CHAPTER I
All semester I caught Lars Parsons looking at me in Contemporary Lit class. He always looked away in embarrassment when I caught him, but I knew that as soon as I stopped paying attention, his eyes would be on me again. Sometimes I'd make a game of it, trying to catch him staring and force him to engage with me. It never worked, his eyes always darted away and he would pretend to study his pen or his shoe. He never spoke a word to me or even acknowledged me when we passed in the hall. His eyes were a beautiful pale blue, but always hidden behind wide frame glasses. Sometimes I would watch to see if he stared at the other girls too, but he only had eyes for me.
I have a thing for the shy and awkward boys. The ones who'll grow up to be good fathers and good husbands but didn't get the memo that high school is when they're supposed to be fucking like bunny rabbits. The ones who, even at eighteen, still haven't yet figured out the rules of the game, and would be absolutely astonished to discover that a girl wants to do dirty things to them. Lars is sexy but he doesn't know it. He doesn't even suspect. He runs cross country and he's got a lean and lanky body. He plays jazz guitar and listens to Charlie Christian and Django Reinhart. He's going to Cornell in the Fall where he'll meet some prim Ivy League girl that he'll eventually marry and forget all about the girls back in Boston. In class he's so earnest and attentive, he always does the reading and even though our class is a bunch of slouches and fuck-ups, he tries to engage in serious discussions about the books.
Lars is soft-spoken, sweet and virginal. The virgins are always easy to spot. In class he was trying to make a point about a racy scene in "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" but he got all adorably flustered. After that I began to catch myself fantasizing about him. I don't know why it never happened before. Late at night, I got all hot and bothered thinking about the things I wanted to do to Lars, and had to finger myself to a convulsive orgasm before I could get to sleep. In my mind, I teased and pleasured Lars until he couldn't think straight, until he whimpered and begged for me to finish him off. After a week of this, I realized I needed to take action. In his later years, Lars might forget a lot of things, but he would never forget his night with me. A lot of boys at Rindge & Latin would never forget, so many that I'd begun to lose count.
CHAPTER II
I caught up to Lars in the hall after class. He seemed surprised that I was talking to him. "I feel kind of stupid about this," I said, eyelashes fluttering, "But I need your help." He peered at me through his glasses with those eyes. "The way I see it, you're really the only one in that class who knows what's going on." He shrugged, embarrassed but almost certainly flattered. "I still have to write that paper on 'Heart of Darkness.' Like I have no idea what I'm supposed to be getting out of the book, you know?" I paused but he didn't say anything. "You read it, right?"
"Almost through it."
"You think we can meet up sometime and talk about it?" He shuffled his feet and frowned. "Look, I promise, I'm not trying to get you to write the paper for me. I just need to discuss the book with someone who understands it."
"I can talk about it with you if you want."
He seemed to relax a little. I flirted with him briefly, doing the most of the heavy lifting myself. We agreed that he would come by my mom's apartment on Thursday evening for a chat. It works every time with these boys. They're hardwired to help out the damsel in distress. I can't begin to tell you how many of my torrid fuck sessions began as a quiet evening of academic support.
When I met Roseanne after school, I told her I had a hot date with Lars on Thursday night.
She said, "Girl, you are one dedicated slut." Maybe so, but I know what I like, and Roseanne knows that I never actually date anyone. Life is too short for all that awkwardness and insincerity, just cut to the chase, is what I say.
CHAPTER III
I'm standing in my dark bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy blue panties. The streetlights outside illuminate my face and the swell of my breasts, and the trees cast shadows across my lower body. Lars is lying on my bed fully clothed and bewildered because seconds ago I suddenly turned off the lights and took off my clothes. Marlow's journey upriver bores me and Lars has been jumpy all evening and not getting with the program. Sometimes dire circumstances require bold action. Go big or go home, as they say.
Now that I'm nude and our literary discussion is over, Lars isn't sure what to do next. He just lies stiffly on the bed trying not to stare. In fairness, it's an awkward situation for both of us, but I've been here before. The air is chill and my nipples are stiff and sensitive. I let him sneak glances at me for a while before I say anything.
"I see you staring at me in class," I whisper at him. "I know you like to look at me." He glances at me, looks away, glances again. "Why do you think I took off my clothes?" His penetrating blue eyes rest on me, hesitantly, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. They move slowly down to my breasts and lower still, to the blue delta of fabric between my thighs.
"What are you thinking right now?" I ask him.
"I don't know," he mumbles, "It's like I've imagined this, but..." The front of his Adidas track pants bulge as he stiffens beneath.
"Tell me what you imagined." He thinks about it for a moment. Every boy has their own particular kinks and desires. Few are honest about them.
"Touching you," he replies at last.
"Touching what?" I move closer to him.
"The curve of your hips." I take his hands and place them on my hips. His hands are warm and they slowly caress me, staying respectfully above the waistline of my panties. I feel my heartbeat quicken and an insistent tickle of arousal slowly spreads between my thighs, but I don't want to move too fast, not yet.
"What else do you imagine touching?"
"Your belly." He sits up and gently traces his fingers along the contours of my stomach. He handles me softly and gently, like I'm made of glass.
"Tell me about it."
"You wear that black cut-off shirt sometimes with those low-rider jeans." He pauses to admire the silver ring in my navel. "Sometimes you wear this but not always."
"You think about me in my cut-off shirt when you jack off?" There is a pause.
"Y-yes. Sometimes."
"When I touch myself, I think about you, too." I reach down and tweak my clit through my dampened panties for emphasis. "Does that surprise you?"
"Yes" he says. My fingers feel nice on my clit, reassuring. His hands begin to move toward the upward swell of my breasts.
"What else do you imagine?" I ask him. He stops and looks up into my eyes.
