The Book Of Song Ch 01

This story is a prequel to the story 'Our Song' I published last year. I certainly recommend reading 'Our Song' either before or after reading this story, as it can add context on the characters and events depicted here, but this is by no means not necessary to understanding, and hopefully enjoying this story as it is meant to stand on its own merit.

All the characters depicted in sex scenes in this story are 18 or above.

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Chapter I: Freshman

I was born Emily Cheddleton on February 1989 just outside of Berkley, California, to Amanda, a professor of fine-arts at UC Berkley, and Fred, who managed the organic vegetable farm they owned. At birth I weighed a little less than five pounds, and was therefore very fragile and weak. Throughout my first few weeks I was restless and was unable to sleep on my own. I could only sleep in my parents' arms or resting on their bodies, depriving them of sleep.

However, when I was about three weeks old, as my mother was holding me, my father sang me a few Beatles songs while playing the guitar. His soothing voice and the gentle guitar music made me fall asleep almost instantaneously. It kept me asleep as my mother was putting me in my crib. The music was so soothing that I didn't wake up even after the playing and the singing had stopped. After three hours of good sleep my parents woke up to see me awake, just looking quietly at the world from the comfort of my crib.

"Look at her," my father said to my mom. "All she needed was a little music."

My mom kissed my dad and they both stared at their little, happy girl.

"I think we should give her another name," my father suddenly said.

"Another name?" my mom was surprised. "What's wrong with Emily?"

"Nothing," my dad replied. "It's just not her."

"Then what name would suit her better?"

"I don't know. We should name her something related to music, to singing... These are the things she likes."

"Melody?" my mother suggested. "Or maybe Harmony?"

"Song," my father said. "I think she's a 'Song'."

My mother was surprised. "Song? Is that even a real name?"

"It is now," my father said with confidence. "It is HER name."

And so I was renamed "Song".

My parents always thought I would become a musician, but to their disappointment I never showed any interest in singing or playing musical instruments.

However, this beautiful, unique name my dad gave me, along with the story of how it came about did influence me going forward. Whatever happened to me, whatever I did, I was never doing what society was expecting of me. If I wanted something, I never cared about whether that something was really a thing, just that it was my thing.

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Around the age of ten I caught meningitis. My pediatrician misdiagnosed it, dismissing it as the flue, sending me home. But that night, as my pain and fever got worse, my parents rushed me to the ER.

This was where I met Dr. Sharon. She looked young, had kind green eyes and long golden hair.

She gave me an injection for the pain and diagnosed me correctly. Although, as I learned much later, my condition was serious, Dr. Sharon kept calm. She talked to me as if I was an adult. She used plain words so I would understand, but didn't try to oversimplify things. Also, she talked to ME, not to my parents. I was her patient. I was the one going through this illness, and I was the one who needed to understand what was going on. Of-course we had also talked to my parents, answering their many questions, but while doing this she was always making sure I knew it was all about me.

Under her care I got better. After three days at the hospital I was ready to go home. As she discharged me, she asked me and my parents if we knew about my hyperthyroidism. We did not. She explained it was a mild chronic condition, which could cause all kinds of side effects such as increased appetite, weight loss and enlarged eyes, all of which I had.

My mom asked her if I needed to undergo any treatment for this, but Dr. Sharon said that my hormone levels did not require any treatment, just supervision.

"You can live to the age of 100, run marathons and win a Nobel prise," she told me. "Just come here once a year so we'll see that you're OK."

I hugged her. There were things about my body I could not understand, and my parents were unable to explain. None of the doctors I saw until then noticed that something was different. But she did. This was when I decided I was going to be a doctor. A good one. Just like her.

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This decision gave my life purpose. I knew that getting into medical school required excellent grades, so getting straight A's at school became my highest priority. School was never too difficult for me, but until then I didn't care much for grades. But as I decided I wanted to be a doctor I spent more time doing my homework and studying for tests. For the first time in my life I became a straight-A student.

