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The Term Paper
The Term Paper Copyright © 1997, 1999 BillyG.
(http://www.mrdouble.com/htm/raauthors/billyg.htm)
ALL Rights Reserved
This may not be reproduced in any form for profit
without the written permission of the author. This may
be freely distributed with this notice attached.
The Term Paper
by BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
I'd met this in one of my classes. Jenny's her
name. There had been instant electricity between us. She's
small, slender, and with a great...uh...behind.
Sitting near her in class, it'd been natural to say hello
and chat about school work. That she's attractive and sexy
added to the delight.
Jenny and I had taken to having lunch after class
several days each week, initially talking about class work and
comparing notes. Later we began to open up about ourselves.
We'd developed the style of understatement...innuendo...and
double entendre.
She was in her first year at the university and I was in
my last. Actually, I'd been in and out several times, always
doing fairly well, but needing to "augment" my income. I
suppose that might be more clearly stated - I needed to work
to pay for school. At first, I thought it was a bit odd
that we were in the same class. She'd received advanced
standing she told me and we were both working hard at this
upper division class that *sounded* easy: "Erotic Themes in
Contemporary Theater." At least, *Jenny* was working hard,
she said.
One day at lunch, sitting back in her chair, she put the
open book face down on the table with an exasperated gesture
and said, "I had *no* idea this was going to be so much
work. Cripes, what do I know about the origins of eroticism
in literature?"
Picking up a piece of lettuce and a wedge of Mandarin
orange with my fingers, I took a nibble and said, "Well,
there are only so many themes in human erotic thought...and
they've been writing dirty forever. The origins lie
in man's horniness...he just likes to read dirty books and
watch dirty pictures, don't you think?"
"Man?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Come ON, Jenny! You know. Man...as in mankind. Don't
go sexist on me. You know I've strong feminist beliefs, but
I'm not going to tip toe along some linguistic line of
political correctness."
Holding out her hands in mock surrender, Jenny laughed
and replied, "Okay, okay, Billy...just kidding. Besides,
that's not the point." Picking up an orange slice herself,
she rushed on, "The point is...."
"Jenny, love...what *is* the point?"
"If you'd just let me...the point *is*," and she paused
for dramatic emphasis, "the point is," she said again,
taking the world's smallest nibble of orange, "*you're* the
one with the sexual experience. I'm just a student...an
enthusiastic amateur."
For a who thought of herself as an amateur (amateur
what?), Jenny sure knew how to dress like a knowledgeable,
experienced woman. There was something about her quiet self
assurance, the way she looked at me with a level glance and
the unasked question in her eyes that lent an air of
maturity to her. A little of that was belied by her very
youthful appearance. I think she was 19 or so, but in some
ways she looked much younger. Probably it was her slender
body and small breasts. She didn't have little-girl
nipples, I can tell you that, for they seemed always to be
visible, poking at her blouses and shirts. There were times
I was *sure* she wasn't wearing a bra. I suspect she never
did. I paid attention to detail like that.
At that moment, looking at her across the table, I felt
like the experienced lecher. The genuine student part of me
was on the up-and-up, but my "other side" -- my libidinous
side -- was thinking how nice it'd be to get this chick into
my bed...preferably on her hands and knees.
"Hell, Jenny...the prof isn't grading us on *actual
experience*. That isn't a requirement for the course. This
is a theoretical paper at best. Supposed to be our own
*thinking* not our personal experience. And if worse comes
to worse, we'll plagiarize the shit out of someone. Right
now I can think of...oh...at least 4,578 better minds than
mine!"
Could she see my eyes behind these sunglasses, I
wondered. Could she see that I was watching her under
her shirt?
Brushing invisible crumbs off the front of that shirt,
she replied, "True, Billy...but it *is* your mind that I
admire."
Shit! I thought. My mind! "And I thought it was my
body."
"Yeah, well that's okay too, but it's your mind that
gonna get this paper done, not your...um...body."
I smiled at her, secretly pleased, knowing that the paper
was done already! It was nothing...a piece of cake...a walk
in the park and I'd finished it (mostly to get it out of the
way) the first week it had been assigned. It'd be easy to
share it with Jenny, for we'd been encouraged to work in
pairs. There was still a little work to do on the
bibliography...there always is. They love it when you quote
something out of last month's Journal of Trivia and Obscurata.
