Megs Uniform

Prof. R Copyright 2004, All rights reserved.

(formerly of the University of ____________)

[This fictional story follows the series "California Zephyr" and before the series "Summit Conference," but it also may be enjoyed independently.]

[When we were cuddling together in our room in the Oxford Hotel, Sophia liked me to tell her stories about long-ago loves. I suspect that the long-ago part appealed to her, but I also know that we both enjoyed the results when I came to the end. At her encouragement, I have been trying to write up some of the stories, and this is the first result.]

Meg and I were at our place on the Oregon coast, as I remember it. That is interesting in itself, because it seems so real to think of it today. It was sunny out just before noon, and as always, the wind was blowing. I was sitting on the deck working on a writing project, and Meg was inside, probably working on band drills.

Meg was a band instructor at a high school on the East Coast. She was a good teacher, pouring much of her spare time into the work. Nevertheless, there were the typical pressures on her: band parents-- some less than supportive, administrative matters, budget constraints, attention to each of the kids, and so forth.

The last item was the part that she loved the most, and she poured her heart into helping them, coaching them, inspiring them. Sometimes she shortchanged herself in the process, but it did not matter to her. The kids in turn worked hard for her, and grew in various ways to achieve things that they had not known that they could reach.

Perhaps I am sounding too corny about her work, but did not George Sand write that "love without veneration and enthusiasm is only friendship?"

Those of my readers who have followed the "Zephyr" files in this library know that my own teaching career was at the college level, until it was brought to a close. While I was able to inspire individual students, I never saw that on a classwide level. Also, I often found myself distracted by the way that serious discussions with my female students melted into spirited sexual flings.

I was struggling with that when I met Meg at a friend's place when I was back at a professional conference. I had stopped by a barbecue that was already underway, and Meg arrived even later. Our hostess had expected her to be late, because she was coming from another band event that she was judging.

We had paired up that evening out of mutual necessity. Somehow, everyone else had already organized into couples, groups, cliques, or whatever by the time that we got there. We both kept trying to avoid the obvious, and perhaps Meg was a bit uneasy about my easiness with her. The relaxed manner of my approach, while being one of my best points with the coeds, was a red flag to her.

Constantly colliding at the avocado dip, we surrendered to the inevitable and struck up a conversation. I learned something of her background, and more importantly, learned that her professional demeanor did not hide a warm sense of humor and a love of adventure.

An idea began to form in my mind, and when she agreed to see me again before my return to the Midwest, I felt a surge of excitement that I had not felt for a long time. It wasn't the familiar sexual feeling, or the mixed message, it was that perhaps Meg would be the one who would finally be so important to be with that I truly would forsake all others. Perhaps even more important to the male ego is that she might feel the same way about me.

Our brief times together before I left led on into an exchange of letters, cards and telephone calls. Her field was so competitive compared to mine. It was all very interesting to me. I learned that she would be taking time off during the summer to develop new band formations, new drills, that she usually tried "to get away from it all" while doing so.

As it happened, I had already booked a place on the Oregon Coast for some writing that I had to do. I found myself inviting Meg to join me there, and waited nervously like a guy for his first date to see if she would accept. I even wrote that she was not under any obligation, and that between the couch and the bed, we could both sleep there without anything untoward happening.

[When I was telling this story to Sophia, she laughed. Sure you are smiling, too, but it is true.]

Just before I left on the trip to the Coast, something happened that convinced me that I must be ready for a change in my lifestyle, and for a more mature relationship. Cindy K. had come into my office for the review of her spring term paper that I had almost forgotten that I promised her. It was a hot day in that Midwestern college town, and as the school's trustees did not believe in wasting money, my office was barely air-conditioned.

I was wearing an open, short-sleeve shirt and shorts . . . and was still too warm. Cindy was dressed with less, and I could see that she had been sunbathing. Her sun-darkened skin showed through her gauzy blouse, highlighting the curves and engineered shape of her bra. The tan on her legs ran from her sandals to somewhere above the hem of her short skirt. I noticed this, yes, but I concentrated on her paper. It was a good one, it showed that she had been paying attention, and when she was out on a limb, she had footnoted facts to prove her point. As I spoke about it, I found myself looking deeply into her eyes. I was excited about it, and I suppose my passion showed.

