had to get it aroused. Whatever she had been doing, while waiting since her freshman year to sleep with me, even if she hadn't done it this way before, apparently she must have had some fantasies about what she could do. 

She engulfed as much of my still soft cock with her mouth, not pushing back my foreskin. Nice, that I had the kind she liked best - "better"; there are only two kinds. Have to kid her about that. She wasn't going to have to push it back; her sucking was making the head of my cock creep out of it. She chuckled with nod, letting it, until she had to raise her head a little, and then a little more. Then she raised it further, her tongue finding where it was most sensitive. I moaned, and she chuckled, her tongue obviously enjoying tickling the little ridge of skin there. 

Of course, I knew already how sensitively arousing that was, without a girl's licking; men knew how to help themselves. Not any more, but before I married and any girl had touched my cock, just rubbing with a finger was almost painfully too good. I moaned, wondering when my Evangeline had first discovered that. She must have; when I moaned again, her tongue relented. Then I felt her fingers on my sack, already tight, from the way her fingers fondle it. 

She raised her head, letting my cock bob up, and murmured: 

"Didn't want that to happen yet," then looked up at me with a grin and added: 

"Suffer!" 

"Relief, gladly."

"I'm going to suck your balls, when I get them loose again."

"Oooh! How will that feel?"

"You don't know? Neither do I; what I haven't done before."

"Hmmm! Nice, something we both had to wait for."

"Um-hmm," she agreed, grinning. 

We had to wait for my sack to relax, but her fingers knew something about that, catching a wrinkle and pulling, and catching another wrinkle. When I thought it was loose enough for her to try to suck one in her mouth, she still continued. My cock was drooping passed half mast when my sack was completely loose. She chuckled at her success, with her fingers behind them, batting them lightly, making them swing. I chuckled and remarked: 

"Nice, feels good, someone else playing with them."

"Someone else?"

"Just me, sometimes, like this weekend, if you weren't."

"Oh! Don't let me intrude, if you rather would." We both snickered. 

"Suck my balls," I demanded with a grin.

"Mmmm! That's what I like: a man telling me what to do."

She did, pressing one between her lips and gently closing her mouth around it, sucking and caressing it with her tongue. I moaned to show my appreciation; it didn't feel that arousing, but it was arousing that she wanted to. After several seconds of letting me enjoy it, she let my ball pop out of her mouth and looked up at me with a smile, asking: 

"Feel good?"

"Um-hmm. For you too, I hope."

"Yes, about like I expected, the hairs and all."

"Hm-hmm! And knowing that you really had me by the balls, one of them."

"Um-hmm! You better be good; I'm going to have the other one too."

"Thought you wanted me to be bad at being good."

"You've been pretty good at that so far."

"And you, very good at being bad -- so far."

"And now again. This is good, like this."

Before I could think of a witty reply, my wilting cock was back in her mouth, and we started all over again, she and my cock. When she had me moaning again, wanting to urge her head to bob on my cock, she raised her head and murmured: 

"That tastes good; almost couldn't stop."

"A masochist for having managed to."

"Um-hmm," she agreed with a grin, scratching behind my tight sack and then finding a wrinkle to start loosening it again. 

When it was, and she was about to push my other ball in her mouth, I remarked: 

"Just remember, I'm being good, at least until you want me not to be."

She nodded, not looking up, and then my other ball was in her mouth. This time, she let me feel her teeth holding it, chuckling, humming, as she sucked and licked. Her humming vibrating on it felt good. I moaned and murmured: 

"Humming because you like it? Feels good."

"Uhnnnn, uhn-hnnn!"

I felt it more than heard her, chuckling. This time, she really let it pop out of her mouth: "blop!" When she looked up at me with a grin, I said: 

"I've only got two; you've had them both, so now?"

"Hmm? I guess so. ... Oh, I could do something else I've never done before, but only if you want to, too."

I must have raised my eyebrows questioningly. She smiled wryly, and explained: 

"I could lick you there too, where we washed each other, but only if you want to."

"Hmm? If you do? 'Anything you want' was sort of a promise."

"Worth waiting for so long, but then you're going to have to suffer again."

"Be careful, if you almost couldn't stop before."

She grinned with a nod, and then my cock was back in her mouth. She was more gentle about arousing it this time, or my cock had become a little inured to what her tongue was doing, or I was less aroused in the confidence that she would stop, wondering about her wanting to lick my asshole. Her fingers had already shown me that it would feel good. It would for her too, the same feeling. If she wanted to, I would too. 

His daughter gave a surprised snort and emptied her glass. She returned to reading.

Her fingers were scratching behind my tight sack again. She raised her head and murmured "now," her hands sliding under my thighs, urging me to raise them. I dropped back on the bed, drawing them up. She pushed them further back, rolling my hips up. 

"Oooh! Uhn!" I responded, feeling it twitch, as her tongue tickled it, circling, then the tip of it probing. I chuckled, humming, and murmured: 

"You're going to like that."

"Uhn-hnnn!" she agreed, her tongue probing, when my asshole relaxed. 

His daughter shook her head with wry expression and reached for her glass again, her empty glass. She thumbed the remaining pages, hesitating for a moment, and then murmured: "Sunday tomorrow." and went and refilled her glass, this time with less cognac and more water. 

After doing that a couple of more times, her tongue licked back up, licking my sack, and then up the back of my cock, rising up from her haunches to following it, now that I was lying on my back. Her tongue tickled there again, making it twitch, and I moaned. Before it disappeared in her mouth, she murmured: "Not as much as I'm going to like this."