"Thanks for the heady compliment, babes. That "mind"
suggests that *you* do a computer search of the current
literature, combining adolescent experiences, autoeroticism
and computer sex. I can tell, Professor Williams loves to
read smutty trash. You work on the bio...I'll work on the
smut. Deal?"
It might have seemed that I was rushing this partnership
a little, but I was fairly certain that Jenny both liked me
and respected my academic abilities. But more, I knew that
she knew! It wasn't academia foremost on my agenda.
Jenny leaned back, hooking her heel on the edge of her
chair as she pushed her dress between her thighs, giving me
a delightful flash of thigh. "Sure! But it sounds
one-sided...like you're doing all the hard work."
"Oh, there's lots to do and we'll have to work very
closely on this, girl. I've got some ideas. Hell, I've
always got some ideas when it comes to sex!"
"How closely? I mean, how 'closely' we gonna work?"
"Can you come over to my flat tonight, Jen? I mean, to
work on the paper?" I added with a Groucho Marx leer,
waggling my eyebrows.
"Sure. What time?" she asked, glancing at her watch.
"Eight o'clock. But first, let's get the rules
straight. I'm the senior author...the experienced one as you
put it...so we're going to do this my way, okay? If you do
what I tell you to do, we'll have this out of the way in
nothing flat...and it'll get an A, no sweat. Do we have a
deal?"
I'd lifted my sunglasses and she looked me in the eye as
she replied, "Anything you say."
Anything I wondered?
------------------------------------------------------------
The clock chimed eight and there was a knock on the door
a moment later. That was prompt! She looked radiant.
Her long hair was hanging straight down over her
shoulders, California style. She was wearing a short skirt
and a tank top that left no doubt. No bra.
Sweeping her into my small flat, I offered, "Want the
tour?"
It took no more than a glance to see there wasn't far to
go. "You bet I do. You can tell a lot about people by
looking at the place they call home...and I can see you've
got taste," she added, bending to put her books and papers
on the low coffee table.
Her short skirt rode up the back of her thighs, giving
me an enticing view of her slender, tanned legs. What were
her like, I wondered? Did she even *have* panties?
She'd said the right thing...about "taste." I didn't
have a great deal of art, but I prided myself on the things
I had. Even though it was just a two-room flat, it was
moderately large. The plants and rugs and art gave it a
rich appearance and texture that was mine and, I thought,
reflective of my personality. Talk about ego centered!
I spent about ten minutes telling her the of the
acquisition of a large marble statue...a women curled up in
an egg-shaped supplication, and then said, "But we've got
work to do...I'll pick up on the tour another time, okay?"
"You're the boss," she replied, in a quiet tone, almost
a little-girl voice, seeming to look somewhere on the floor
between us. I'd never heard that voice before.
Gesturing toward the overstuffed chairs in the study
area, I said, "Lets work here. The light is good and it's
quiet."
I was beginning to feel like some Oilcan Harry...a
fast-talking, unctuous dude tryin' to sell something to a
slow-thinkin' chick... but I knew Jenny was not slow
thinking. We hadn't said it yet, but the undercurrent was
strong and unmistakable. There was more going on here than
just a research paper.
We'd been silently flirting for weeks. I told her
with my eyes what I thought about her body. And she told
me with her body what she thought about my eyes. The
Dance. We were going to get it on. We both knew it. But
it added surprise and mystery to tease about the process.
Just *how* was thing going to happen?
The hypnotic sound of Enigma wafted in, just loud enough
to be heard if one paused to listen, otherwise, it was a
soft, haunting melody dimly heard. Sitting across from each
other, I simply stared at her for a long minute, admiring
her legs and the curve of her hip.
Then, "You masturbate, Jenny?"
Her eyes widened for only a moment and then with a tiny
smile, she said, "Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Let me ask the questions. You'll have your chance.
You a virgin?"
"Not for some time. Again, why?"
"I'll tell you later." Then, with a pointed glance at
her breasts, I asked, "Wearing a bra tonight?"
"No."
"Panties?"
Barely heard, "Yes." There was a touch of color in her
cheeks. She shifted a little, but didn't break eye contact.
"Jenny, this is a test. It's important that you trust
me, that you do what I request, no questions. You don't
*have* to do anything, of course, but if we're going to have
a close working relationship, working on this paper, it's
important that we break down unnecessary barriers.
Understand?"
