Student and Teacher

While the drama of Damon and Nan was going on, a very similar drama was happening—with, of all people, Brad as its focus, along with a girl named Sylvia Townsend.

Sylvia, a junior like Brad and Damon, was a native of Pennsylvania. She frankly admitted to herself that she had come to this relatively little-known school because she thought it would be easier to get a degree here than if she had gone to some of the more prestigious colleges she had applied to (and gotten accepted by). She was something of a party girl and wanted to spend as little time holed up in the library or in her dorm room hitting the books as she could get away with.

Sylvia was of medium height (about five foot six), and no one could call her slender as a reed; but without in any way being heavy, she had plenty of fleshy curves in all the right places, and she knew how to dress in a way that was unmistakably attractive to the male gaze. Since high school she had had plenty of up-close-and-personal involvements with boys and men, and she had enjoyed them all; but she was a tad impatient, and got bored easily when the men she was intimate with failed to measure up to her standards of intelligence, cleverness, physical attributes, and other qualities she required in someone to whom she allowed access to her abundant assets.

Her plan worked pretty well: she sailed through most of her classes, and her natural gift for languages led her to major in comparative literature. But she was now facing an irritating obstacle. Westminster required a full year of science (and not any of the "soft" sciences, like economics or anthropology) for graduation. During the first semester of freshman year she had taken an "Environmental Science" class that seemed right up her alley: it was easy, but it was also boring, and she had neglected to take the second part of the class the next semester. Now, as a lofty junior, the idea of falling back into the company of callow freshmen and sophomores was repugnant to her, and so she had enrolled in an Intermediate Organic Chemistry course that she thought she could fake her way through.

But she couldn't.

The professor, a dour and fussy man named Albert Conant, seemed to assume all sorts of knowledge of chemistry that Sylvia simply didn't have. For the first few weeks she had managed to get by, but she soon realized that she was heading for disaster. Either she would have to drop the course (and somehow enroll in another one that was already well underway), or she would have to find someone to give her a crash course in some aspects of chemistry that she didn't know, so that she might be able to keep up.

And that's how she latched on to Brad Young.

She had recognized him from his exploits on the ball field; and while she had admired his physique—and found his broad shoulders, barrel chest, and honest face more than a little appealing when she was gazing at him in class—she had initially passed him off as just a "jock" who was probably dumber than her at this particular subject. But to her amazement she saw that, although he seemed a little on the shy side, he spoke up frequently in class and answered the prof's questions in an easy and strangely modest manner that floored her.

Whatever his intellectual deficiencies elsewhere, this guy knew chemistry.

And so, when it was time for the class members to pair up into lab partners, she had all but lunged at him, seizing his arm and saying, "Say, Brad, let me be your lab partner!" (It didn't hurt, as she knew, that she was pressing her breasts into his arm as she pleaded with him.)

He peered down at her with something approaching alarm. He had hardly spoken two words with her, and this sudden approach by a notably attractive female took him aback.

"Um, yeah, okay," he said in a daze.

"Great!" she cried. "You might have to give me some private tutoring." She let the

double entendre

sink in as she intended.

"Wh-what do you mean?" he blundered.

"Oh, Brad, you must know that I'm floundering in this class. I think it may be a little beyond me. But you—God, you already seem to know everything the teacher is talking about!"

"Not really," he said, looking away from her and blushing. "It's just—well, I've been doing chemistry since I was a kid. My mom got me a chemistry set when I was eight years old."

"Yeah?" she said with a broad smile. "Well, good for your mom! I'll have to thank her sometime."

So they headed for the lab. The initial experiments were easy enough, although even here Sylvia had to pump Brad into explaining exactly what was going on, since she was clueless how some of the chemicals reacted with each other—or, rather,

why

they reacted that way. It was all Greek to her. But, a week or so later, there came a time when they were mixing chemicals and Sylvia inadvertently poured a large amount of something into a beaker containing some other substance, and an immense cascade of foam flowed out of the beaker.

Brad's eyes widened with alarm. He shoved Sylvia out of the way, grabbed a small towel, and mopped up the bubbling fluid before it had a chance to drip down to the floor.

