Study Brea

Author's Note: To save you time, I'll say right away that this is a short(ish) story for straight males with a thing for alt girls, narrated in first person perspective. There's a long preamble, so if you just want to get to the sex right away, skip this part and go to Part 2. Enjoy.

P.S. Bonus points if you can figure out which Suicide Girl I had in my head while writing this. XD

#

"This won't do," Milton said to me. "This won't do at all."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, taking the stack of papers he placed on the desk in front of me. "I worked my ass off on this!"

It was true—I had spent the last two years reading, re-reading, and dissecting everything that H.P. Lovecraft had ever written, and had spent the last twelve months working on that thesis. I had already revised it twice.

"It just needs a few more revisions, Jonas. I've noted where." Milton gestured for me to look through the papers.

Just a "few"? Was he fucking kidding me? He butchered nearly every page—out of 90, mind you—with red ink. He was asking me to practically rewrite the whole damn thing.

I took the time to read over a few notes, then looked up at him. "Too subjective? I thought we agreed on the phenomenological approach last time."

"Yes, Jonas, I know, but that's not what I meant," Milton said, walking to his chair. "You're not criticizing Lovecraft enough. There are three whole sections where you mostly just praise the guy's genius and originality."

"He was a genius!" I said. "A master of Gothic horror who wrote stories that still resonate to this very day. The same can't be said about Poe, Walpole, and Byron."

"I can't agree with you in regards to Poe, and that's precisely the problem, Jonas—those sections also have very little rebuttal. If I were to let you turn this in, the committee would rip you a new asshole when it comes time to defend it. You need to anticipate their arguments and preemptively nip them in bud right in the paper. It gives you a leg to stand on when they inevitably bring it up in the meeting."

I growled in frustration. The old man was right. I was such a fan of Lovecraft that I couldn't criticize him for too long before I started spouting off his merits. My analysis would sometimes digress into idol worship. If I wanted to get my Master's Degree in English Literature on the first try, my paper had to be the strongest it could possibly be. It would set the foundation for my entire career as a literary critic because it would be published by at least two peer-review journals—the university's and the intercollegiate one run by Milton himself. I was his protégé, so my success—or failure—would reflect on him as well.

"How long do I have?" I finally asked him.

"You only have a month before you have to hand it in, so make the changes and give it back to me in two weeks. You'll have my notes a few days after that so you can utilize the rest of the time for last minute polishes and grade your students' finals."

I stood up and held out my hand. "Thanks. I appreciate your feedback. Dr. Milton."

Milton stood and shook my hand, but he had a bitter smirk on his face. "You say that now, but you're going to hate my guts by the beginning of next week."

#

A week later I was ready to pull my hair out and scream, but I had to maintain my composure in front of my students.

"Alright, guys, that'll do it for today. Homework is pages 624 through 699 from the Norton Anthology, and for those of you who haven't already, don't forget to write up those annotations. Clock's ticking."

I smacked the book closed, and my students started packing up their things. A few of them handed in some papers as they left, a few didn't. I wasn't an overbearing instructor. I assigned a short one-page essay every other week, and while I liked having them turned in the week after they were assigned, they weren't technically due until the end of the semester.

I always took pride in being lenient because it was never much of a problem before, but I was regretting it now. My late deadline meant that the procrastinators in my class would start turning in their papers in bulk by the next class session, literally dropping a metric ton onto my already backbreaking workload. Some had already started doing so.

To make matters worse, a few students stopped by the podium to chat with me about the reading assignment. While I normally loved it when they engaged with the reading, today I didn't have time for it—but I was obligated to listen to them and answer any questions.

In the midst of the conversation, a heavily tattooed girl with dyed-purple hair cleared her throat and said, "Hey, why don't we wrap up this conversation for now. We don't want to delay the next class by hogging the room."

There was a murmur of agreement among the students, but the purple-haired girl's British accent set her voice apart. The students said their farewells and started exiting the classroom. I breathed a sigh of relief and packed up my things.

As I exited the classroom, I heard someone say, "Could I have a word with you in private, Professor Berner?"

I knew who it was before I turned around. The British accent was distinctive. The purple-haired girl was leaning against the wall waiting for me.