After a slight hesitation, she replied, "I...I guess
so."
"Okay, Jen. Give me your panties."
"What?"
"Give me your panties. Can you understand the words?"
"Yes, but..."
"Jenny, we're not voting on this. There's no debate. I
asked for your panties. Just skin out of them right now and
hand them to me."
We'd talked once on the role of romance in eroticism as
opposed to blatant sex, I, arguing for the merit of
flat-out-no-coy-games sex as having greater erotic impact.
Jenny had taken the Harlequin road to romance...move in
slowly...kiss a lot, hug...don't talk about it...just let it
happen. "That's wimpy," I voted.
We'd been here before...intellectually. Was it to be
the dance? Or were we going to push the envelope? What would
she do now? It wasn't an exercise of the intellect. She
knew that.
Standing suddenly, she slid her hands up along her
thighs, hooking her thumbs into the elastic of the white,
brief she was wearing. I could only see the sides
of her thighs and hips and the white of the panties'
waistband where she'd hooked them. The crotch remained
hidden.
Between cuts of the CD, for a moment it was completely
quiet. I could hear my heart beat and the drum of a
motorcycle exhaust in the distance. If she was pausing for
dramatic effect, it was working! The erotic effect of her
pose, momentarily paused on the brink of surrender, made my
mouth dry and my chest tight.
She began to slowly push her down and I took a
big breath, not realizing until that moment that I'd been
apneic. Bending, she pushed them down below her knees and
then, one hand on the chair for balance, she lifted one
foot, then the other, out of her panties.
Holding them between one thumb and her forefinger, she
leaned toward me, handing them over and sat again.
Maintaining eye contact, I brought the to my
face, smelling them. As if analyzing a gourmet dish, I
intoned, "Soap...and perfume...and...yes...pussy."
She smiled and asked, "You like girls' panties, Billy?"
"Um...yeah...but mostly I like *these* panties...right
now."
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm pleased that
you like them."
"I suspect there aren't a half-dozen in the world to
whom you'd step out of your underwear and hand them over...I
love the erotic intimacy of such surrender."
"Less!"
"Less?"
"Yes, less than a half dozen. In fact, I can't think of
anyone else."
I smiled at her compliment and then examined her
for the first time. Turning the crotch inside out, I noted
the wetness, but nothing else. "No pubic hairs," I
complained.
Shaking her head, she murmured, "I shave myself."
"Bald?"
She shook her head no, "Just the lips...and the sides.
It looks sexy," and then added, "I think." Looking to me for
affirmation.
It was gauche, but I licked my lips and smiled. "Ready
for the next part of your test, Jenny?"
Shrugging her shoulders, she said, "In for a penny..."
"Okay. I think one of your best features, love, is your
butt. You've got a lovely butt...show it to me, please."
There were lots of ways she might respond to this
request including clothed and unclothed. If she decided to
expose her behind to me, I wanted to give her freedom of
expression. I didn't want the artless response of an
automaton.
Jenny has the curious habit of looking at me, as if
making up her mind, and then suddenly acting. Again, she
stood quickly and turning away from me, she placed one foot
on the chair and bending slightly, pulled the hem of her
dress up over the hip of her raised leg. The smooth curve
of her bent leg blended into her tightly rounded buttock. I
could see the bottom part of the crack of her butt and the
undersurface of her other buttock.
This has style, I realized. She instinctively
knows that the partially uncovered body is more provocative
than the completely exposed nude.
Then she surprised me again. Dropping her foot back to
the floor, she turned full away from me and bent way over,
flipping her skirt up over her buttocks. With her feet
planted about a foot apart, I had a perfect view of her bare
pussy lips pooching out between her thighs. As rapidly, she
spun around and with her hands on her hips, asked, "Well?"
I was at a loss for words. All I could see in my mind's
eye was the curve of her buttock and the crease of her
between her legs. I was numbed with my own desire.
I told her the truth. "You've got style, Jen, and you're
sexy as hell. I love your butt!"
Sitting again, she asked, "Is it my turn now?"
"Your turn?" (I'm really quick and witty when I'm
horny.)
"Yes, my turn...my turn to ask you things. We're
partners aren't we?" Without waiting for a reply, she
rushed on, "Oh, I know you want me to do the things *you*
want...you want me to be your little sex slave, don't you?