Why hadn't I let her fuck me the first time she wanted to?! It wouldn't have been as this good, I rationalized, and we hadn't fucked again yet, but we were going to - after I licked her pussy and asshole! But first, she was going to feel me thrill, and how! After her having almost brought me to an orgasm three times, my balls were aching for relief, "suffering" - lover's nuts! 

I moaned and groaned. Could a pussy - even a young, tight one like hers -- arouse my cock the way her sucking and her tonguing my cock where it was most sensitive was doing? She had said that she was going to like it. 

I grunted and came! A wonderful, long spurt, relief finally! And she wanted it, nodding with moan, moaning, sucking and fucking my cock with her mouth, moaning each time it spurted! I had to hold her head still, but her tongue was still moving. I groaned, now desperate to have it stop. 

Good girl! Her tongue licked up over the head of my cock. Was she swallowing - swallowing all my semen?! It had been so much! She raised her head, grinning, smirking at me, her lips moving, and rose up, diving down on me, her mouth on mine. She had not swallowed it all; a slippery, pungent tasting fluid slid with her tongue in my mouth. That was how it tasted, and she liked it?

She nodded, as though she had understood my unvoiced question. "Anything she wanted." I just had not anticipated that she would want to share it with me, but if she did, more respect for her having wanted it. My tongue caressed hers. If she liked it, I did, and wanted to her to know, especially that I appreciated that she had made me give her so much.

When I had swallowed, and we retrieved our tongue, just lip-kissing, both chuckling, I murmured: 

"God, what a relief, but your making me suffer for so long was worth it."

"Hm-hmm! It felt like it, your 'thrilling'."

"And your sharing it with me."

"You didn't mind? Hadn't done that before either."

"If you liked it? Just seemed appropriate."

"You're dear. This is being so much better than anything I imagined."

"For me too."

She kissed me again, our tongues caressing. Her hips rocked down. She rescued her tongue from my mouth and murmured: 

"You can do that better somewhere else."

"Just what I was thinking."

"Mmmm!"

She rolled off me with a grin, drawing her knees up towards her shoulders. I sat up and slipped off the bed and moved in front of her pussy, that she was presenting me, but I could hardly see it in the gloom. 

"Eating should be a feast for the eyes too," I murmured, and found the switch of the light at the head of the bed.

"Not just for the eyes, I hope." 

"Hm-umm! But it is: lovely pussy."

"Hm-hm-hmm! No one ever told me that."

"Must have been blind, ... or didn't know what looks good."

"I'll get a hand mirror sometime. Never really looked at hers either."

"Just hers, your roommate's?"

"Shouldn't ask, but no: a couple of other ones."

"Any port in a storm?"

"Maybe. Not really, better than a bad date, sometimes better than a 'good date'."

"Girls know better?"

"Um-hmm! And you do too."

She rocked her hips invitingly. I hoped that she was right. I couldn't help recalling that it had been a long time since I had licked a young pussy with inner lips that hadn't been stretched by childbirth. 

When I had, however, I hadn't known to appreciate them as much as I now did Evangeline's, and the girls had been to reticent to tell me or show me what they wanted. Evangeline wasn't, encouraging me with murmured words and moans, when I did something more arousing. She didn't forget that she wanted me to lick her somewhere else, drawing her knees down to her shoulders and rolling her hips up. I raised my head and look where she wanted me to lick. I had never seen that before, but it looked attractive. It contracted. It wanted my tongue to tickle it. My tongue wanted to, wanted to feel it move, like mine had on her tongue. 

She moaned, chuckling, murmuring: 

"Oooh! Yeah! Mmmm! Makes my pussy contract too."

His daughter squeezed her thighs together with an almost silent moan. 

I was delighted, venturing to probe more, enjoying that she moaned, chuckling, her thighs twitching. I had the disappointing thought, that my wife wasn't going to let me do that to her, but Evangeline did, until she rock her hips down and murmured: "Make me come."

I knew where she wanted to feel my tongue, and her firm clitoris was just so good to lick and nibble, even large enough to suck. She moaned, and I reached up and held her breasts, squeezing her tight nipples between my thumbs and the base of my index fingers.

His daughter moaned. Her hand was pressed down between her thighs on the skirt of her dress. She moaned again, having to remove it to turn to the next page. It returned, gathering up her skirt, her fingers creeping beneath it. 

I only teased her once to let my tongue thrust in the mouth of her wet vagina, but she moaned in response. Did she know how it felt for my tongue from feeling those girls' pussies tighten on hers? 

His daughter's fingers were pushing the crotch of her panties aside. Before she read further, one was where his tongue was in Evangeline's pussy, sliding in further than his tongue could. She moaned, her finger sliding in and out, and read again. 

She tasted so good! But she wanted to come, and I wanted her to, my cock wanted her to, all stiff in my hand. When had it found it? Her hips rocked down and rose off the bed a little, pressing her clitoris in my mouth. Suck, nibble, lick: anything, everything to make her come! 

She moaned, gasping and moaning, her hips twitching. Then they started to rise off the bed, almost bucking; I had to grasp her hips to keep my mouth on her. "God, yes!" she exclaimed, and then her whole body convulsed, as she gasped and moaned, her warm pussy spurting. 

Gratifying success! I only wished that I could have caught more of her pussy juice in my mouth. 

The sheaf of papers dropped from his daughter's hand, and it reached under her skirt and slipped inside the top of her panties, pushing down to let her fingers find where they could help arouse her. She moaned, those fingers rubbing back and forth, while two from her other hand thrust and clutched in her pussy. She slid forward to the edge of the chair so that she could rock her hips. 