The attention and the enthusiasm were exciting to Cindy. She leaned forward to me, listening raptly. Her own excitement bubbled out in her answers to my questions, my comments. Perhaps she had heard something from another young woman about my mixing pleasure with business. She was too intelligent to be seeking sex for the sake of sex, but on the other hand, she might have expected a certain approach on my part. She leaned back in her chair now. Somehow, I realized that the ground was shifting under us. In response to some subconscious command, she was touching her glowing cheeks, brushing some imaginary lint from her blouse, smoothing what there was of her skirt, all as our conversation continued. Crossing and uncrossing her legs, smoothing her skirt once more, her eyes locked with mine.

My own subconscious must have been at work, because I found myself shifting to make my swelling excitement less uncomfortable. My imagination was taking me up those lovely legs, concerned about where exactly that tan line would end. I believe that our conversation continued on an academic plane, but I suppose that a Freudian would have found more in it.

She licked her lips. I began to wonder how many clips her bra had. Had her nipples shown through the bra when she came in? I would have remembered that. They were now! A familiar moist sensation surrounded my now so-sensitive penis. I started to reach across the desk to take her hand as she laid it there in front of me. As I did so, I was envisioning the location in my desk drawer where I had tucked the feather-light condoms. And then I stopped.

"Cindy," I found myself pleading. "I do have an appointment in a bit, and I need to get ready for it. I'm really sorry about that! Very sorry..."

"Who was it saying that?" I thought to myself. Just one touch away from completing our discussion with the shade pulled and Cindy on my lap in the big leather chair! Just one touch away from finding out how far her tan went!

"I must be going crazy with this Meg business," I mused, as I watched Cindy's well-shaped backside disappear out my door. The summer sun spilled in through the still-open shade. First, I had suggested to Meg that we NOT assume sex at the Coast, and now I had urged Cindy to walk out of the room.

And now here Meg and I were at the Coast. We had arrived the night before, and were both exhausted from the trip. Meg HAD taken me up on my earlier suggestion of no sex expectations, but had balked at my offer to sleep on the couch. Younger readers may find it hard to believe, but I slept with her without "sleeping with her." When I had pulled the covers back to enter the bed, she was already sound asleep. She was wearing a dark blue nightie. The Oregon Coast nights can be chilly even in the summer, and the covers were not there just for modesty.

I looked at her in the dim light and watched her breasts rising and falling with her steady breathing; the blue cloth took her shape and then relaxed, the rhythmic appearance of her nipples creating a hypnotic pattern for me. I wanted so much to touch her, but somehow it did not seem right to break this spell. The morning was cold and foggy . . . big surprise! Taking turns, we dressed in warm clothes separately.

We laughed at that as I made coffee while she sorted out the jumble of cast off plates and utensils. She put together our breakfast with what we had brought and what had been left for us-- all that in about the time it took me to get a fire started from the damp wood in the fireplace. We laughed at the damp, too, knowing that our mutual friends were now imagining us romping in bathing suits on hot sand, or splashing topless in the hot tub.

We talked about everything at the breakfast table, and then took our coffee to the couch in front of the fireplace. She sat close to me. Of course there was not a choice, given the old springs on the couch. We sort of sloped into each other, not saying much, just finding the gentle contact and each other's warmth enjoyable.

How strange it seemed to be excited by this contact with an attractive woman and find myself behaving like a gentleman! Somehow, I felt a bridge being built between us, a feeling that I had not taken time for in several years of quick relationships. When the coffee was gone, we had to admit to each other that we had work to do. I watched her lay out the cryptic band drill charts on the kitchen table. They were Greek to me, but it just felt good to watch her doing that.

"I'm going to show you something that's a very intimate apparel secret of mine," she whispered in a theatrical tone. I watched with wide-eyes. Digging into her suitcase, she pulled out a band uniform jacket. It was Royal Blue, and there was a gold-sequin cummerbund on the hanger with it. I started to chuckle.