Sure you do, you muffin...and I will! But first, I've
got some things I wanna see, okay?"
Shit, I thought I was in charge here. Actually, I
really knew that I enjoyed her assertiveness. Dominating
someone completely, without resistance, carried a limited
charge...and that wore off quickly for me. I loved the
give-and-take of "the game."
Regaining my composure a little, I spread my hands and
said, "That's fair. What do you want to know?"
With a surprisingly throaty voice, Jenny answered, "Oh,
I'll find out what I want to know in due time...but right
now, I want to see your dick. Is it hard? Show it to me,
Billy."
Momentarily startled, I smiled to myself and thought,
'Turnabout is fair play.' As if looking around for it, in
an exaggerated fashion, I leaned over and looked between my
legs. "Hmmm, nothing here but my hand."
"You're getting warmer, Billy. Keep looking."
Wondering how I might best wrap this package, I opted
for the blatant. I stood and slowly open my large
mastodon ivory belt buckle with as much drama as I could.
My jeans had buttons. They'd always come open easier than
they'd buttoned up. Mimicking Jenny's technique, I hooked
my thumbs into my jeans and my briefs and skinned both
down to my ankles and stepped out them. Straightening up,
I cupped my balls in my right hand, as if to free them,
and then let them fall as I stepped right up in front of
Jenny.
Of course I had a hard on. It'd been getting stiffer
ever since I smelled the fragrance of her panties. Now it
sprang up, almost painfully erect, bending slightly to the
left.
Jenny's eyes were large and slightly crossed, trying to
focus on my pecker right before her nose. She wet her lips
and leaned in closer.
"Kiss it, Jen."
She didn't pause. With her right hand she took it like
one might take a javelin. (Alright, a small javelin.) She
closed her eyes and opened her lips slightly as she dropped
her mouth to the head of my cock. I thought she might give
it a chaste peck. She didn't. Instead, she tongued the tip
of my dick as she kissed it passionately.
With her mouth open she looked up at me, slowly
back the tip of her tongue from my dick, pulling a line of
spittle from my cock to her tongue. Then, licking her lips,
she asked, "Does this give you any ideas about eroticism in
literature?"
"As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about the
position of woman in history."
"And what's that? She asked.
"Mostly flat on their backs."
"And you want to explore *my position* in this writing
partnership, huh?"
"Uh...yeah. My bedroom has better, uh, ambiance."
Arising and pulling one side of her skirt up on her hip,
Jenny remarked, "Ambiance is everything." She turned and
walked into the bedroom, flipping the skirt about the under
curve of her buttocks.
One of my affectations was a king-size waterbed in the
middle of a richly decorated, Moorish style room. A large,
high-backed rattan chair was in one corner, piled high with
pillows, and an old, ornate dark mahogany side table sat
under a large mirror...all pieces I'd picked up at garage
sales in the upscale part of town. Beyond the bed there's a
large window box holding a single bed. Paisley pillows in
muted earth tones were piled in one corner. I'd put in
track lighting when I moved in and the soft lighting was
directed against prints of primitive cave art.
The overall effect was of rich tones highlighted by soft
illumination, contrasting with deep shadows...producing a
Baroque setting.
"So this is where you do your...ah...research?" she
asked.
"Theoretical, of course."
"Of course."
"The window box?" she asked, looking back at me.
"Yes, the window box can be inspirational. And that's
what we're looking for isn't it? Inspiration?"
Throwing herself into the window box, she turned and with
arms resting atop pillows on either side of her, she tilted
her head, looking at me. "You always show people your
bedroom with your, um...*thing* sticking out of your pants?"
Looking down at my still-wet, half-hard cock, I laughed
and ruefully shaking my head, replied, "To be rigorously
honest, rarely. Actually, to be totally honest. Never."
"No! Please don't put it away. I was admiring it.
Please?"
Stuffing my dick back into my jeans, I said, "It's quite
likely that if you're a good little girl, you'll get to see
it again."
"And if I'm a bad little girl?"
Sitting facing her in the window box, I replied, "There
was a little girl, who had a little curl...right in the
middle of her forehead. When she was good she was very, very
good..."
"And when she was bad?"
"When she was bad she was better!"
"A poet after my own heart."
I leaned back into the opposite corner of the window
box, deeper into shadow. "Look at me, Jenny!"
"Yes? I am."
"I can see your nipples. Cold? Excited?"