A couple of minutes and many moans later, she was glad that she wasn't sitting on an upholstered chair; her fingers were drenched, the back of her skirt and edge of the chair wet. She gave a questioning snort, smiling wryly to herself as she pulled the crotch of her panties back over her pussy, wiping her fingers on them. After a better sip of her cognac and water, she reached down and picked the papers up off the floor, snorting again. As she flipped the pages back to find where she had been reading, she snorted again and murmured: "Getting off to his description of doing that. Congrats, Daddy." She found where she had been reading, picking up at the previous sentence. 

I only wished that I could have caught more of her pussy juice in my mouth. She was still catching her breath, her thighs now heavy on my forearms. Hadn't she said that I could try to "execute" her, give her "la petit mort"? My cock was my own weapon. 

I gathered her legs up on my shoulders and rose up. My cock had no difficulty finding her wet, still open pussy. She gasped, as it plunged into her, her eyes suddenly wide open. Her pussy clenched it, and she gave a shivering moan: "uhn-uhn-uhn-uhnn!" but she didn't complain, when I stabbed her again, and again. She just stared at me, moaning like that, nodding once, as I plunged my only weapon in her again and again, as fast as I could, too fast to really appreciate how her pussy was clutching it. 

With her legs on my shoulders, she couldn't move her hips much, but her body was trying to. She was gasping again, her eyes now clenched shut. Then with long groans, she came again, warm pussy juice around the base of my cock, oozing up on my hair -- so wet and warm!

His daughter had clutched her thighs together and murmured: "Shit, me too." 

I held my cock still deep in her pussy, feeling it pulsing, making my cock throb. Did she know that I hadn't come yet? And I hadn't "executed" her yet; her eyes flickered open. She was still gasping and moaning. It took a moment before her eyes could focus on mine. She snorted with a just a twitch of her lips and murmured: "Not yet." 

Was she referring to me or suggesting that she wanted still more, remembering our talking? She repeated: "Not yet," and rocked her hips. I rocked mine, not thrusting like before. She nodded with an "um-hmm!" If she did, I sure did, my cock did! 

As I began to fuck her again, I hoped she knew what she had been talking about, "la petit mort." I didn't, but as long as my cock could, I would try. 

"Oh, fuck, Daddy! Why didn't you do that to me?"

I fucked her until we both came. It couldn't have sounded attractive, if making love that desperately ever does. My hands had been doing probably painful things to her nipples, but hers had been encouraging them. When I collapse down on her, letting her legs drop down next to my hips, she was just sighing with long moans, her stomach rising and falling under mine. 

Was that it, her little death, "la petit mort"? My cock slipped out before either of us moved. Then, finally, she drew a deeper breath and murmured: 

"Oh ... [she used my first name for the first time], I love you for that!" 

"And you too, 'for that'."

"Um-hmm, making love."

"Um-hmm."

We kissed, just to confirm our mutual understanding. I rose up, and we smiled at each. I chuckled and asked: 

"Have you only recovered, or are you resurrected?"

"Mmmm! Hm-hmm! Resurrected, I think. Gives new meaning to the song: 'Killing me with Love'." 

"Sounds a lot better than being fucked to death."

"Um-hmm, but about the same thing." 

We grinned, nodding. I helped her sit up and stand up, and we embraced, kissing again, this time a little better. She chuckled and murmured: "Running down my thighs." 

We went to the bathroom and started another shower, peeing on each other's legs. Washing each other was just affectionate. When we had dried ourselves, it was still surprisingly early. I suggested a nightcap from the minibar. We shared the half bottle of wine that we found, hardly talking, but exchanging smiles, some just mild, some more smirks. We agreed that we both liked to sleep in a cool room and turned the thermostat for the air conditioner down and got in bed.

His daughter saw that there were still more to read, and also went to bed. She had started to put on her pajama top, but then snorted, wrinkling her nose, and got in bed with nothing on. She lay on her side, chuckling softly. When she chuckled again, her hand found her breast. She smirked slightly, squeezing it. When she chuckled again, her finger was circling her nipple. She rolled on her back, and her other hand slid down, her fingers playing in her pubic hair for a few moments. Then she nodded to herself, and they crept a little further, finding where there was no hair. She sighed and let them do what they wanted. Eventually, she feel asleep. 

When she woke up in the morning, later than usual, she was surprised that she didn't have anything on, but then remembered why, then remembering all she had drunk, pleased that she didn't have headache. Then she remembered that she hadn't finished her father's story. She got up and got it, snorting when her nipples popped out as she entered the living room. Back in bed, she shoved her pillow up against the headboard, settling back against it. It was so warm in the room, that she only pulled the covers up over her lap. She found where she had stopped reading and read further. 

Oh, it's so nice, lying in bed with a woman one has spent such a delightful day and evening with. When I told Evangeline that, she agreed, both of us chuckling about my understatement: "such a delightful ...." Of course, it was also delightful to lie with our thighs overlapping, our arms loosely around each other. We must have talked for half an hour, recalling her papers - chuckling - and other things. Finally, we agreed to go to sleep. She rolled over under my arm and put my hand on her breast, and we said good night and fell asleep. 

Some time in the night, I rolled back. Some time later, she also rolled back. I started to wake up, when I felt her hand touch me. My wife did not touch me like that. Then she murmured - waking me up more: 

"Oh, yes. Hmmm, nice." 