"That's not the sort of intimate apparel that I thought you were talking about. What's the story?" I was laughing at myself now.

"It's chilly in here!" she asserted.

"You brought that as a substitute for your sweater?" I enjoyed the verbal fencing with her.

"Actually, it may sound silly to you, but sometimes it helps me to write." She took a more serious tone now. "Sometimes when I'm in a strange place, just looking at the uniform will settle me down . . . help me to concentrate. I can picture the kids out there, putting out their best. Right now, I am starting at a point where I really have been blocked."

It made tremendous sense to me. I had reference books to concentrate on when I was writing, and they made me feel like it was a workplace wherever I took them.

Gently, I took the jacket in my hands, and then slipped it over her shoulders. She did not object, but looked up at me with a smile that I believe showed deep contentment. And then she turned to her papers.

I bundled up and took my work out onto the deck so I would not disturb her. Instead of working, however, my mind kept turning over the events of the morning so far. I had seen such looks of deep contentment before, but they were after great sex, not after a great coffee break. Where were we heading?

"Shoom, shoom, shoom," the ocean surf rumbled against the coarse sand and rocks below. I know that is what it said because in Lermontov's novel "Hero of Our Times" he used Cyrillic characters that said this perfectly. His character felt introspective when he heard that sound. Now I slid into the same groove.

My head, it seemed, was full of ideas about us. They ebbed and flowed, created after-pools as the brain waves went out, and occasionally a strong thought from my libido ripped crosswise against the pattern.

While my head tried to figure out what it was doing, one of the crosscurrents came from my hormones. As if mocking my turn toward what I now realized was romantic love, my body continued to prepare to enter hers. I found myself wondering if she was experiencing something similar. I hurt with longing for her-- did she hunger in the same way for me?

Prowling like a teenager in heat, I rose and crept to the doorway at one point. She was writing and marking up her papers with furious energy. There was a kind of rhythm in her movements that should have had music of its own . . . but then, of course, the surf would have drowned it out in any case. I sat back down.

The fog turned to haze, and then the sun began to burn through. I began to unbundle. The warmth was welcome on my face and neck. My hands worked more easily as the muscles soaked up the solar energy. It would be lunchtime soon, and then perhaps Meg and I could go for a walk on the beach afterward. And then there would be the evening.

I began to debate with myself about the evening. Should I be more forward? Would she want to be romanced with wine and flowers and so forth? Flowers might be a problem here in this beach village, unless the hardy wildflowers were acceptable. And then I heard the door sliding open behind me. I turned to see Meg walking toward me.

She had changed out of whatever she had on before, and was just wearing the unbuttoned band uniform jacket. As my eyes followed the opening down, I saw that she was wearing beneath it only the gold sequinned cummerbund and black satin panties. I gulped! I found myself to be looking around, as if some neighbor was watching. Meg laughed.

"We're far enough from the next house that they'll just think I have a bathing suit on under this jacket." She smiled at me.

"Would you like to come inside?" she asked demurely. The sash hanging from the cummerbund swayed seductively when she laughed again.

"If I don't, I'll come out here!"

In another setting the pun would have seemed crude, but it was true. How nicely the lines of the jacket set off her curves-- made her all the more feminine. The gently teasing tone in her voice joined in the delicious melange of messages she was sending . . . the bold, hard lines of the uniform, the strong colors of the uniform, her soft curves peeking from the outfit a counterpoint to that, the situation, her words, her tone. My head spun.

This image remains sharp in my mind to this day. I stood to meet her, and then we embraced. It was rather naughty of us to be doing this on the deck, but then that distant neighbor would think that she was in a bathing suit, anyway, right?

I held her inside the jacket, and it felt so good to have my arms around her, on her smooth, bare skin. Letting my hands slip down to her waist, and feeling the curve of her hips, I held her tightly against me. Her warmth in the ocean breeze felt so good, but she shivered for a moment and closed her eyes at the cold touch of my hands.

When we held each other so, she could feel my warming body. Her coat hung around us as she snuggled her satin substitute for the black uniform pants against my excitement. My penis fought against its cloth restraint. She smiled as she felt a surge of energy go through me.