But I didn't count on school to bring me where I wanted to go. I was constantly looking for new things to learn. Especially anything relating to science. Biology was obviously my first choice, but also chemistry, physics and mathematics. I could spend the whole afternoon reading my science books, Wikipedia articles, or anything scientific I could find. And when I was out of things to read, I just read them again.

Growing up I did not have many friends. In fact, I don't think I had any real friends. Girls my age spent their afternoons shopping for clothes or talking about celebrities and boys. Boys my age spent their afternoons playing video games and talking about movies and sports. None of these things were of any interest to me. I could not understand how they could waste their youth on such superficial things, whereas my life had a clear purpose.

Looking back, I know there was more into it. I preferred to spend my time with books rather than other kids partly because kids could be vicious. If you are different than them, they'll make sure you know that.

And I was different. Because of my hyperthyroidism I was always hungry, but no matter how much I ate, I remained extremely skinny. Too skinny. I think it is because of this that I developed late, and even when I did, I didn't develop much. So I spent my adolescence being this tall, pale, skinny, flat girl with large blue frog-like eyes, who never wore make-up and always wore plain jeans, simple t-shirts and sneakers. The only clue I gave the world as to my being a girl was my long, blond pony-tail, which stretched all the way to my lower back.

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But although I didn't have a social life, starting at my eighteenth birthday I started kinda having a sex life. It was after my parents had bought me this book called "The Wonders of your Body: Seven Paths to Paradise," which was, put plainly, an illustrated guide to female masturbation, as my eighteenth birthday present.

Well, to understand why would two well educated parents give their eighteen years old daughter such a book, you need to understand a few things about my parents. They were hippies. They were born right into the height of the Vietnam war and the protest against it, and got its spirit early in their childhood. They met at a rally against Regan's "Star-Wars" initiative in the early eighties, and kept being active in different liberal political groups ever after.

But when I was born, the cold war was over, and so were the anti-war protests. From the slogan "make love, not war," all that remained was the first part, "make love". And so they did. Lots of it. And they were very open about it. But never in a creepy way.

So I think I've always known there was something called "sex", which was something that adults did to express their love for one another. All that changed as I grew older was my understanding of what it actually was. At first I probably imagined it as something like a kiss, but then I understood it involved parts of your body that are usually covered by clothes. I actually was very surprised to find out one day that sex was connected to the way babies came into the world...

Before my eighteenth birthday I knew everything there was to know about sex. In theory, that is. I knew all about what goes where, how to protect oneself against getting pregnant and what to expect, and especially what NOT to expect on the first time.

But all that knowledge was theoretical. I had no interest in putting myself out there. I heard about other girls at school who where "getting to bases" with boys, but had no interest in doing this myself. I was curious as to how it felt, but not enough to risk being rejected, or otherwise humiliated.

So my parents bought me that book. And I loved it. With its help I discovered ways to enjoy myself more than I had ever thought possible. When other girls my age had to go through social hell in order to explore their sexuality, I did it in the comfort of my own room, and all I needed for that were my two hands. And the occasional vegetable.

To support my masturbation, I built a rich internal world of sexual fantasies. My heroes were strong women who knew what they wanted and knew how to get it. One character, for example, was a princess whose parents forbade from having sex. She would sneak out of her chambers naked, and seduce servants and guards. Another character was a young, pretty female CEO of a large company who would seduce her male employees during business trips.

To know what they wanted, that is, what I wanted, I did some "research" online, reading erotic stories, looking at naked pictures of men and women, and even watching some porn. Those things I've seen online helped me shape the characters and the story-lines I later played in my head as my fingers ran on body, turning the fantasy into an orgasm.

It was this "research" that made me realize I was just as aroused by seeing a naked woman as I was by seeing a naked man. I also discovered I was aroused by scenes where two women were having sex.

Once I realized this, I arranged meetings between my female characters. In these meetings they would please each other, just like I was pleasing myself, realizing they did not need men in their lives to make them happy, just like I didn't need anyone to make me happy.

