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Message-ID: <37604asstr$1028121003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: cobillard@hotmail.com (Carol)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 31 Jul 2002 09:29:18 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Sex in the College: our party, our shower
Date: Wed, 31 Jul 2002 09:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

It has always been my thinking that my attractiveness wouldn't and
won't last forever, but that I should enjoy it for today, use sex for
my pleasure but also be thinking of my long-term advantage. Sex is my
currency, it would be cheapened and debased by careless disregard of
its value and its potential. I want a better life, and I always
thinking of the title of Dr. Laura Schlessinger's book: "Beauty Fades,
Dumb Is Forever". Maybe sex doesn't have to fade, but desirability
does. By that time a woman must find her place, her life, her fortune
-- as well as her body and its potential.

For me, it was always, it always has been, above all I and not the boy
who has made sex decisions, from the meeting to the orgasm, although
the boy may not realize it. Coming from a background where sex was so
open and so encouraged, I also got a proper sex education. No boy was
going to push me to have sex I didn't feel like having, and I wasn't
going to tolerate a boy I didn't like hanging around. That was true
when I was a teenie-bopper (as my Mom always do often called me, which
sort of dates her) and it's true today. Sure I liked, and I like
today, to arouse every boy and every man: but he has to know his
place. I will make the first move, but so subtly that he can take the
credit. If he missteps, if he doesn't respect the protocol, I will
already will have thought out my escape. My Mom and her sect taught
me, and I appreciate what they taught me: but I have broken away from
both to build my own philosophy.

For me, today, sex can be a route to advancement; but it's the main
road, just a shortcut to speed up, or to enjoy more, the excursion to
the main goal. It won't be key to my own success, just oil in the
lock. It won't be the the sole basis for planning my life, but it has
to be there always, and I will use it when I can and want. I value my
independence as much as I want My Man and me to depend on each other.
I will want a family, and that means standards; I want a more
traditional family life than I had, which only shows that human beings
are not true to seed...

I worked hard to finish college and nobody can take that away from me.
Besides, I have to pay back my loans now. I'm ready to take on Sex in
the City, because I'm about to start first real job -- in the Capital
City.

I'm self assured, self-confident. Why shouldn't I be the one to
provoke the chat that will bring on the offer ... that I can accept or
reject at my whim? Sex is one of my currencies, but sex, if it is to
have any value to me or to my boy of the moment or my man of the year,
or for that matter to a lifetime relationship, has to go with
intellect. And money. I don't want to be poor. My mother gave up a
chance of financial advancement for religion, for a sect. Well, Berg
has gone to his oblivion. Only some of what he preached is pertinent
to me. I credit him for that, for his insight into sex (although
pedophilia is no longer as popular as it once was, and I say that
advisedly; of course pedophilia is more relative than the law or,
seemingly, society knows how to define it). This is 2002, not 1980.
And certainly not 1960. But sex with an adolescent, in the USA anyway,
is ipso facto safe sex, at least in my community. From a scientific
point of view, propaganda and the politics of sex and of gender aside,
sex among adolescents who feel and are ready is both inherently safe
and safe from the law. Romeo's Juliet was 13.  (I looked that up so I
know it's right: http://www.online-literature.com/shakespeare/romeo_and_juliet)

99% of the time when a boy approached me, the answer was "no". (I
asked one of those creeps, a dirty old man now, who's always asking
girls and women to bed first thing if it didn't destroy his psyche to
be told "no" 999 out of 1000 tries. He said no, he'd rather focus on
that 1000th woman.) And that was after he'd been stopped by a highway
patrolwoman and gotten a session of sexual intercourse instead of a
speeding ticket. For him that was the proof that his strategy works;
he could have been a successful telemarketer instead of what he was,
which I won't reveal here. For me the answer is "no" unless I have
cleverly and subtly provoked or initiated the approach. Well, maybe
not so subtly.

This is a newsgroup about sex stories, so I'm not going to write at
length about mind games or marital strategy. But of course a girl has
those in mind too. And, long term, especially the latter. Sex will
fade, but not a bright mind nor, if the robber barons of Wall Street
can be kept at bay, the money. But everything up till now has been for
fun and practice. Now that I'm out of college, everything will be for
fun and ... profit. Hey, not profit the day but profit by the life. I
want a career and I want a family in the fullness of time.

I may write about Sex in the City when I get some Sex in the City. For
today I shall write about Sex in the College. This is an extract from
the diary that I've kept for ten years, edited a bit, and selected for
relevance (i.e., these are the sexy parts).

I eventually went away to college, at great expense I might add, after
two years attending a local commuter college: 'cause I'm smart and
motivated and got good grades and a scholarship. Besides a piece of
paper and some mental shrapnel I now have the debts to prove it. For
my two years away, I lived in a co-ed dorm with some cool guys and
gals, and never mind the memorable and unmemorable creeps and
nonentities. The New York Times recently had an article on the danger
of dating people from the same building, and compared it to dorm
living: http://www.nytimes.com/2002/07/25/garden/25DATE.html
And so it is.