She rolled further, lying half on me, her thigh sliding over mine, and murmured: 

"You, me, here, nice."

Her arm had slid over me. Just so comfortable and familiar. I think I nodded and agreed: 

"Nice, here, you and me." Her hand held me a little closer, and I drifted off to sleep again. When I woke up in the morning, I was lying in bed with Evangeline's head on my shoulder, her thigh on mine, the way we had fallen asleep a few hours before. 




Sex on Campus Ch. 02



As I wrote at the beginning, the situation led to my writing this "random recollection." "Random" is very much the wrong way to describe this recollection, which should be apparent to any reader. It was unforgettable. I had repressed it because of the related incidents, that were too bothersome to let me want to recall them. Where I was now with Evangeline and why and how, was just as reprehensible, but still seemed right, at least, I wanted to think so. For sure, I wasn't going to think otherwise for the next few hours. 

How many? Oh, we could spend another night together - at home. No, she had said this wouldn't be repeated, and we had talked about that. It could only be anticlimactic - just the right word after all our climaxes. I waited for her to wake up. So nice, that she was still slumber, lying like that with me. So nice, that I was already awake to enjoying it. 

But then I felt why. I raised my head enough to look down and see a bulge in the covers where my cock was; I had to go, sooner or later. "Later" became "sooner," as I waited. I rubbed her back and murmured: "Good morning." She stirred, then stroked my side with her fingers, then nodding on my shoulder and murmured: 

"Mmmm, um-hmm, good morning," used my forename again, her hand holding me closer. I rubbed her back again, replying: 

"Um-hmm, a very good morning."

"And an even better evening and all day yesterday."

"Why didn't I say that?"

"It was all my idea; had to say it first, thank you."

"Wonderful idea, thank you."

Our hands rubbed again, and her thighs squeezed mine, but I couldn't forget that I had to go. I started to slip away from her, murmuring: "I'll be back." 

She let me, but then said: "I have to, too," and followed me to the bathroom. She waited at the door, watching me. I was a little surprised, but figured it wasn't the first time she had seen a man peeing, that these days young couples were less reserved than when I was her age. When she chuckled, I glance around at her and saw that her thighs were twitching, like I remembered my daughters' doing as little girls, when they had to go. She was smirking slightly and nodded. I nodded and said: 

"Should have told me. I could have used the washbasin."

"Didn't feel so much that I had to, until I saw you."

We grinned. I was finished and turned to the washbasin and began to wash my cock and balls, remembering then that she had also had them in her mouth, then remembering also to wash my face. She chuckled, smiling at me in the mirror, nodding when she saw me looking at her in it.

"Want me to shave, too," I asked. 

"Hm-hmm! If you want to, thinking I would."

"Hmm! Have to sooner or later."

"Then sooner." 

We both snickered softly, and I did, exchanging smiles in the mirror. She murmured: 

"Maybe a good thing that all my stories never worked like I wanted them to."

"It wouldn't have been as good."

"Or it could have been - troublesome."

"Very, if had been."

"Um-hmm. Funny, how sometimes almost too late something good happens."

"But not too late. Happened before?"

She gave me a wry smile in the mirror, then replying: 

"A couple of times, but like now, better; there was no future in it with them, just missed past."

"Maybe for the better, like with us; might not have been as good as imagined - back projection."

"Probably, yeah, I think so."

We exchanged smiles of agreement. As I was washing the soap off my face, I murmured: 

"Carpe diem."

I heard her chuckle, softer than before. When I could look up in the mirror again, she smiled, a little differently, maybe bitter-sweet. But then she smiled more cheerfully and began to hum the melody of "Do it to me one more time." When I nodded with a grin that I recognized the tune, she smirked with twinkling eyes, and we both hummed it. 

When I moved to let her wash, we smiled at each other warmly, both now with a warm, chuckling hum that confirmed our agreement that we would - one more time. I brushed the back of my fingers over one of her aroused nipples. She flinched slightly, nodding with a smile and murmuring: 

"Still a little tender from last night."

"You wanted me to."

"Um-hmmmm! And how!"

She turned to the washbasin and began to wash. Sitting on the lid of the toilet, I watched her, thinking how delightful it was that we could be so compatibly open, but not always so direct, the more charming for our innuendos. 

His daughter smiled to herself and murmured: "Daddy, you're in love." She snorted and continued to read, chuckling, nodding emphatically with a hum, when she read the next few lines. 

Suddenly, I realized that I was humming another melody, Marlene Dietrich's "Another Spring, another Love." Maybe I only recognized the title when Evangeline started slightly, and I saw her surprised expression in the mirror. No, I only recognized the title, when she asked: 

"This spring or next spring?"

Then I started, feeling myself blush. Did she see my cheeks flush? I tried to return her glance with a casual smile, shrugging, but hearing myself reply: 

"Better not ask," adding: "next spring for you, or this summer already in Cambridge."

She gave me an understanding smile and nod. 

His daughter also nodded, muttering: "Oh, Daddy! Hmm? Can't blame you, if it was that good." Only then did she realize that one of her hands had found her breast, recalling that it had, when she had read about his brushing Evangeline's aroused nipple with his fingers. She snorted and squeezed her breast, shrugging, finding the line again and reading further. 

She gave me an understanding smile and nod. I shrugged again, returning her smile as best I could. She hid her face from the mirror, washing it. I rationalized - tried to: why shouldn't I love a little one of my best students, the one who had always wanted to sleep with me, and finally did - so good! I was still questioning my rationalization, when she raised her face from over the washbasin, not high enough to look at me in the mirror, and murmured: 

"We don't have to. Yesterday was all that I asked for, ... could ever have hoped for."