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My hard work throughout high-school payed off. I applied to five of the best pre-med programs in the country, and got accepted to all, three of them on scholarships. UC Berkley, Stanford and Yale. The choice was tough. All were great schools. I knew my parents preferred a school in California, as it would keep me in their vicinity. But they did their best not to intervene, and make this my own choice.

I chose Yale. The story I had told my parents and myself was that I chose Yale due to the reputation their medical school had as one of the best in the country, but now I know I just needed to get away from home. You could think that moving to Palo Alto to go to Stanford would have been far away enough from my parents, but I probably felt one or two hours of driving wasn't far enough.

Don't get me wrong. I had two great parents that I adored. And I still do. But back then, being a virgin who didn't even drink, in the home of two middle-aged hippies who spent their free time smoking pot and fucking, was too much for me. I needed to put some distance between myself and them. And the width of the continental United States felt like just the right amount of distance.

I don't know what normal parents give their daughters as gifts when they leave for collage. I guess most parents buy their daughters sentimental things they can look at when they miss home. But my parents were not your everyday parents. On the day I left for the airport, just before we left the house, they handed me a box of condoms.

"We know you've been guarded so far," my mom said. "But collage is different. I has a lot of new experiences to offer you."

"I know mom," I said, not sure I wanted to hear the rest of what she wanted to say. After all, it was that exact thing that made me want to leave home in the first place.

"Just promise me two things," my mom continued, knowing that I got her gist regarding what kind of experiences she was talking about.

"I know," I said impatiently. "Easy on the booze, always use a condom."

"Oh, honey," she laughed, "Not those. I trust you one-hundred percent on these things. No. I want you to promise me you will never join a sorority and never EVER go to a frat party. I've heard too many stories about these institutions, and I don't want you to get hurt like this."

"No worries, mom," I assured her. "I have no intention of doing either. I'm going there to study, remember? I want to get accepted to medical school. I won't have time for this kind of crap."

They both drove me to the airport. We hugged and kissed, and then I took my suitcase and my trolley and went into the terminal.

That was it. I was on my own.

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Pre-med at Yale was no picnic. My classes were intense right from the start, as my professors and TAs made it their goal to make sure we all knew we were not in high-school anymore, and this was one of the toughest, most demanding pre-med programs in the country.

But the academics were just a part of what made the transition hard for me. Living in the dorms was yet another challenge.

My roommate was an awful person. Sorry, there is no other way to describe her. The moment I set a foot in our room, she greeted me by showing me an imaginary line in the middle of the room. "This side is yours," she said, pointing to my half of the room, "and this is mine."

She told me I was not allowed, under any circumstances, to touch anything on her side, or even step on the floor there. The door to the room was on her side, so I had to take a huge step whenever I entered or exited the room, just so that I avoided stepping in her half.

But that wasn't the worst thing she's done. About two weeks into the first semester she brought a guy to the room for the first time. It was about midnight, after I was already asleep. I woke up to the sound of whispering, that was followed by what sounded like passionate kisses. Then I heard them lying on her bed, and the squeaking sound the bed made along with heavy breath coming from the both of them. Then I heard the guy moan as, I believe, he climaxed, and her sighing in what could not have been a real orgasm. Then I heard a few more whispers I couldn't understand and eventually the guy got dressed and left the room.

All the time they were doing it I tried not to move, even tried not to breath too loudly. I didn't want them to know I was awake. But I was, and I heard everything. As a virgin, hearing other people having sex was overwhelming. I just moved across the country to get away from my horny parents, and they had never had sex in my presence. I hated her for doing this to me.

But after the guy went away, as I was trying to fall back asleep, I found myself trying to imagine what I was missing by keeping my eyes closed. What did the guy look like? Was he hot? Were they completely naked, or just from the waist down? Was he on top, or did they do it some other way? Surprisingly, as I was thinking about it, I found this awful thing that my roommate did arousing.

