It's taken me six years to do my Ph.D. Some take less time, some a lot more. I can't complain; for the most part, I've really enjoyed the experience. There were all kinds of great intellectual, social, and cultural experiences, of course. But you don't want to hear about those. You want to hear about fucking. Fortunately, I also collected some great sexual experiences in those six years that make for some pretty good stories. So, yeah, these are true stories. Mostly true, anyway. Let's say, oh, 88% or so. With selective memory and weed and alcohol and being what they are, a B+ isn't all that bad, right?
My name's Paul. In the interest of honesty (and building credibility), I'll freely say that I've never been the guy who gets constantly laid. I'm on the short side, nice-looking but not especially handsome. Average build, maybe a little chubby. Certainly no porn-star 9" cock here. An introvert, though a pretty friendly one, I think. But I'm smart and funny and very good with words, and with that and my ability to understand what's going on in girls' minds, I've had my fair share of sex. More than my share, in some particularly good weeks.
One of the great things about grad school is that there's a wide range of options: age, ethnicity, social class, personality. You have crazy teen undergrads who will try just about anything. Or prissy princesses who are only there because their daddies donated to the school. Or cerebral 20-something intellectuals. Or newly-hired 30-something faculty or staff. In this particular case, I had Emma.
Emma was 18 when I met her, 19 when we started dating. I was 31. Not only was she a teenager, she had been in one of my super-sized first-year classes the semester before. Physically, she wasn't a type I'd gone after much: fiery freckles, red-blonde hair, and very pale blue eyes. Very cute, though. She was about my height, maybe a little taller (not hard, as I'm only about 5'7") and skinny, very skinny; I remember seeing her in her sleeveless tops and thinking I could probably fit my hands—themselves hardly large and strapping—around her upper arms. Not quite true, as it turned out, but pretty close. Her arms, her legs, her neck were all almost impossibly long and slender. Her waist was tiny, her ass modest. Only her breasts stood out—not large in an objective sense but conspicuous given their surroundings.
She was an extrovert. Not an obnoxious one. One of the friendly ones, the kind who are always saying hello to new people and volunteering during the weekends and organizing things. And she was very religious. In background and belief, certainly, but even more so in culture and practice—it really meant something to her. She planned on eventually getting a degree in theology and marrying a Nice Young Man. As far as I know, she still plans on doing both.
I ran into her at the library in the first week of the new semester. We talked for a minute, and I impulsively asked if she wanted to get something to eat. She was almost as surprised as I was but said yes. Midway through our early dinner, she asked, "Is this a date?" I said, "Yeah. I think so." And she looked at me for a second, then smiled and went back to her burger. "Okay, cool," she said.
Because she lived on campus, we spent most of our alone time at my place. We interspersed conversations about philosophy and sports and how weird this was—the differences in age, religion, etc.—with extended make-out sessions. I remember when I first ran a hand over her breast her tongue flinched a little in my mouth, but she didn't stop, and when my hand returned to linger she moaned softly. That did it. The shirt came off, then the white undershirt—there was no bra. She was very shy and very aroused. "They're beautiful," I told her, and then I proved it by kissing them. Firm and freckled and rose-tipped, they responded eagerly to my lips and tongue. "Oh my god," she said in a breathless yet strangely matter-of-fact way. "No one's ever done that before. I mean, uhm, not like that..."
A few days after that we were lying on the couch in my living room. She was only wearing a tank top and shorts. I traced the length of her legs, skinny and smooth and pale, with one hand, then moved up her slender hip and lingered on her small, flat stomach. A runner's body. "I was on the track team, you know. I was really good." The track team. This girl had been on her high school track team, what, three years ago? Two? I shook my head and moved my hand up to her tits and kissed her, leaning in over her, on her.
At a certain point my cock against her leg must have become too obvious to ignore because she said, "You know I can't have sex." I did know, and I knew why, but that didn't keep me from asking. "I have to be a virgin. I mean, I want to be. When I get married. I don't want to be a hypocrite about that. That's something I want to give my husband." I told her I understood, which I did, and that it was fine, which it really wasn't. But she relaxed visibly at that—had she been so worried, and I hadn't even noticed?—and then after a few more kisses she said with exaggerated casualness, "There is something I could do, though." "There is," I agreed. She reached down and began rubbing me, inexpertly if enthusiastically, over my pants. After a few minutes of that, I told her, "Unzip me." She did, then hesitated. I didn't say anything; I wanted to see what she would do. When no further instructions were forthcoming, she took the initiative to free my cock and began to stroke it. I smiled and moved to get comfortable, and when she saw that I was enjoying it, her enthusiasm increased.
After a few minutes, I stood, dropped my jeans and underwear to the floor, and sat back down on the couch. She smiled and nodded but said, "I've only done this once before. I mean, more than once, but just one guy. My ex." I tried to think of what to say that would both be reassuring and continue the process. "I'm sure you'll be great," I said.
Not the smoothest line ever, but it worked. She knelt down on the floor in between my legs, ran her fingers up and down my thighs a few times, then without any real preamble lowered her head and began to bob it up and down quite vigorously. She paused a few times to check in with me, self-conscious but gamely conscious of it. "Is that good?" she asked, half-archly and half-curiously. It wasn't great, but I wasn't going to be a jerk about it. "What do you think?" I responded. "I think it's pretty good," she said, allowing herself a mischievous grin. "Then get back to it," I said, taking a handful of red hair. She laughed and did. When I got close, I used that handful of hair to control her rhythm. When I came, she swallowed.
We never had sex, and I only went down on her twice—she was very uncertain about that—but she loved it when I fingered her: "A guy has never made me cum before," she told me once. I found it very charming how arousal could move her from subdued, even a little prim, to vocal and obscene. She would get a little embarrassed if I grabbed her ass in the elevator or frown in disapproval if I made a dirty joke at dinner, but once she was turned on the "fuck"s and "tits" and "cock"s would come out. She didn't like porn and hated the idea of facials—"it seems so demeaning"—but once or twice after particularly passionate kneeling blow jobs she told me to cum on her tits, and once she almost shyly asked me to cum on her stomach. "I want to be a good girl," she told me once, "but sometimes I kinda want to be a slut." Her eyes lit up when I told her she could be both. She loved language, loved to be told what to do and how to do it; she loved hearing about the effects she had on me.
"Did you ever fantasize about me when I was in your class?" she asked one night. We had just gotten back from a concert on campus and were getting a drink in the kitchen; she was very cute in a strapless black dress that showed her skinny freckled shoulders. "Yes," I said. It was true; it was also true that I'd fantasized about a number of her classmates as well, but I decided I probably didn't need to tell her that. "Like what?" she asked. "Well, I remember thinking once how I'd love to slide those skinny jeans off your skinny legs, bend you over my desk, and fuck the shit out of you." As I spoke I came up behind her, circled her little waist with my hands and pulled her into me as I kissed her bare neck and shoulders. She gently rubbed her ass against my crotch. "Poor boy. You'll never get to live out your fantasy."
Bitch, I thought with a grin. "What about you? How often were you sitting there in class fantasizing about sucking off your teacher?" I unzipped her dress a little and yanked it down so that it fell to her waist. She gasped as I reached around to grab her tits and went back to kissing her neck. Then she laughed. "A few times," she admitted. "I thought it would be pretty hot to suck your dick there in the classroom between classes."