God, anyone would have to love a girl who was so understanding, but I was already murmuring: "We wanted to before. I do."

Now she did look at me in the mirror, nodding with an intense expression, replying: 

"Only if you really want to. Oh! I do, but we don't have to."

"We do. I really want to. We have to."

I wasn't looking at her, wasn't thinking about sexual arousal, feeling it the way we had when we had been humming our confirmation that we wanted to do it one more time. I guess I was expecting that she would reach for a towel, but she didn't. She turned to me with a soft moan and straddled my legs on the toilet. In a reflex, I draw her hips closer, looking at her in surprise. She smiled, very sweetly, then sniffed with a smirk and said: 

"Now it's my turn to say it: anything you want, I'll do anything you want, ... everything!"

We both chuckled, had to, snickering with grins. What else could a man want, think about wanting with a young - a naked young - woman sitting on his lap? One who then repeated her "Anything, everything!" with aroused sounding hum? 

"Even if I want to suck and nibble your tender nipples?" I asked, seeing that they were aroused.

"Anything, to make me remember until they aren't so tender."

Her hands offered them to me, as she leaned back so that I could lean forward and suck them. Would she forget, when they weren't tender any more. I wouldn't. I was very gentle, just caressing the first one with my tongue, clasping her hips closer. She moaned softly, her thighs twitching. Then she wanted the other one caressed. My cock was rising. When she felt it, she growled softly, chuckling. When it throbbed in the crease between the cheeks of her ass, she murmured: 

"How are we going to get from here to there?"

"Hmm? I'm not going to try to carry you."

"Uhmmm! How did you know that was what I was hoping?"

"At least, I thought about it."

"Hm-hmm! Can't have everything."

"That was your offer, not mine, but anything, everything else I can."

"Mmmm! Is that a promise?!"

"Hm-hmm! Can't be sure, if you ask like that."

"You can, you will. Hm-hmm! I'll make it easy for you."

"As long as I make it hard for you?"

"Oh, I'll make sure of that!"

We snickered, grinning at each other. I thought we might kiss, but she found the floor with her feet and got up, and we hurried back to the bed. She just gestured for me to lie down, grinning at me. I saw her eyes glance down at my cock, now slanting down close to my pubic hair. When she got between my thighs, I moaned in anticipation. She gave me a grin and said:

"Making it easier or harder for you is about the same thing."

"Mmmm! I'll take your word for it."

She couldn't reply, just nodding with my cock already in her mouth, chuckling.

His daughter also chuckled, murmuring: "'Good at being bad'. She sure is, and witty too." She looked back, and saw that she needed to turn the page. She tried to flip it over, but then let go of her breast and turned the page back. As she gathered in it with her other hand, she snorted, shrugging, and let the other one slide under the covers on her lap.

Evangeline was making it easy and hard for me, easy for me, hard for my cock. Anything she wanted, I thought, then remembering to she had said she wanted to do anything I wanted. With her already sucking my cock, I couldn't think what else I could want. I couldn't really think at all; anything she wanted, everything - also her word - we had done the night before? She was also fondling my balls. 

When she couldn't move them any more, she raised her head and grinning at me. A "cock-sucking grin" wasn't the expression I wanted to think, but I already had. Was she going to wait until my sack relaxed again? Her fingers were helping it. The melody of "Do it to me one more time" rang in my ears, and I remembered that she had sucked my balls. 

But she didn't. She grinned at me again, the same grin. Stop thinking that it's a cock-sucking grin, I admonished myself; it's just the same grin she always had, well, at least since we had been together this weekend. She was moving up, straddling my thighs. She wasn't going to suck it again, but she was still grinning, chuckling with a hum - or humming with chuckle - same thing. 

She pulled my cock back. Another humming chuckle, as she rubbed it between her pussy lips, rocking her hips. Of course, she didn't have any trouble finding where she wanted it to be, Her grin faded, and we both moaned as she sank down on it. My cock twitched, and her pussy squeezed it. She relaxed, her hips heavy on mine, just smiling very slightly, when we both felt our organs responding in her. They did again. 

When they didn't again, she smiled slightly, and I did, hoping that my slight nod would move our loins. Then she snorted softly and said: 

"This is naughty."

"Hmm! Has been for all along." She chuckled, nodding so emphatically, that her body moved a little, making us more aware of my cock in her pussy. She smirked and remarked: 

"I mean, what I'm going to do."

"Hmm? Anything you want to, I mean, I want you to do anything."

We both chuckled at my remembering that it was her turn to do "anything" I wanted.

His daughter also chuckled. Her fingers had slid down between her thighs, her hand cupped around her pussy. 

"Naughty?" I asked.

"What girls do."

"Hmm? Hm-hmm! When they're sitting on man, like you are?"

"Probably not, but I want to."

"Hmm! Very naughty! Insulting, having to help!" I replied facetiously with a grin: "But if it does, .... And you're just going to sit there?"

"Try to; see what happens.

Her fingers were already sliding through her pubic hair, sliding through mine, and then began to rub. I rocked my hips to remind my cock where it was. She nodded, then glanced down at her breasts. Her nipples weren't aroused, but I understood that she was suggesting I should help her. When my hands reached up, she nodded with an "um-hmm," and I aroused them - gently - remembering that they were still tender from the night before. I rocked my hips again, and she nodding again, this time with humming chuckle. 