"Um, sure..." I said as I reopened the classroom and ushered her inside. "And I've told you all I don't like being called that. I'm not a professor—yet. I'm just an instructor for now."

"Oh, but Professor suits you."

"Does it?" I asked with an incredulous chuckle. "I don't know, seems weird... I'm barely five years older than you guys."

"Five years makes a huge difference in academia. In other things too."

She had a point but I didn't have time for small talk. "What did you want to talk to me about, Victoria?"

She idled for a moment, her golden brown eyes shifting towards the door as it slowly slid closed.

The second it did, Victoria dropped her bag and sauntered towards me. It was amazing how this neon-haired girl could make jeans and chucks sexier than a dress and heels just by adjusting the rhythm of her gait—but being honest, the tight v-neck that exposed her tattooed chest also helped.

When she reached me, she grabbed my tie and pulled my face closer to hers. She wasn't wearing any perfume, but the smell of her green apple shampoo was intoxicating.

"'Victoria'?" she whispered. "No no... I told you ages ago to call me 'Vicky'."

I dragged my eyes from her coy smile to look at the doors to the classroom. "Sorry, but I don't want to take any chances. People are in earshot—and anybody could walk in..."

"I'm sure it's safe now," Vicky said and pulled me into a kiss.

The kiss was just lips for only a second—Vicky wasted no time in coaxing my mouth open with her tongue and the kiss turned passionate very quickly. She massaged her pierced lips and tongue firmly against mine, using my tie as leverage.

My jaw practically liquefied and a shiver ran down my spine. This girl had always known how to kiss. And before I knew it, she had slithered her hand between our bodies and started rubbing the quickly swelling bulge in my pants.

"I miss your cock so much..." Vicky said between breathless kisses. "You haven't fucked me in over a week...."

"I'm sorry... I've been super busy..." I said through clenched teeth—her rubbing my cock was driving me insane. I tried desperately to keep my wits. "I told you why."

"You seriously don't have ten minutes to fuck my brains out?" Vicky asked. "I'm so horny, you have no idea. I bet I'll cum the very second you slide your cock inside me..."

In the past I would have called bullshit when a girl said that to me, but I knew Vicky wasn't lying. I'll tell you why later... But even still, while ten minutes was plenty of time for both of us to get our kicks, finding those ten minutes was a problem. Although she was always within arm's reach, we couldn't be public with our relationship. All things considered, it was like we were having a long-distance affair.

"Just ten minutes, baby, that's all I need," Vicky said, nibbling at my neck while grinding against my crotch.

"But where? The next class will be coming in any minute," I said, mentally fighting my own boner. As much as I wanted to oblige her, I knew it was impossible under the circumstances.

"I don't know. Finger fuck me in the bathroom..." She took my hand and slid it into the waistline of her jeans. "Or right here, just real quick..." It actually felt steamy inside of her panties. Her pussy was warm and drooling.

But I pulled my hand out of her pants and gently pushed her away. "That's too risky," I said. "What we're doing now is already pushing it too far."

"But..." Vicky pouted.

My fucking god... it was such a turn-on knowing this nubile girl was that desperate for my (admittedly average) cock—but I still couldn't risk it. Not to mention I had a ton of work to do. "I'll try to see you this weekend, but for right now I gotta hit the books."

I adjusted my aching boner, pulling it away from the leg of my pants and up towards my waistband. I pulled out my shirttails in order to hide it better. Hopefully the walk to my office would kill my erection, but it wasn't very likely with the scent of Vicky's pussy still on my fingers.

I looked over at Vicky, who had her head down. The fringes of her purple hair obscured her face. She was obviously disappointed—and extremely frustrated, both sexually and emotionally.

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. I placed a finger on her chin and lifted her face towards mine. "I love you."

I kissed her chastely, hoping she understood...

Thankfully, she kissed me back and said, "I love you, too."

#

The first time I met Vicky was at a Coffee Bean close to campus in the middle of December.

