-While there is no actual incest in the story, it is discussed, which is why this story calls Erotic Couplings home.
-Characters involved in sexual contact are at least eighteen years old.
--
It felt like a dream, this wet, silky warmth engulfing me. It had to be a dream. A feeling so blissfully addictive had to be the effect of an REM sleep-induced wonderland. Because otherwise, what else could it be?
Sensation after overwhelming sensation elevated me to the point of eruption, shaking me out of semi-consciousness. At first, my hazy logic dictated that my bladder has simply released in my sleeping bag. However, I was eighteen, so the thought that I had 'wet the bed' was quite laughable. In the next few seconds, as I drifted out of my dreamy wonderland, I realized something real and direct was at work. Slowly, it became obvious someone - someone uninvited - was in my tent.
This wasn't an overall wetness, but an intense, moist heat moving rhythmically along my shaft. My nostrils were filled with the nonthreatening, feminine scent of Coco Chanel, which momentarily put me at ease. My eyelids rose as I awoke slowly, but doing so made no difference. My need to discover the arbiter of my bliss was prevented by the utter darkness around me.
The mystery warmth, which my mind envisioned as a mouth, continued to consume my member. My chest was heaving; I wanted to speak, but no words came out. I couldn't manage to utter a sound or move so much as a pinky. Although somewhat aware, I still hadn't arrived at full consciousness and the glorious sensation that held my virgin length firmly was all my confused mind could contemplate. My frozen condition had one positive aspect: it gave assurance that I wouldn't startle the person whose teeth were dangerously near my cock.
'Why, who, and what the fuck is happening?' The words were stuck in my throat. My chest heaved; as I came more fully awake I was filled with a combination of not only lust, but fear.
The warm mouth surrendered its rapid efforts along my length and a silent pause followed. All I could do was absorb and observe as much as I could in the absolute darkness.
At least I could be sure it was a she; I had felt exceptionally long hair brush along my exposed abdomen. The ever present Coco Chanel scent I had noticed as I awakened was an indicator that this wasn't the actions of one of the varsity alpha's with whom I attended boarding school.
She lifted her body, causing my sleeping bag to open further. Her very real, soft mounds slid against me as she slowly glided upward. My mind began to contemplate who it could be and it touched upon one person- but I couldn't place her doing this. Still, an inactive introvert such as myself did not have a long list of admirers.
I sensed rather than felt when she shed her clothing.
"John, I know you're awake - although you are being much quieter than usual." She took hold of my cock in her small delicate grip. "Tell me you love the way I suck your cock, baby," she said in a soft and quivering, seductive tone.
My tongue felt heavy, and, as usual, no words came.
All it took was her speaking, and I knew who it was. Not because of her words, but because of the voice that delivered it. I had never truly spoken directly to her, but her voice was unmistakable. I also knew that I wasn't the person she thought I was. This had been a case of "pitching a tent" in the wrong tent. The hot body that was now cuddled against my tense frame belonged to Lydia Bryant. Her voice was unmistakable, not only because we shared so many classes, but because we were both on the Adams Academy Choir together. Her voice, much like her, was a free spirit.
Laying there in the tent with more and more of my body covered by the most stunning girl in school, you'd think I'd be all smiles. Not so; I felt suffocated. I wanted everything to return to a state of normality. I've never done well in interpersonal situations, especially ones bound to become exponentially horrific. My analytical brain buzzed as she moved her waist to align with mine. The name "John," kept playing out in my head.
She obviously thought I was someone else; my name is Daniel. But, who was this "John?" We had quite a few students named John in our school, but only one was in senior year with Lydia and me and there was no way...
Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning; I realized who she thought was in the tent with her. My body locked tighter than it had at any other time in my life. My lust gave way to instant nausea. My heart sped up and my chest heaved mechanically. I was scared. Her hands returned to my member and she encased it with what could only have been a condom.
She began to speak but my mind blocked it out. I couldn't breathe; where before everything had been simply dark to my eyes, now my mind began to go pitch black too. In moments, my brain completely shut down.
----
I'll back up a bit: No, my name is not John. The only thing John and I have in common is that we attend the same pretentious boarding school. My name is Daniel Miller and four years ago I was accepted into the fold of Adams' Academy, a boarding school in Andover, Massachusetts.
Adams' Academy stands amongst the most elite preparatory schools in America. Without a doubt it is the most successful at producing men and women of tremendous influence. The academy has educated more elder statesmen than there are states. A point of pride for Adams' has always been the three alumni they produced that made it all the way behind the resolute desk.
I, however, am one of the few charity cases that Adams' admits annually to add credence to the Adams' core values of "Virtue, Sacrifice, and Duty". Scholarship students were the butt of jokes and underhanded jabs. We were the lowest on the social spectrum, even lower than the day students. Thanks in part to my economic status, my first couple of years at Adam I was a social outcast. I was as nerdy as one can get, and I suffered from a terrible case of introversion.
I survived my first two years in Andover by permanently sequestering myself. I talked to no one. With - what I had thought of as luck - I had been graced with a single room. I had always assumed single accommodations would be prized. As it turned out though, all the millionaire alphas had perfected the art of networking early. Doubles were the rarest and most coveted rooms.
Finally, in my junior year, I was forced out of my bubble. I was placed in a double room with an international student. Brandon Cheng had transferred from the school he attended in Hong Kong to Adams. He and I quickly became not just good, but the very best of friends. Even though he had grown up on the other side of the world, we were quite similar. We had the same favorite television shows, and video games and even the same anal study habits.
The one exception to our similarities was that Brandon was light-years ahead of me socially. Before his arrival, eating in Hilliard dining hall consisted of me nibbling away alone at the far end of the large, emasculating room. In the dining hall, students at Adams divided themselves into groups, mainly the nerds and the preps. If I had come from money, a logical fit would have been my fellow nerds.
Most of the scholarship students seemed to try harder than all the other groups to fit into the Adams' mold but instead I isolated myself before anyone could write me off. From the start, I put up a great wall around myself. I felt estranged from one and illegitimate to the other. I was a kid from a blue collar town in Pennsylvania, and I felt like an island.
