Dear Readers,
Welcome to my latest story! Sorry it has been such a long time since I've produced something new, but here it is at last. I hope the wait was worth it. A word about this story: It is novel length. It is about half completed. I plan to release a chapter every few days. It builds slowly. I plan to publish it after I've given you a chance on Literotica to read it.
As always, I would appreciate to hear back from you, good or bad, and please rate if you are so inclined. And to reiterate, it does build slowly, so if you're looking for something 'quick' move on and come back in a few chapters ;)
Enjoy!
Titania
******
"Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid"
-"Desolation Row" Bob Dylan
PROLOGUE
For two hours, twice a week, I sat to the back and right of the most amazing set of legs I had ever seen. It was a summer Intro to Political Science course, and the thirty-two inch long legs belonged to a studious brunette, who, before asking her out, I luckily learned was only seventeen. Apparently, she was taking a few college courses during the summer of her junior to senior years of
high school.
At the time, I had just turned twenty and had sworn off girls younger than myself. I was well beyond the drama of high school and was looking for mature women, not girls.
She showed up to class every Tuesday and Thursday in skimpy, light-weight running shorts and running shoes. You could see the wisps of hair at the nape of her neck curl from the sweat garnered during her pre-class run. She was clearly smart, always answering the professor intelligently, especially for a teenager, and even once earning a comment from him on one of her papers. She was one of those uptight kinds that makes something feral inside you want to break into a pliable, pleading hot mess. But, like I said, she was only seventeen.
That was three years ago, and as I sat across from the rowdy group of girls, trying desperately to place that delicately cut, exotic face of the smart brunette that had all the answers, it was those legs that flashed into my mind, and then I knew
exactly
who the woman was.
The Colony is a stand-alone brick building complete with low, wood ceilings and floors, a large brick fire place, an excellently carved bar, low lighting, and oh, yeah, trivia on Tuesday nights. Occasionally the prize is money, but more often than not, the draw is just an hour and half of fun entertainment, good beer, and the likely chance of hooking up with pretty tail. Usually, four or five of my closest classmates join in on Tuesday night trivia, often times winning. At first glance, it appeared that night would be no different as the rainy January weather had caused a low turnout.
But in the booth across from our table were five young women, obviously looking for a little fun during their last week of winter break. Drinks were thrown back at an alarming rate, and several of the girls got louder and louder as the evening wore on. Being guys, we checked them out quickly, scanning for any pretty faces to watch or bodies to lust over. There were several, especially the ring leader. She had straight, platinum blonde hair and giant tits. Even in her thick sweater, you could see how great they were. And she gave you plenty of opportunities to witness their greatness when their team, the, ahem,
Pussy Galores
got correct answers. She would stand up and throw some loud obnoxious taunt while shaking her torso, sending those mammoth tits to swaying tantalizingly.
After the third round, I noticed the seemingly stupid chicks were not only ahead of us, but the margin of difference between our scores was growing steadily. Now, without bragging, I can honestly say that I am usually ranked at the top of any peer group, and thankfully, without much effort. Granted, I studied hard for the LSAT, but that was more the exception than the rule. I am also by nature extremely competitive and have been called an elitist several times. All these attributes culminate to make me quite an arrogant asshole.
Or so I've been told.
There was something about that group of girls, led by that big-titted, dumb blonde that made my fingers itch. At each question, I would watch them, trying to discover how they came up with their answers, and that's when I noticed her. She was sitting in the corner of their booth with the least amount of light in an already dimly lit place. Her dark hair was down, veiling a great amount of her from recognition.
The question would come over the crappy loud speaker, and the entire group would immediately turn to her. Sometimes she had to think about it, tap the pen wildly on the table, but usually she was able to spout off an answer instantly. The rounds went on, as did my study of this girl. It quickly became clear that if I wanted to beat this group, she was my opponent.
Her face was hidden in shadow, making her true features hard to see. But something intrigued me about her. Perhaps it was the shadow-king effect. You know, she had all the power but didn't flaunt it, or maybe it was spurred on by my competitive nature that stung wildly at being beaten by a girl. Whatever it was, I needed to know more about her.