The fall semester was already over, but being a grad student in the middle of my final year (and a bookworm besides), I still spent a lot of time on campus. On my way out of the English Department's office (the grad students had their own cubicles there), I saw a flyer for a poetry slam on the bulletin board by the exit. I was going to stop at the corner store on my way home for some coffee, but I guessed I could splurge on a good mocha latte and briefly scope out the local talent while I was there.

The latte I ordered came with an unwanted shot of espresso, but I didn't complain and just took it as is—besides, it was delicious. However, the poets participating in the slam were new age millennials with more influence from spoken word, stand-up comedy, and hip hop than traditional poetry—which was objectively fine, I guess, but just not suited to my tastes.

I endured as long as my latte lasted, then decided to head down the block towards the Frog, one of the many pubs in the area that served the university. On my way out, I clumsily ran into a pierced-lip purple-haired girl. Vicky, of course, although I didn't know her at the time.

After an awkward little dance, I held open the door for her and we both walked out into the cold December night air. The only words that passed between us were "sorry" and "it's alright."

But I ran into her again not five minutes later at the entrance to the Frog. "Oh, it's you again," she said.

I held the door open for her again. "I swear I'm not following you," I said with a sincere smile. "Just trying to escape the bad poetry and repress it with a drink."

Instead of being put off like I expected her to, Vicky actually smiled, drawing attention to the snake bites on her bottom lip—and dazzling me in the process. "You too, huh? Glad to know I'm not the only one."

The ice was pretty much broken after that, but like an introverted idiot I didn't pursue it even though I couldn't deny I was already attracted to her. Her hair and piercings had immediately caught my attention, but her sexy British accent ensured that she would linger in my lewd thoughts for a good long while.

We settled in on opposite ends of the bar. I ordered a Jim Beam on the rocks to offset the caffeine I just had, while she ordered some dark stout.

In attempt to stop ogling her, I checked the news aggregator on my phone. It actually worked, because my attention was caught by a Stephen King interview in

The Huffington Post

. When I finished my whiskey, the bartender placed a pint of Guinness in front of me.

"I didn't order this," I said.

The bartender slid a napkin to me across the bar-top. There was writing on it and it said,

"Cheers, Mr. Doorman!"

There was a cute little doodle next to it, a chibi manga character I instantly recognized as Vicky.

I looked up and the bartender pointed over his shoulder at her. She was still sitting at the other end of the bar. She raised her mug and toasted me, so I was polite and did the same.

Before I had finished my first sip, Vicky had already moved to the barstool at my side.

"So what's your real name, Mr. Doorman?" she asked me.

"Jonas," I replied. "Yours?"

"Vicky. How's your beer?"

It was a little awkward that she asked me that, but I said, "Great, actually. Thanks. Guinness is my favorite."

Vicky's playful little smirk broke into a full smile. "I knew it."

"Really? How'd you know?"

"I went out on a limb and figured that if we both disliked the same poetry, we'd love the same beer."

"You actually like Guinness? Not many girls do, let alone beer."

Vicky bit one of the snake bites on her lip to prevent her smile from getting any bigger. "I'm not like most girls," she said, twirling a purple lock of hair with a tattooed finger.

#

And it snowballed pretty quickly from there. We talked about our favorite beers, which digressed into our favorite liquor, which in turn branched off into other... "recreational" substances, but settled on marijuana.

Vicky was pleasantly surprised to learn that I was a pot smoker—albeit not as avid as her—and we talked back and forth about our favorite strains. I eventually mentioned offhandedly that I had a bit of Black Heart #6 and Vicky practically went bug-eyed.

She claimed it was a hard strain to get a hold of and she had been dying to try it since moving to the States. I didn't realize BH6 was rare because I got most of my weed secondhand from a friend, but it was understandable considering that marijuana wasn't exactly legal in our state yet. Finding out I had enough to share, Vicky insisted that I take her back to my place so she could try it out.

I should have known it was a thinly veiled plot to get me into bed, but I naively believed her intentions were innocent at the time. Although I'm over six feet tall, I'm still a plain looking Jew, with unexciting brown hair and bespectacled blue eyes. I'm skinny, but not at all fit. Totally not in Vicky's league, or so I thought. I'd been rejected and friend-zoned by girls like her numerous times in the past and had a developed a defense mechanism—I never initiated. I no longer assumed girls were into me until they gave me overtly clear signals.