She lightly bit my earlobes, and nibbled her way down the side of my neck-- up the other side-- I could feel her breasts against mine, and how hard her nipples were against my skin. Now my hands were warm and supple-- they swept over her hips, enjoyed her satin curves, and felt the muscles moving beneath the sexy material. She rose on tiptoes, hungry for a long and luscious kiss.

My fingers touched each place of her. I whispered to her that I wanted to remember everything about her, to have her complete in my dreams, day or night. I wanted the moment when she would open to welcome me.

Down the small of her back my fingertips glided, inside her black covering, around over the gentle indentations on the side of her well-shaped hips.

They came to rest over her vagina-- she shifted her legs slightly to welcome my firm touch. Holding her femininity in my hand-- I imagined that had I seen it at that moment it would have been glowing from the warmth. With each heartbeat, I felt her growing stronger. Her clitoris rose to meet my touch. We kissed long and deep.

They were "our" kisses, too. In our pent-up passion there was no defining who kissed whom. Then we paused, as if by an unspoken mutual understanding, and found ourselves taking a deep breath and simply looking into each other's eyes.

I remember breaking the gaze, and putting a rock of some kind on my papers, and then we went inside, to the bed.

Meg's hands were everywhere now, unfastening, unbuttoning, unzipping me. My hands were too busy inside her uniform jacket, caressing her breasts, holding them for my kisses. She laughed with me at my obsession, and purred with pleasure at the result. Now we stood before each other, I in my briefs, and she in her modified uniform. My briefs took on a low-cut look as my manhood responded to this vision, pushing out and down on the cotton. I ached to escape from the last barriers between us and enter her.

Outside, the sun beat down on the glistening surface of the ocean, and waves thundered against the coast. Inside, the light was muted by the sleeping area curtains, and the surf was a steady, undefined rumble. In the movies, it suddenly occurred to me, there would be the music of strings swelling, a hint of brass sounding. Instead here was something better-- not reproducible in any theater-- the sound of the waves' as yet unchallenged power meeting the warm, soft sand.

She straightened, as if taking in that same power of the conflict between sea and shore that I felt, and then slipped the jacket from her shoulders. Her breasts thrust forward in the process, her nipples reached toward me. I embraced her again, now free to take my kisses over her shoulders, and along her arms. And then back to her breasts, of course! Her hands explored my own shoulders, my back, the small of my back, and then they were so, so urgently at my waistband.

Stretching, stretching, and I was free. I stepped back from our embrace just far enough that she still held me, and we reveled in the joyous feeling of freedom together as my penis swung upward. In its insistent movement toward a locked erection it traced a shining trail of my excitement across her tummy. We laughed with one voice at the sensation. With a throaty whisper, she bade me stretch out on the bed. Thoroughly entranced, I did so without question. Laying back, with my balls rolling in urgent, final preparation, I watched her intently. She stood there in the soft light, encouraging me to enjoy the moment, taking her own pleasure in my breathless adoration of her.

In the dreamlike light, I watched eagerly as her hands in unison outlined her curves, down to her waist, and then stretched the black satin away from her hips and down over her legs. Had I looked, I would have seen that in its relaxed state it had fallen to mark the triumphant end of a trail of clothing in from the door.

That was not what held my eyes now. Instead, I watched spellbound as the yellow cummerbund was unwound. For a moment she teased me by displaying it like a sash diagonally, covering one breast and her triangle of curls. "Miss Misty Beach of 1985" I intoned, in the best Master of Ceremonies voice that I could muster. Trying to speak from my diaphragm made my stomach muscles flex in a way that drew Meg's eyes. Or perhaps it was the movement of the next muscles down, which swayed my manhood snakelike in her direction.

A sparkle of light danced on its tip as softening fluid welled up through me. Her smile evolved to a look of deep concentration, and then she flung the cummerbund aside. I have heard the word feminine tossed around to mean things that were light and frilly, and in more intimate discussions to describe a giggle, or a lacy bra, or a teasing look. Instead, I now would prefer to think of this moment with Meg when I hear that term.