I watched how she handled the pen in her hands, twirling it three-hundred-sixty degrees on her thumb, drummed her long, thin fingers on the table, and sat to herself, not engaging in the idle chit-chat around her. I noticed she didn't have any drink, nor did she snack on the table's nachos. I did see her face glow blue occasionally whenever she looked down at her lap, and I realized she must have been on her phone. I was instantly struck with curiosity of who she was texting at that late hour.
After the seventh round, she excused herself from the booth, sliding out from her dark corner.
Was she getting a drink?
I thought it might be a good opportunity to at least see her more clearly. Maybe even introduce myself. Maybe mention the tight competition. Maybe ask for her number.
I jumped up, and responded non-affirmatively to my friends who asked for a beer if I was going to the bar. I stalked behind her, waiting to see where she would land, and that is when she cut off to the bathroom.
Damn.
But I thought quickly and ripped out my cell phone and made like I was talking on it in the quieter nook near the restrooms. I would just wait.
Nothing could quite prepare me for when she walked out and nearly bumped into me. When she looked up, I swear I stopped breathing. Her face, no longer hidden in shadow, was truly amazing. Her magnificently arched eyebrows lifted in surprise before she managed a soft 'excuse me,' and cut around me back to her table. I walked back to my own, completely absorbed in her rich blue eyes. Not only was her face gorgeous, I had the haunting feeling that I had seen it before. For a moment, I actually tried to convince myself that I had seen her in a dream; that she was meant to be mine. But, as a member of the modern world, I typically try to suppress my romanticism and fantastical nature, and so only laughed at the absurd idea.
Now I truly couldn't keep my eyes off her. My brain wracked itself trying to locate her in my memories. I felt a little like an idiot for ever forgetting her to begin with. And that's when the image of the perfect legs struck me. It was the same girl from my poli class. Only now, she wasn't in high school. She was a young woman, and she was a knockout. I cannot relate how quickly I became obsessed with meeting her. I tried several times to get her attention, to make eye contact, but nothing seemed to work. She was more interested in that damn phone than looking around.
And that's when the idea struck me. I went to the bar, bought two more rounds for every guy at my table and even sent two rounds of shots to the girls. I got the guys to drink up and when the order arrived at the girls' table, I had my guys make salutes, saying something about friendly competition. As expected, everyone around me was increasing their blood-alcohol levels at an alarming rate. Not surprisingly, the up-tight brunette didn't partake of the free libations, which only made me want to corner her more.
I began prompting my fellas to start a little friendly banter with the girls, which of course they were more than eager to do. The shots on top of the alcohol the girls had already consumed worked like magic to make them loud, flirtatious sluts. Especially the big-titted blonde. She loved the attention and yelling back obscene, double-entendres.
The growing frenzy of the exchanges at last crescendoed when, much to my chagrin, the Pussy Galores solidly defeated us in the eighth round, earning themselves another bucket of beers. As I peered past all those drunk girls whooping at us to the little ringer hidden in the dark corner, my skin itched at her seeming indifference to the whole game, her face cast down to her lap and illuminated in the soft blue light of her phone, so oblivious to the frustrations that she caused me. And then I wondered if she wasn't just a little cheat.
Every society has its own cultures, oftentimes, with unspoken rules for etiquette, and the trivia scene is no different. And one of the most hallowed is no phones allowed, simply because cheating was too easily had on those innocuous mobile devices. My competitive nature simply assumed she must be on her phone to cheat.
I continued eyeing her as transitions and segues were being made all around. My plan was working like a charm; my guys, and interestingly enough, a few of those girls, were initiating more than just casual taunts. There was talk about going up to the bar for drinks and the chit-chat that is like dipping your toe into the water to check the temperature. I saw her talk to one of the girls she had been sitting by. The other made a big gesture, and she responded with a head shake and started sliding from the booth to get out. I knew that body language. It was uninterested and final.