After that, I didn't have to remind it. She hummed softly, smiling down at me, and her pussy squeezed it. She nodded and murmured: "Like I was hoping." The next time it tightened, my cock twitched, and she nodded with a chuckle and murmured: "Like that too." 

His daughter's fingers had unconsciously also started to rub. She continued to read. 

"It's working?" I asked. She nodded, her pussy tightening again, replying: 

"You have to ask?"

"No, and I'm not insulted any more about your wanting to help." 

I didn't have to make my cock twitch; it did in response to her pussy's squeezing it, and several more times. By then, her eyes were half closed, and she was moaning softly, as we both enjoyed the sensations in her pussy from its response to how her fingers were arousing her. 

His daughter nodded with an "um-hmm" between her own soft moans. 

Then her hips twitched, apparently purely a reflex to her increased arousal, and increasing mine. I murmured: "Oooh! That feels even better." 

She nodded with a better moan and seemed to take it as encouragement to move her hips more. We both moaned, as they rocked to and fro on mine. We weren't fucking, but it was feeling just as good, delightfully good, my cock so aware of her pussy's clutching. 

We weren't fucking? Only a professor of English could at that moment remember that etymologically the word referred originally to in-and-out motion, or to-and-fro motion. Were her rocking hips "fucking" - to and fro? Were they, when they began to circle, churning on my cock?

His daughter almost laughed, having to mutter: "Whatever, Daddy, you're fucking, at least, she is fucking you." She chuckled at what she had heard herself say, and spent a few seconds just rubbing before she looked back at his text. 

If we weren't, if she wasn't, it was going to be just as good! My cock had never been so aware of pussy's arousal; it was trying to milk it. My cock wasn't a cow's teat, but when I gasped and moaned, it felt like it spurted like I had seen one spurt on a dairy farm, again and again, like my cock was. The cow's milk had hissed in the milk bucket, but I was hearing Evangeline's growling moans, desperate ones. 

She dropped down on me, demanding: "Fuck me!" Her hips were already beginning to move up and down on my cock. Did she also understand that we hadn't been "fucking"? Not yet? Oh, of course, she hadn't come with me, I realized, only now recognizing that her pussy had not flooded. Fuck! I did, despite the almost painful sensations on my cock, our hips slapping together. 

"Fuck her, Daddy!" his daughter demanded softly, letting the papers slide away and finding her wet vagina with her fingers. With both hands, she again sought and found her own orgasm. It took her a minute or two to recover and remember that she had been reading. She snorted with a wry smile and picked up the papers again, having to find where she had been reading. 

I was relieved when she came, soon, apparently as good as before, all wet with gasps and pulsing groans and pulsing pussy. I didn't come again, but was still relieved, when she stilled, lying heavy on me. It had been my turn to want to do anything I wanted, but she had; I had only wanted it to be good for her. After we had taken several deep breaths, she extended her legs, and my cock slipped. We both nodded with soft hums. 

I waited for her to say something, and waited. Finally, she raised her head, looking down at me with unsettled expression. I frowned questioningly. Then she murmured: 

"This has been too good, just so 'too good'."

"Um-hmm." 

"Not just what we just did, and did last night - hmm? - and yesterday afternoon."

"But we wanted to, ... I as much as you."

"Too much. ... Better not kiss you again."

I wouldn't have minded, wanted to, too, but nodded. My hands rubbed her back affectionately. I was thinking they were just suggesting my agreement that I agreed with her wanting to kiss, but that it would be better that we didn't kiss. We did. 

His daughter nodded with an understanding smile. 

We both chuckled softly and agreed that we had had to. She rubbed my shaven cheek and said: 

"Weren't we thinking we would do something else?"

"Anything you wanted, but we didn't do that."

"No, and maybe we shouldn't have another shower together."

"Not if you don't want me to think that we should have."

"Hmmm! Better not; we didn't want to kiss."

"But we did."

"Um-hmm. Just a last one, again, to prove that we can keep our tongues in our mouths."

"Mmmmm! Mine in yours?"

"No! In our own mouths."

"Fun to try." We tried, just tried. We took our showers.

His daughter glanced to see that his story ended on the next page and took her own shower. When she then read that they got dressed, she also did. They went to breakfast, and she had hers, reading again.

After all our smiles at breakfast, neither of us speaking, she as well as I apparently afraid that

someone could overhear what we might have said, we returned to our room and gathered up our belongings, also not speaking. In the car, we were also silent. Waiting for the ferry, she murmured: 

"In case anyone sees us, like yesterday."

"Not holding hands?"

"Um-hmm, and maybe even then; has to end somehow, somewhere."

I nodded with a fainting feeling; she was right. Back at the college, before she got out of the car, we did hold hands, long enough for too affectionate expressions. She murmured: "Thank you." I replied, emphasizing the second word. 

And then she was gone. I guess we both made an effort to keep out of each other's way until she left.

His daughter sniffed, blinking her eyes with a nod, as she flipped back all the pages she had read. 

When she met her sister again in his apartment, she handed her the papers, remarking: 

"Stayed up too late last night reading."

"Really? And?"

"Better read for yourself."

"But you did, so long: 'Sex on Campus'. He must have with ..." She glanced down and said: "Evangeline."

"He did, not on campus."

"Oooh! Well, it was obvious that he did. So why 'on campus'?"

"He slept with a couple of girls who wanted better grades."

"Oh! Really?"

"Said that they didn't get them for that reason, but some actually then earned better grades."

"Evangeline?"

"She was one of his best students."

"So why with her?"

"You'd better read why for yourself."

"Good?"

"Hmm?! Yeah! They did it good."