"Not cold," she murmured, looking down at her breasts.
Then, trailing a finger tip across the prominent bulge,
"Must be the other."
"Pull your up, Jen. Show me your nipples."
She stared at me again. I knew she'd show me but
wondered if she'd balk. "I just don't understand this
writing collaboration," she said as she slowly pulled up the
front of her tank top. Pausing with the bunched about
the tips of her breasts, I could see the lush lower halves
of her and a portion of her areolae.
"Continue," I said, my voice low but even.
"How much?" She asked.
"All."
Then, in one smooth motion, she pulled the over
her head and off her arms, dropping it to the floor. "Like
this?"
"Yes, much like that. You see, Jen, one of the recurrent
themes in Eighteenth Century Western European Erotic
Literature -- I said it like a title -- was voyeurism and
masturbation. You can see how they'd go together, can't
you?"
"You mean, like you-do-it-and-I-watch?"
"More like a variation of you start and I watch...then
we both do it.
"Kink-key!"
Jenny pulled her legs up and swung around, facing me.
She pulled her heels up and let her knees fall open as she
jammed her skirt between her thighs.
"I've never..." she began, but I cut her off.
"Partial nudity...partial undress...is more provocative
than total nudity, Jenny. So I want you to leave your skirt
on. But pull it up a little. Show me your trim job."
"I probably shouldn't tell you, but...when I trimmed
myself this afternoon, I was wondering if you'd get to see
it."
"It?"
"This!"
And she pulled her short skirt up above her thighs. Her
pubic hair had been trimmed shorter and shaved on the sides,
producing a broad vertical wedge ending right above her
clit. Similarly, her labia were clean shaven, and, with her
legs draped apart, were pulled partially open.
The flower of her womaness was opening, the labia minora
swollen and wet, converging to her half-hooded clitoris that
sat atop her as an overripe, erect, girl-prick.
Suddenly the scent of her musk washed over and then
through me, tickling that primitive response, setting up
some hind-brain howling that echoed right down to the depths
of my pelvis.
"I never imagined you'd smell so...uh...sexy. So
provocative."
"God, I smell myself!"
She leaned forward and looked at her crotch, as if to
seek the source of this pheromone rush. Dipping her finger
into her open sex, she ran a finger from the bottom of her
slit to the top, scooping up the pearliness as a mucus-thick
gob and then offering it to me.
Leaning toward her, I opened my mouth. She placed the
tip of her wet finger on the flat of my tongue, and then
slowly withdrew it, as I softly her.
"Christ, that's hot," she offered as she again, ran the
fingers of her right hand through her swollen labia.
Heaving my hips up, I pulled my jeans and shorts off,
adding them to the puddled on the floor and, falling
back, facing her, I ran my hands into my crotch. Cupping my
balls in one hand, I held the base of my cock in the other as
I looked into her eyes.
"This is what's it's all about, Jenny. Sex. Perhaps
not the strongest drive, but right up there after air and food
and shelter, don't you think?
Easing a finger, then two, into her pussy, she answered,
"Billy, right now I'm not thinking about anything, Except
that I'm horny. Christ, I'm horny. I wanna get off!"
For the next several minutes the only sound coming from
our dimly lit window box was the slapping sound of flesh on
flesh mixed with the increasingly wet sounds of sex.
Without trying, we'd matched each other's rhythm, the primal
beat of masturbation. My eyes moved from her eyes to her
breasts, back to her eyes and down to her fingers, busy on
her sex.
At the first hint of an impending orgasm, I'm able to
hold it there, suspended on some heightened plateau of
pleasure. But if I slip farther into that pleasure, it
slips away from any ghost of my control and runs away,
downhill with increasing speed.
I didn't even try to sustain it. The pleasure was too
strong. Lurching to my knees, fisting my cock, my intention
patently clear, I leaned over Jenny.
"Yes! Me too! I'm gonna come...gonna come. Ungh
...ungh. Come with me...come on me!" she said, spaying her
legs even wider, thrusting her pelvis at me.
Over the top. The molten heat of my orgasm gathered
force deep to my cock and with the classic sudden eruption,
spurted out, once, twice, a third. Then a weaker fourth
dribble as I fell back on my heels, spent.
A bit later, Jenny observed, "Billy, I must tell you, I
love collaborating with you. When do we write the next
chapter?"
<< The End >>