She finally broke away, leaving the three boys staring after her with slightly deranged looks. She walked with a huge sway in her hips, and a broad smile on her wet lips. She sort of patted herself down with her hands as she walked, emitting a little unconscious "Oooh!". For a few minutes, she'd had no personal boundaries: The guys' hands had been running into each other in their haste to cover her hips, stomach, arms and legs.
* * * * *
Ten minutes earlier:
It was the first day when Carol was supposed to go "commando" -- no underwear. For four weeks, she'd worn the short skirts, and it was second nature to her. (But let me tell you, that four weeks felt like four months. Never had I been so wholly
involved
with a relationship. It felt like Carol and I were breathing from the same lungs, thinking with the same mind. Together -- and yet
other
-- I could stand back and get constantly turned-on and impressed by her. But enough of that...)
And, we also had other rules. Not only was it no-underwear day, it was also a Wednesday, which made it a no-bra day. Furthermore, it was a half-shirt day.
I was starting to have trouble remembering all the rules we'd concocted, but not her. She had them memorized, and noted them in her personal calendar with special codes. She was fearless, excited, and, I was starting to realize, perhaps becoming shameless.
She was completely in love with her clothing schedule. In pillow-talk one night, she confessed that she had never felt like she stood out from the other girls. Of course, she did -- she knew she was pretty, friendly, a "catch." But she never felt it viscerally, deep down.
Nowadays, she said, she had guy-friends who sought her out. They walked past other girls to say hi to her. Everybody knew Carol's name. They wanted to know about her life. She felt like a Hollywood star when she walked into class. People made way for her on the subways. Her whole college experience, once gray and confusing, was now revolving around new friendships, new experiences, new sensations. It was, she said, exactly what she'd always thought college would be. And, since we spent so much time in the library, our grades were even good.
On day one of zero-underwear, I was pretty excited myself. I sped to meet her after her first class.
I saw her from down the hall, and slowed to a stop, admiring her: My girlfriend. She was wearing clogs, a flouncy little skirt, and a small white baby-doll t-shirt that she'd cut up to her ribs. She was a wet dream come true. The kind of girl that would give you whiplash on the street. The kind of girl that tourists remember to mention to guy-friends when they go back home.
The first impression she gave was that she was all skin -- her long, glossy legs moved with excited energy, shifting her skirt over the tops of her thighs. Her stomach was firm and flat, with muscles shifting as she turned this way and that. Her arms were in constant motion, long and sculpted, with defined biceps and forearms. And all of her skin was smooth, brown, shiny in the lights.
Carol was gesturing with her arms. I'd noticed how the less she wore, the more extravagant her gestures became. The less she wore, the less she could concentrate. She became flighty, ebullient, as if the rush of excitement she felt couldn't be contained. I wondered how many of her guy-friends had figured that out too.
She was leaned back against some guy -- the guido-looking one from the other day, with all the gold chains and rings. He was standing behind her, his hands wrapped around her waist, riding her stomach as she shifted around. Her ass was in his crotch, his nose was buried in her hair. He was leaning against the wall next to the door of her class. Despite all that, Carol was basically ignoring him.
As guys came out, more than a few stopped in front of Carol, chatting. People would bump up against them, and they'd move on -- bending in quickly for a kiss. A few guys just passed by, not saying much, but kissing her. For each of them, Carol bent forward, stretching her chin up, her mouth open as it landed on their lips. When she bent forward, her ass dug into Guido's lap, and her stomach flexed in his hands.
When they didn't kiss her, they still reached out an arm to brush her shoulder. One guy, older-looking with a beard, patted her cheek as she passed. I thought this was her professor -- what a turn-on that would have been! But soon the professor appeared, looking old and, well, professorial. He nodded genially to Carol and Guido, and moved down the hall.
Throughout this ongoing kissing, fondling, and conversation, at least three times I saw the Guido move a hand to her chin, turn her head around, and kiss her on the lips. These weren't quick pecks, these kisses, but they were short. His jaw worked against hers, his mouth open -- and her mouth open, too.
Her legs were splayed. When he kissed her, his hand was around her waist, and her torso was twisted, bringing her chest into full relief. The t-shirt hanged loosely down her front, making one mound for each breast, and hung away from the comb of her ribs by two or three inches. It looked, to me at least, like she'd be able to raise one arm in class without losing any modesty. But not both arms. No stretching for her!
How awesome is that? How often do we get to see a woman on the street, wearing something she can't even stretch in? Once a year? And she was
mine!
I got to see her every day!
I knew Carol well enough to see that she was intensely happy. She seemed to know everybody's names, and they knew hers. Everybody wanted to talk to her, to see her. I felt a glowing pride. I was probably happy because she was happy, though I could have been happy because of the sense of ownership I felt. She was
mine
, I thought, as I watched her getting mauled by Guido and a string of guys.
Two students passed by me, looking back back at her. "Yeah, she's a hottie alright."
"Little bit of a slut," said the other, who was wearing a baseball cap. I called him 'Cap' in my mind.
As luck would have it, they stopped right behind me. As I stared at Carol, I listened to their conversation.
"You think she's a slut?"
"I can prove it," said Cap. "Next class, go up and introduce yourself. Tell her your name. Just talk to her."
"I can't get close to her.
Everybody
stands around her and talks to her."
"No, she's really nice. Just stand there, and she'll eventually say hi to you."
"Really?"
"Yeah. And then, ask her out."