But mixed dorm living can be fun. At the time of this story I had my
eye on one or two boys, and the challenge was to make them have their
eyes on me, and when I would be out of sight to make them want to have
their eyes on me. Among my group there was always lots of banter, and
innuendo and double entendre. I write about a party, one in particular
of many parties. We were always having parties to celebrate this or
that or nothing at all. I don't remember what justified this
particular party, I didn't write it down, but it's the one I remember
best, for obvious reasons which you will now know. There was  good
music, good fun, good teasing; maybe the reason was that, or just to
depressurize our minds from study and exams.

The party was over, a good success. Most of the guys had gone to bed.
A few of us were cleaning up the mess, it was an early morning hour.
The Boy (well, one of the boys, My Target of the moment) was there
among the cleaner-uppers. With just a few of us left. I said, "we've
cleaned up the place, why don't we clean up ourselves ... let's all
shower". I didn't add the word "together", but they'd, boys and girls,
just been invited (however illictly) to the girls' shower and they
knew it.

So six of us cleaners got our stuff and headed for the shower. The
rest must have gone somewhere else. And now, just now, I was to be in
my special element. Would I put on a show? Would that get me my
Target's attention for as long as I wanted it, whether an hour, a day,
a week, a semester, but no longer than I wanted? (For him to tarry
beyond the time he was wanted would make of him ... a stalker.)

I suppose the proper Naturist protocol is to ignore nudity. I can't do
that: I flaunt myself (but oh so subtly) and I expect those who have
beauty to flaunt it, and those who don't to flaunt something else, wit
or money or culture or taste, which may be just as good or better. Or
may not be, because if you're sexy it doesn't exclude having those
other things too. My breasts are my signature, along with my
personality.

We were in the shower room. Without any formality, anything said, I
was naked. I have no inhibitions about nudity, why should I? I shucked
my robe, laid it down with my towel on the bench and stood there,
breasts in the air, smile on my face, pussy not exactly throbbing but
at least expectant, a state of mind actually. I looked at the others.
The two girls weren't so uninhibited, indeed they were self-conscious.
They stood there puzzled, self-debating, caught between Victorian
inhibition and modern freedom. Frozen, maybe doubtful. So it was left
to the boys to disrobe next, which they did, in a modest sort of way,
turned away from the girls. One said he'd get the water set "so you
won't get scalded". He didn't know what else to say or do. The rest of
us followed. The boys' penises jangled; breasts tingled. I watched and
proceeded.

We started to shower, each alone despite the group, nobody paying
attention to another. I had the impression that if I didn't move soon
the shower would be over and the event would not be memorable. I
wanted it to be memorable. So I asked my Target if he would suds my
back. Of course he would. Then it was his turn to be sudsed.

I took my liquid soap and lathered his back, studiously, slowly,
thoroughly and with promise. And standing behind him, I started to
lather his chest. I got my body close to his, right up to his, and my
breasts were pressed against his back. As I squeezed against him I
could feel him tense up. Others were watching. The air was sexy. My
hands went lower, sudsed his stomach, strayed lower, felt his public
hair, glanced his genitals ... he was getting an erection. I thought
he might be embarrassed: the others were looking, this was become my
show. It was an accident, so I made it seem. But he hadn't protested,
I could go on. I flicked his penis playfully. He didn't know how to
respond, but seemed not unpleased. His penis moved nervously. He
tensed, sex entered his mind. Hormones were doing their job. I made my
move.

I said that since I'd broken the ice I might as well finish the job. I
grasped his balls with my sudsed hands, and I washed them. I moved on
to his penis: watching it and feeling it was making my heart pound. I
moved around in front of him pulled him into the stream of water. Then
suddenly I was on my knees and his penis was in my mouth and he can
scarcely have known how it came about. The happening wasn't as
spontaneous as it was made to appear. I knew what I was doing. I had
been studying boys this way since the age of 11. I had seen my Mom in
action forever.

The other couples were aroused too, and transfixed, but I was scarcely
paying attention to them. I had a job to do; I had felt I was giving
My Boy his First -- but if not it was going to be his Best -- blow job
ever. For the next few minutes I would own his penis. And, with luck,
thereafter I would own Him for as long as I cared to.

I moved slightly, just out of the stream of water, and pulled My Boy
with me. It was not too brightly lit, but as I took his very erect
penis out of my mouth to inspect it again, I could see the other
couples staring, one of the other boys had a huge erection and the
other's penis was moving upwards. I toyed with his glans, looked My
Boy in the eyes. He smiled with gratification and anticipation; he was
breathless. The girls were taking the cue. They were in stages of
embrace with their boys. This was proving to be a great party, better
than anyone had expected. The party poopers were asleep, only the
Beautiful People were here. This was ancient Rome, or was it Greece?
Anyway it was licenscious. I was loving it.