"Oh? Oooh! Arousing to read?"

"Did you ever sleep with a professor?" the older one asked.

"Did you?"

"I asked first."

"Hmm? A couple of times, but not for a better grade, didn't need to. Just an assistant professor, 'for fun'."

"Hmm? 'For fun.' Hope it was, was good."

"Good enough. And you? You said you did. At Holyoke?"

"No. Well, yes."

What's that mean?"

"He wasn't one at Holyoke."

"I told you. He wasn't the only one at Wellesley, also a young language instructor. And yours, not from Holyoke?"

"Said too much already." 

"Too late, now you have. Tell. Who?" 

"Did you ever dream about our father?"

"Like that!? Like you were reading? Did you?! What does he have to do with it? No. I don't think so. Hm-hmm! Sure, dreaming, and the boys our age didn't count, school teachers, I guess, without their faces." 

"Anonymized?"

"I wasn't looking at their faces." 

"I wouldn't have been either." 

The sisters grinned at each other about their agreement. Then the younger one asked: 

"Why did you ask if I had dreamt about Dad? Did you?!"

"Forgot, till I was reading."

"Just 'forgot'? Must have been 'too good', your dream, if you knew it was with him; had to 'forget' it, repress it."




Sex on Campus Ch. 02



"Something like that."

The younger sister stared at her with wide eyes, then asked: 

"Just 'something like that'? You didn't have to say that, unless there was 'something'." 

She stared at her again, looking even more surprised, shocked, then murmuring: "Not just a dream? 

Her sister was blushing deeply and nodded. The other one exclaimed: "You didn't! You did?!"

Her sister nodded again, still blushing, after a long moment replying: 

"That summer, when Mom went to Europe with you, and he was teaching during summer school."

"And you did?! No dream?" You and Dad?!"

The elder sister nodded. The younger one grinned, apparently beyond being surprised, now just pleased with her having elicited confirmation of what she had been thinking. Then she was a little surprised; her sister murmured: 

"He did it better with 'his' Evangeline."

"Hmm?! Hmm, Sorry about that. And you did it all that summer?"

"Most of it."

"While I was being frustrated, traveling with Mom and seeing groups of American girls and guys, imagining what they could be doing together."

"Hmm! Probably not as much as they all wanted to."

"But you were with Dad." 

"Not as good as I later learned, and, like I said, not as good as he did with her."

"This is going to be good," she replied, shaking the papers."

"It will be. Don't read it where you can't ... 'enjoy yourself'."

"Hmm! You did?"

"Not as good as they did."

"Hmm! He must have had fun writing it."

"Too much to have include it in his autobiography."

"Just for fun? Just for his daughters to find? Well, I guess he could have thought that it wouldn't surprise you."

"It still did."

"Oh? He didn't mention you, us, did he?"

"Not like that. Why 'us'?"

Now the younger sister was blushing. The other one smirked slightly, seeming to enjoy her discomfort. When she didn't reply, still blushing, the older one smiled slightly and asked: 

"Why are you blushing? You did too?"

Her sister nodded with a wry expression, replying: 

"I guess I shouldn't have -- blushed -- since you already had admitted you did."

"Because you didn't want me to know, wanted me to think I was the bad big sister?"

"Something like that, I guess," she agreed with a shrug and apologetic smile.

"Sibling rivalry, all our both trying not to admit we had."

"Like yesterday, each of us knowing we had, but not embarrassed as long as we thought it was a secret."

"Yes. Now we do, no secret any more."

"Um-hmm. Hmm? I shouldn't ask, but since it isn't a secret, how did it start? I'll tell you."

"Hmmm? I guess I started it. Oh, I wanted him to, after it occurred to me. There we were, just the two of us, going to be alone together for two months, and my boyfriend wasn't around, so I was doing what I could the first couple of nights, thinking about him -- my boyfriend. 

"Yeah, well, then I wondered if Dad was doing the same thing, just curious, not yet thinking about doing anything with him. In the summer, you know, we left bedroom doors open. The next night, when his light went out, I tiptoed out of my room, listening. He was: rhythmic rustling, and then breathing harder. I went back to bed and wasn't then just thinking about my boyfriend, the next night, thinking about our both doing it, well, you can imagine."

Her sister nodded and asked: 

"Did we already know about girls' sleeping with professors?"

"Yeah, but I wasn't thinking that he had. Had you?"

"Not yet!" she replied with a grin: "And?"

"'And.' Wicked, I didn't have any compunctions about what occurred to me. Didn't all girls at some point think about sleeping with their father?"

"And fathers, with their daughters?"

"I wasn't rationalizing like that, generalizing, just hoping he would. But how? I had my period, time to think about for a few days, and tease him by not closing my door when changing, and he let me see him in just his shorts when he was shaving. I was tempted to let him see me there in just bra and panties, but didn't, but made sure he saw that I wasn't wearing a bra under my shirt. He seemed to be enjoying it. 

"But then, how to start something? I thought about moaning, thinking he might come to my room to see if anything was wrong. I did, but he didn't, but in the morning he winked with a smile and murmured: 'Could have thought you were missing him.' He had heard and recognized what I had been doing, and been so open as to mention it. I blushed, but nodded, then asked: 'Like you miss Mom.' Then he blushed. Of course, my nipples had popped out, too obvious to oversee in my washed out summer blouse. He didn't. Then -- good Daddy -- he murmured: 'Both of us.' 