Back home, whenever I felt aroused by something, I could touch myself and would calm myself down so I could fall asleep. But that night I had my roommate on the other bed, only three or four feet away from me, and I couldn't have her hear me. So I just crossed my legs and tried to not think about it at all. Eventually, it worked and I fell asleep.

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Unfortunately, this wasn't the last time she had done this. Far from it. Every week or so she would bring another guy to our room. Although I tried not to look, I believe it was another guy every time. While the guys were different, the ritual remained the same. Soft whispers, followed by passionate kisses, followed by squeaking of the bed and heavy breathing, followed by him cumming and her faking an orgasm.

I didn't have any real experience with sex at this point, but I did know my orgasms. I knew how they felt and I knew what they sounded like. And the way she was moaning was nothing like it. I tried to think why she would bring these guys to our room, have sex with them, not enjoy it, but get out of her way to make them think she did. To this day, I can't explain this.

As time went by, my curiosity grew stronger and got the better of me. So sometimes when my roommate would have a guy in the room I would sneak a peek at them. The room was dark, but there was always some faint light coming from under the door. So here and there I could see them in the act.

One time, for example, I peeked at my roommate as they were moving from the kissing part to the breathing part. In the faint light I could see her naked breasts, her hard nipples pointing right at the guy as he was positioning himself on top of her. Another time I managed to peek at the guy's penis as she was helping him put a condom on. And a few times I just saw the guy on top of her, moving back and forth.

Seeing all this, I was mostly disgusted in the moment, but then a little aroused after the fact. Of-course, being aroused was the worst part. It kept me from sleeping properly during those nights, as I couldn't relieve myself.

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I tolerated my roommate's behavior without saying a word until spring break. Then, at spring break, something happened that changed everything for me.

Spring break is one of the institutions that give collage life its wild reputation. On the one hand, it is often too short to justify airfare home for students who, like me, live on the other side of the continent, and on the other hand, it takes place in the spring, when the weather is not cold anymore and also not too hot, making it ideal for pool parties, beach parties and other outdoor activities.

A few girls I was friendly with joined a group that rented a beach-house in New Jersey for the duration of the break. They invited me to join, but I refused. I'd heard too many stories about these things. The alcohol, the drugs, the sex.

Don't get me wrong. At that point in my life I wanted to start having sex. But I didn't think a beach-house full of drunk, horny guys and girls would be a good place to start. I didn't have this ideal that other girls had of having my first time with a guy I loved or anything, but I did want it to happen in a safe environment, where I was in control.

So I stayed at the dorms. My roommate joined one of these groups and was gone for the break. So for the first time since collage started, I had the room all to myself.

The first thing I did after I was sure my roommate was gone for the break was to step into her half of the room, and dance to the music of freedom that was playing in my head. I even stepped on her bed for a bit, before I remembered all the things she had done there with all those guys, so I stepped down, disgusted.

Then, I figured I could take my clothes off. Nobody was there to see me. I was all alone. I could be naked the whole time! The only times I had to wear something were when I had to go to the restrooms which were down the hall, shower, or buy myself something to eat. Everything else I could do in my room, in the nude.

I started working on one of the papers I needed to submit after spring break, sitting naked in front of the computer. And then a naughty thought went through my mind. Finally, I had the room all to myself. And there was something I've been dying to do for a long time.

I lay on the bed, legs spread apart, and with my right hand I started rubbing my clit. I tried to come back to my old fantasies, but all I could imagine was some guy fucking my roommate. I pictured her pointy tits pressing against the guy's chest, and the sound of their breath. Then I tried to imagine my roommate's pussy. She was brunette, so I figured she had brown hair down there as well. Imagining her pussy, with the guy's dick going in and out of it was extremely arousing, so the moment this image got in my head I came. I came hard, moaning loudly. My heart was racing and I had a hard time catching my breath. I needed that orgasm so much!