But that's exactly what I got—and then some. Vicky pounced on me before I had even finished opening my front door and we fucked on my couch—or rather,

she

fucked me. I would love to get into details, but unfortunately there weren't that many because our first time together was actually quite a blur... and it wasn't my fault.

Remember how I said before that Vicky wasn't lying when she said she could have an orgasm in under ten minutes?

Well, it's true. She can really could cum that quickly, and while I wish I could say it was because of me, the truth of the matter is that Vicky had a very sensitive G-spot and could cum on any cock, finger, or toy that could reach it. A few minutes of cowgirl or doggy style, and Vicky would be

wailing

.

From experience, I knew most normal women weren't so lucky—and their sexual partners by extension. In most cases, vaginal orgasms were very hard, and in some cases

impossible

, to elicit. However, I was too busy having the best sex of my life to dwell on others' misfortune.

After that first fuck, during which she climaxed but I didn't—because I had expected her to last longer, such a fucking tease—we actually did get to smoke a bowl of BH6 like she wanted. However, she pounced on me again before the high had a chance to set in.

I learned a lesson that night—and it was constantly reaffirmed afterwards—that Vicky's apparent "superpower" to easily orgasm vaginally meant she was an almost insatiable nympho with a hyperactive libido rivaling that of a teenage boy.

After a long night exploring and pleasuring each other's bared naked bodies (more details I can't give, this time because I was too baked to recall clearly, although I do remember I broke my record of three orgasms in one night), Vicky and I discovered that we had more in common with each other than she initially thought—or at least we used to.

I was a reformed alt guy. I used to have plugs, but I had the lobes of my stretched out ears removed and stitched up... I had gone overboard when I was younger, enough that I had been able replace my plugs with for Gatorade bottle-caps. I also had a blacked out tattoo on my calf that was originally a portrait of Che Guevara.

My only other tattoo was a partial sleeve on my upper arm and shoulder, of Cthulhu hovering over a pack of ghouls. It was just a shaded outline that any button-up shirt could hide, even with rolled up sleeves. I had never gotten around to coloring it... and I probably never will, even though I liked it enough to not to black it out or laser it off.

Vicky's artwork was eclectic to say the least. She didn't have any full sleeves, on her arms or her legs, but she had so many individual tattoos, it was hard to keep track and it would take me too long to describe them all. Of note where the twin sparrows on her collar bone, the crows on her neck, the black cat on the back of her hand, the sugar skull on her thigh, and the compass on her shoulder.

Also worth mentioning was the word "VOLATILE" tattooed on her knuckles. Most people (including me) thought it meant she had a quick temper. I was pleasantly surprised to learn it was actually because Vicky knew her orgasms were on a hair trigger and she embraced it.

The morning after our first night together, I fully expected Vicky to disappear before I woke up, having gotten the sex and pot she wanted, and she later told me that she had actually considered it, but... she stuck around—something compelled her to stay. Maybe it was the great sex, maybe it was the good weed, or maybe it was discovering my past via my stitched-up ears and blacked out tattoo. Probably the whole sum. Either way I made her breakfast that morning and we got to know each other.

I learned that Vicky was 21 years old and had been in the States for about a year and half. After secondary school, she had spent a gap year in Amsterdam, then moved to the US to be an art major. Surprisingly, she enjoyed reading H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, and comic books just as much as I did. Our taste in music wasn't quite the same—her hardcore punk to my thrash metal—but there was enough overlap that we knew what bands and songs the other was talking about.

We had a lot in common so we immediately clicked, but we also had a lot of differences which kept things interesting: our ages, our countries of origin, our upbringings, our fields of study. I had never met a girl before who was in such perfect balance with me, so complementary... in addition to the amazing sex.

Needless to say, we spent that entire December together, blowing off our friends, seeing each other nearly every day, having sex just as often. It was winter break at the university, so there really wasn't much else to do. We were so caught up in each other that we even forgot to celebrate Christmas. I was buying condoms so often that I was soon on a first name basis with the clerk at the pharmacy.