"Oh, God!" Sylvia exclaimed. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," Brad said, trying to remain calm. "But that stuff is kinda dangerous if you get it on your skin or clothes."

"I'm so

stupid!"

she cried. "I don't know anything!"

Brad's response to this spasm of self-abasement was curious.

A dark look came over his face. Without warning he grabbed Sylvia by her shoulders and almost shook her, the way a cat shakes a mouse it is holding in its mouth.

"Don't you

ever

say that about yourself!" he said in an intense, almost hostile whisper. "You're really, really smart—I can tell. It's just—just that you need some help in this one subject. You're not to blame for that."

She peered at him in amazement, and a little bit of fear. This gentle bear of a man wasn't, perhaps, quite as gentle as she had thought. But his words really touched her heart.

"You're really nice, Brad," she said softly. "But, um, can you let go of me? You're squeezing me a little too hard."

In horror Brad immediately released her, and she massaged her sore arms with some quick strokes of her hands.

"Omigod, I'm sorry!" he said, wincing as if he was the one in pain. "I didn't mean it!"

"It's okay," she said, smiling bravely. "I guess you don't know your own strength."

Brad hung his head in misery. And when Sylvia tentatively reached out to take his chin in her hand, she could have sworn his eyes were filling with tears. That shook her to the core.

Men don't cry over something like this, do they?

"You're a sweet, sweet man," she said, and bent forward to kiss him.

The kiss lasted a long time—maybe half a minute. It was a soft, gentle kiss, and strangely chaste in its way; but both Brad and Sylvia got a good dose of the other's body-scent, and both of their hearts beat a little faster.

When Sylvia pulled away, she saw that Brad's face was almost beet-red.

Oh, God,

she thought to herself.

Not only does this guy cry, he also blushes!

Once they had composed themselves, they decided that Brad would engage in an emergency tutorial to get Sylvia up to speed on the subject. That very evening, after dinner, he went over to her rooming house with an Elementary Chemistry textbook, and over the course of the next several weeks he helped her to bone up on the basics so that the stuff they were doing in class wouldn't seem like something being taught by an alien from outer space.

But the unexpected intimacy that they had stumbled into with that one kiss wasn't repeated. To her frustration, Brad seemed to resist any further forays into cuddling, relentlessly keeping his focus on that textbook (even when both of them were lying down on her bed, since there was no other place to do the work) and making haste to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as the study session was over.

She took the matter up with her friend Wanda, who like her had had her share of male partners in and out of bed.

"This guy is really hard to believe," Sylvia said in a mixture of admiration and exasperation. "I mean, I didn't think they made guys like that anymore. He's so super-shy, especially around girls! I don't know if he's for real or it's all a big act."

"Why would he be putting on an act?" Wanda said sensibly.

"I don't know! Does he just not like me? Does he think I'm not attractive? I'm pretty attractive, aren't I?"

"Of course you are."

Any number of guys have made that quite clear, haven't they?

"Then what

is

it with him?" Sylvia cried in perplexity. Then a new and incredible thought dawned upon her. "You don't think he could be a

virgin,

do you?"

"Oh, surely not!" Wanda said. "He's an athlete—he must have girls hanging off of him everywhere he goes."

"Well,

I've

never seen any with him!"

Wanda paused before speaking. "Um, you don't think he's—gay?"

"Uh, no," Sylvia said emphatically. "I've caught him looking at my chest and butt when he thinks I'm not noticing. But why doesn't he make a move?"

"Maybe he already has a girlfriend, whom he keeps hidden away."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. I mean, he seems to be able to come over to my place almost anytime. He's never said, 'Oh, I have to meet my girl this evening.'"

"Well, if he's really as shy as you say he is, maybe he wants

you

to make the first move. Some guys are like that."

"I'm really not used to doing that," Sylvia said with distaste. "I'm more used to fending off guys who make the first move."

"The question is," Wanda said philosophically, "do you want him just for fun, or do you want a real relationship with him? That makes a difference, you know."

"Of course it does. And I don't know how to answer that. He hasn't really opened up to me. I've told him a bit about myself, but not very much. I

think

I might want a relationship with him, but he seems to be all business and no play."

"Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out," Wanda said, getting up in a hurry to go to her next class.

Sylvia did decide to make a move herself, even though it offended her

amour propre

as a desirable young woman whom guys should be stumbling over themselves to get a hold of. As their next study session was winding down, Sylvia slid over to him as they both reclined on the bed, snapped the book shut, and said:

"Why don't you stick around for a while? It's still early."

A look of fright came into Brad's eyes. "Wh-what'll we do?"

She almost rolled her eyes in frustration. "How about some music? You like Madonna?"

"Sure," he said, still with a spooked expression on his face.

She pressed some buttons on her iPhone, and a familiar song by Madonna started playing.

"I can't believe she's just turned sixty," Sylvia said, as she lay back on the bed, her breasts proudly rising from her chest in spite of her recumbent position. "She still seems pretty hot to me."

Brad didn't take up that salvo, even if Sylvia was hoping against hope that he might say something like, "You're pretty hot yourself." So they both lay back and listened to the song.

As the next song began to play, she casually rolled over and landed against Brad's side. As once before, she nestled her breasts against his arm, and his widening eyes made no secret that her rather crude seductiveness was having something of an effect. She liked the feel of his strong body against hers: she'd always liked big guys, even though they could sometimes be a bit on the clumsy side. After a while she rested her head on his shoulder—a gesture that almost begged him to put his arm around her back. He finally did so, although it seemed to her that he was touching her so delicately that she could have been made of nitroglycerin.

All right, if you really want me to be something of a tart, I'll go ahead and be one.

She rolled directly on top of him, their bodies touching from shoulder to toes. Taking his face in her hands, she pasted a sloppy, wet kiss on his mouth.

He let out a pathetic little whimper that she thought was so funny that she almost laughed in his face.

But he's a sensitive guy, and I don't want to hurt his feelings.

After the kiss, she buried her face in the crook of his neck, although continuing to kiss and nuzzle his cheek, throat, and even his earlobe. Her tongue left a wet trail all along the side of his face.

It was then that her groin felt a certain bulge from the corresponding part of his anatomy.

Thank you, God! He's responding at last.

But Brad made no move on his own, keeping his hands firmly on Sylvia's back even as she wriggled her hips and abdomen against him. She was hoping that he would take at least some minimal action that indicated his own desire—and when he finally slid a hand cautiously onto her bottom, that was enough for her.

With a moan of satisfaction, she rose up, squatted over him, and tossed away the heavy sweater she was wearing. In seconds she had removed her bra and cast that aside also. She was looking down at him in all the pride of a young woman who knows she has a lot to offer to a man. She smirked in self-satisfaction as Brad gazed at her large, heavy breasts with mouth slightly open, and that was enough for her to leap off of him and peel her jeans and panties off of her. Now she was naked.

Brad still remained speechless and unmoving, but his rapt attention was a signal that she could go a little farther. With some care she unbuttoned his shirt and got it off of him. Then, with a sidelong glance, she started working on his pants. His jeans were a bit stiff, and the zipper was hard to pull down, but she managed it at last and stripped him of his pants and underwear in a single forceful gesture.

"Oh, my Lord!" she cried in awe as she saw what was revealed.

His ten-inch cock was already close to attaining its full magnitude, even quivering in anticipation as she continued to fixate on it.

I've had a lot of cocks before, but I can't remember any that were quite this size.

Her smirk had turned to a shy smile of mingled appreciation and apprehension, and she fleetingly remembered a particularly offensive utterance that one of her previous lovers—a particularly arrogant sophomore who thought he was God's gift to women—had spoken to her: "It's right and proper that a woman should be a little bit afraid of a cock."

She wasn't exactly afraid of this one, as she was reasonably certain she could accommodate it; but she knew it would be something of a challenge. Kneeling beside it, she grasped it firmly in one hand, pried it up so that it was standing straight up, and plunged as much of it into her mouth as she could.