My Boy's penis was dancing about, he was still tense, his hands
stroking my hair. I arose and kissed him and he began to fondle me,
first my breasts, running his index finger around my proud nipples,
then his hands all over my breasts, and then down my back to my
buttocks. He hadn't wanted me to stop, but he was now having to
justify his pleasure. But the anticipation had be pleasure too, for
him and for me. He squeezed me close, then looked at me. Was I going
to finish the job? What did I expect of him? I pulled my shoulders
back to show my breasts to their best advantage, to invite him to love
me.

My Boy moved to my face my front. My vagina was waiting for him. I
leaned back a bit, bowed my legs a bit, and invited his reach. He
rubbed my clitoris, made me feel good ... warmed me while the water
streamed on behind us. His penis was there next to me, persistent and
inviting, keeping me excited.

The other couples were active too. Finished washing, one had moved out
of the shower into the bathroom area, had spread a towel on the tile
floor ... penis was in vagina, they were having fun.

The third couple, it seemed, were waiting for lessons from us.

I smiled at My Boy. Moved my hand to his penis, dropped once more to
my knees. There was a drop or two of pre-cum oozing out. I wanted it.
His shiny wet penis was at home in my mouth again. My tongue was
feeling up, around, over and under his glans. The other
still-showering couple was watching me. I was grasping My Boy's
testicles with one hand, fondling them just so lightly. They were
moving in response to his heartbeat, or was it mine? My mouth
continued its work: tongue and lips. Penis in and out of my mouth: out
from time to time so I could admire my handiwork. My Boy was panting
His penis was throbbing; I could feel his testicles, his pulse, his
excitement. The time had come: his semen was ready for me and I should
be set to welcome it.

I knew I was being watched by the other couple and I craved that
attention. I slowed down a bit: the head of My Boy's penis seemed to
swell. I could feel his urethra opening, the tip of his penis
widening, and the stream of semen suddenly spurted across my tongue,
bounced off the roof of my mouth. I thought of the million sperm, bits
of My Boy, I thought of it as his gift to me and I was happy. The
stream kept on coming in its spurts as I kept on massaging that penis
to thank it. I swallowed repeatedly, quickly, to keep up. I continued
to lick that penis with my tongue while moving my head up and down
ever more slowly, trying to catch everything and yet opening my mouth
just enough so a trickle of the excess flowed out of the corners of my
mouth. Down the penis, across the scrotum. The others could see: the
promised ejaculation had taken place, and I could be seen to be loving
it. Only a little of that fluid was wasted.

The dribbled, glistening semen was my trophy. To show, to prove to all
who cared to watch, that My Boy has had his pleasure, and that I have
had my own reward for my work. More important was that My Boy was
respectful and loving, testifying to worth and personal to my skill,
to his pleasure and mine. Everybody could see that I loved that penis
and its product. I didn't want the moment to end. And I knew the
drill: if I could react quickly, if my boy was Potent I could yet have
penis in vagina and we could be complete and coupled.

I looked -- I think lovingly -- at My Boy and I lay down, my back on
the cold floor, and I pulled at his hand. I feared his penis was
softening: I didn't want that. I looked him in the eyes, caressed his
body. Success: renewed erection. Penis would be in vagina. My Boy
kissed me appreciatively, with one hand of his and one hand of mine
his penis worked its way inside me. His free hand then moved to my
left breast, my hand caressed his balls.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the other couple from the
shower. I don't close my eyes at exciting times. I wasn't Thinking of
a New Hat or of England, but of a Good Time Being Had By All. The
other girl had seen my handiwork and was doing her best with Mouth and
Tongue on her beau's Fine Penis. I could not spare more than a glance;
she scarcely needed my help or advice. Her Boy was Well Pleased.

I wanted to have an Orgasm but it began to seem unlikely. My Boy had
softened again, and pulled away, embarrassed. I smiled, took his hand,
drew it to my crotch.

He responded with more than I would have asked. Not fingers, but
tongue. He was inspecting my Vagina, then running fingers around its
pink. Then, without my asking -- or could he sense what I wanted? --
his tongue was bringing me to climax. My clitoris was quivering, I was
trembling, I was ecstatic. I am not Meg Ryan and I do not scream. But
my pleasure was no secret. A boy, a man, who does not work hard at his
partner's race to orgasm does not deserve attention. The trick for a
girl is to deduce a man's personality in that regard in advance, not
to have to wait to find out at one's disappointment. I was happy and
satisfied.

We stood up and toweled each other off. My Boy played with my breasts
one last time; I fondled his penis and his balls appreciatively. One
couple had left, the other were finishing up their pleasure. If they
had taken a lesson from me, so much the better. But I still had My
Boy's undivided attention and I thought I'd like to have him around a
bit longer.

In fact we stayed together for some months, drifted apart after awhile
in imperceptible stages until the relationship ended by default.
Another stepping stone to life: happiness involves stages, sometimes
mistakes. But like any speculation, love and sex relate to what you
don't know even more than what you do know; your universe is limited
to your reach. One doesn't regret an orgasm.

I still have My Boy's picture in my class yearbook. I have the memory
of that first donation of semen, which I like to think was his First.
He has a bit of my love still, and a bit of my experience. What more
can he or I ask?


Carol

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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