"We smirked at each other. That evening, he did see me in just bra and panties, just snorting and remarking: 'Thought you weren't wearing a bra.' 'Can't run around half naked,' I replied, giving him a grin. 'Just almost, doesn't hide much.' He was right, my nipples were hard, and my bra wasn't the kind Mom used to buy for us."

"So you jumped into bed with him, without it?"

"Don't hurry me; this is fun to recall. That night, he obviously wanted to let me to hear him, and I moaned, long before I had to. Oh, it was great; he chuckled, loud enough for me to hear, and more than murmured again: 'Both of us.'"

"Hmm! Good Daddy! What an invitation?!"

"Yeah! 'Both of us,' I replied, and we both snickered loud enough for the other to hear. Then I really surprised myself, hearing me saying: 'Want me to help? Or you can help me.' 'What?!' he exclaimed, but then chuckled, a deep, warm chuckle, that had to let me think that he was smirking. 'Help each other,' I replied, totally passed wondering what I was saying. After a long pause, a very long pause, he asked: 'You mean it?' 

"Of course, I did; I had been thinking about it for days! Funny! While I was thinking how to reply, I heard myself say: 'Your bed is bigger,' and was getting out of mine. I was in the hall, before he replied, just murmuring: 'yeah.' I was already naked. He was too, even held up the covers to let me get in bed with him. Then he asked again: 'You mean it?' 'I'm here.' I replied."

"Wicked!" Her sister exclaimed, but grinning with a chuckle.. 

"Not more wicked than he was -- or you were. That night and the next one, we just helped each other. Oh, he was a little surprised the next night, when I immediately got in bed with him."

"But then! All summer?"

"Um-hmm. You'll read about how much he liked oral sex, both ways. Now you have to tell." 

Her sister, nodded with a grin, remarking: 

"Don't have to read to know." She glanced away, smiling, and then looked back at her sister, shrugging and then telling: 

"Maybe it was good that you both had already, I mean, made it easier for us. He visited me, when I returned to college, straight from our trip to Europe, hadn't seen each other since June. Oh, of course it made it easier; I think he must have already been thinking about it. He suggested that we celebrate by sharing a bottle of wine in his motel room. When he mentioned my tan, and I complained that it had faded, that we had only been two days on the Côte d'Azur, he chuckled and asked: 'Like the French girls were there?" I nodded with a grin, remarking that everyone could see that we were Americans. 'Bikini tan lines?' he asked. Of course, I thought he was just being a little fresh."

"Like he sometimes was, when we started wearing bras."

"Um-hmm, and replied: 'Just from the tops.' We both grinned. So we talked about the trip, with some more innuendos that I can't remember, just that we chuckled and smirked a few times. When we had finished the wine, I was surprised that he said he thought he had too much to drink to drive me back to my dorm."

"Hmm! Okay, so I'm responsible for giving him thoughts about also sleeping with you."

"If you want to be. I still wasn't understanding what he could be thinking, but he was. Instead of suggesting that he could call a taxi, he shrugged and said that he could take me back in the morning. Of course, then it was obvious that he was implying that I spend the night in the room with him, a single room with just one big bed. Yeah, of course, that was what he was thinking. Hm-hmm! Like I mentioned before, suddenly thinking about fathers' wanting to sleep with their daughters."

"Not the other way around?" her sister asked with a grin.

"No, just me, two months only with Mom. Of course, I was blushing, having realized the implications."

"Didn't he blush?"

"I was looking at him, couldn't, after realizing the implications. Said that already: after really understanding that he was suggesting our sleeping in one bed together."

"Didn't have to be like you were apparently already thinking."

"What would you have thought?! Don't have to ask, you just told me!"

"And you did, and he was, else you wouldn't be telling. How did you get there?"

"Oh, we did, of course. He must have been seeing my blushing, understanding the only thing I could have been thinking, and murmured: 'It doesn't have to be like that.' But then it was just too obvious, too clear that we were both thinking about the same thing."

"I knew that already. And?"

"Shit! My panties were all wet! I looked at him and replied: 'If you think so.' He nodded with hardly a smile. Shit! We were going to, and I was going to have to take off my clothes, wondering what he wore in bed. He must have seen my aroused nipples. Hmm? Anyway, somehow we got in bed together, shorts and panties and bra. He murmured: 'You can take off your bra; can't see now.' I did, both of us chuckling. Oh shit! I just rolled towards him; it was too much, lying in bed with a guy after all those weeks, and if he was my father!"

"Those wet panties?"

"Wetter then, and, well, you can imagine the rest. We embraced, and he was also aroused, not avoiding letting me feel it. No, he was wanting me to. Hmm! Thanks; we didn't have to wait to really do it. God, I needed it! And he did too."

"Hmm! Sisters in sin."

"And how! You all summer, and we did again in the morning, of course. Hm-hmm! And every time we could after that, his spending an extra night after conferences in Boston, at home a few times. Not like just jumping in bed, only at night, when Mom wasn't home."

"Hmmm! My wicked little sister."

"And Dad. Didn't you, again, like that?"

"Not like that, for years, but then he called me after Mom passed away."

"You too? And said he wanted to?"

"Just said something about how nice that summer had been. I understood."

"Like I did. Hm-hmm! What nicer way for daughters to show how much they love their father?" 

"And let him show how much he loved them."

They smiled at each other, nodding.

* * * 

Don't bother to tell me that I don't write as well as a professor of English composition. Maybe he wouldn't have him given himself a good grade for getting carried away in recalling such an experience. Blame him for any inconsistencies. He and his Evangeline also couldn't have referred to couple of the songs mentioned - poetic license.