That was only about three or four inches—Sylvia was never much interested in deep throat—but that was enough to get a gasp of delight out of Brad, who loved to see a woman (so far, of course, it had only been Iris) wrap her lips around his big member. Sylvia enhanced the sensation by tickling his balls with her other hand, and even at times slipping a hand under his body and giving a good squeeze to his muscular bottom.

After several minutes, she decided to take the bull by the horns. She positioned herself across Brad's thighs, sliding up so that his cock rubbed up against her abdomen. Then, with a kind of "Here goes!" expression, she rose up and prepared to impale herself on his cock.

But before she did so, she eyed him skeptically and said, "You've done this before, right?"

With this magnificent appendage, you can't possibly be a virgin.

"Yeah, once," he said in his confusion.

"Once?"

she cried incredulously.

"I mean," he stammered, "I've had only one—girl—before."

"Only one?" she said with an amused expression. "Well, wasn't she lucky."

And with that, she forced as much of his cock into her as she could manage. That turned out to be a full eight inches, but even that was a bit more than she was really prepared for. Oh, she was quite wet; but it had been about three months since her last escapade with a man, and that was a nearly unprecedented drought for her (well, at least since she had lost her virginity at fourteen). She winced a little and strove to get the rest of him into her pussy.

Brad noticed her struggles. "Don't hurt yourself," he pleaded.

"I'll—I'll be all right," she said with some effort.

At last she got the final two inches of him into her, and both she and Brad looked on with amazement at the sight of that immense shaft disappearing entirely into Sylvia's cleft. For some moments she just rested there, but presently she got used to the sensation and began riding him, at first gently and then with greater and greater vigor.

For his part, Brad was fixated—not so much on Sylvia's furred pussy, nor even on her round and bouncing breasts nor on her fleshy bottom, but on her face. There was something about that face—with its pale blue eyes framed by jet-black hair, the high cheekbones, the gentle curve of the jawline, and the full, crimson lips—that he found hypnotizing. No question, Iris had a face and figure (not to mention a mind and character) that was utterly rapturous; but this young woman, almost exactly his age, was a treasure of a very different order, and one he was desperate to plumb to its depths.

But right now, it was the pure physical sensation that was paramount, and there was something mesmerizing about the way in which Sylvia's crevice first revealed and then concealed his member as it probed the inner recesses of her sex. He couldn't decide whether to watch it or her breasts, whose firm rondure he relished when he seized them with eager hands. It was no surprise that, with a certain pride verging on smugness, she coaxed a spectacular orgasm out of him that sent repeated dollops of his emission deep into her.

She kept him inside herself for quite a while after his orgasm had subsided, then pried herself off of him and flopped next to him at full length. Her eyes were glittering with excitement, but he sensed that in the midst of her satisfaction at taking in his big organ she hadn't quite reached the pinnacle of her own desire. So, to her surprise and delight, he snaked a hand between her legs and began a slow, luxurious nurturing of her own pleasure, and within minutes she was shivering with ecstasy as he urged a volcanic climax out of her that he managed to prolong for minutes on end.

"Jesus!" she burst out, pushing his hand away. "I can't take anymore!" As she calmed down from her paroxysm, she added, "Man, that girl taught you well, didn't she?"

"She's quite something," he blurted out.

In her dazedness, the use of the present tense didn't immediately register in Sylvia's consciousness.

After that there was some delicious cuddling, as both parties kissed and stroked and rubbed the other all over their bodies. To her shock, Sylvia saw Brad reviving in only minutes. Among all the men she had had over the years, only a few had been able to go for a second round at all; and none after such a short interval.

"You really want more?" she said, wondering if she had the wherewithal to fit that monster into herself again so soon.

"Well, um . . ." Brad began sheepishly.

"Well what?"

"I need to whisper it in your ear."

"Brad, don't be silly! There's no one here but us."

But he just couldn't say it out loud, so he bent down and made his wishes known in a furtive whisper.

She seemed to go stiff from head to toe. Peering fixedly into his eyes, she said: "You want to do that to me?"

"Yeah," he said uncertainly.

"You've done it before?—with that girl?"

"Yeah." After a pause: "Have you done it?"

"Of course I've done it," she snapped, offended that he assumed she was such a novice.

"Do you like it?"