This is a direct sequel to 'Memories of Emma', and probably doesn't make much sense without it. As my first story, it was better received than I could have imagined; and I hope this second chapter lives up to whatever expectations it may have created.
I cannot, in all honesty, remember how I slept that night; but I do remember a lot of confused dreams about Emma from that time. We'd be at a party, or somewhere else where there were a lot of other people, and at some point she'd call me away into a private room, and, wearing what she had been that day, start to strip for me. A dress from a club or a hoodie from the library, her top would come off, and somewhere in my subconscious I'd decide whether she'd been wearing a bra that day.
Most often she was silent, but other times she would tease me. I'd called her flat for years -- it was a good bit -- and dream-Emma would get her comeuppance. And that was how it always ended: Emma topless, smirking, mocking my reaction to her body. I never touched her, and her bottoms (whatever they were) never came off. At least not in those early days.
I never worried too much about those dreams meant, but no doubt amateur psychologists could have fun with them. As I gained the upper hand in real life, I gave it back in my dreams; or maybe there was a genuine anxiety about starting to see Emma in a sexual light.
That may have been it, actually.
Official orientation began the next day. I was going to read English literature, Emma history, and everything was organised according to your course, so we weren't likely to see each other until dinner at the earliest. Which was probably good. What's the first thing that you say to a friend after wanking to her nudes for the first time? Hell, after sending a nude?
I considered texting her as I walked over to the uni, and got as far as opening Messages, but even with the picture deleted, 'he scooped some up and fed it to me' redirected too much blood from my brain, and it seemed best not to linger on it.
What had we started?
What had
I
started?
The day started with a presentation by the Professor of English, an amusing but long-winded man who didn't do quite enough to drive images of perky nipples and a cum-splattered midriff from my mind. But soon enough I was introducing myself to classmates and the flow of new names and faces pushed the images from my mind. Next was a tour of the humanities buildings, and an introduction to library, before a big pizza lunch in the quad. This was for all the humanities students, and I'm pretty sure I saw the back of Emma's head, but I was caught up in a group of English students and couldn't get over to her: maybe for the best.
The afternoon was quieter, starting with a fire-and-brimstone talk about academic integrity. The professor who gave it would eventually become my thesis advisor and a trusted mentor; and though he retired a few years ago, I still amuse myself sometimes by imagining what he'd say about ChatGPT. After that, a talk on IT, and some time in a computer lab to set up our new email addresses. Then we were free: which meant it was time for the pub.
Someone knew where they were going, and soon enough a mob of us were heading across the river to what was jokingly called 'the English department', which turned out in fact to be a pub called the Swineherd. The patio had already been taken over by returning students, and beers were pressed into our hands as we swam through the crowd to a table.
As the press from our arrival started to dissipate, I found myself at a picnic table on the patio with three others: Sarah, a blonde second-year, and two other first years: Dave, whom I'd met at lunch, and Olivia, a red-head who seemed a little bit lost.
Sarah had the sort of personality that immediately put people at ease, and (between that and the alcohol) we were soon enough sharing our excitement and hopes for the year. Dave had played volleyball too, and soon we were trading old tournament stories while Sarah re-assured Olivia that uni students didn't spend all of their time drinking. 'Sure, there's plenty of work to do. But you'll go crazy if that's all you do. Getting fucked up is a great way to relieve stress -- for that matter, so is getting fucked!'
Olivia's blush turned her face nearly the same colour as her hair, and Sarah let out a cackle that drew Dave and I out of our conversation. 'Are all first years this prudish?'
I nearly choked on my beer, thinking about the previous night, and left Dave to defend our honour. It turned out that he had grown up locally, and was still with his high school girlfriend. Not, I thought, as my mind went to Alexis, that being with someone meant that you couldn't still be a bit of a prude. But the answer was good enough for Sarah, who turned her attention to me next. 'Uni girls won't be throwing themselves at you just cause you can smack a ball nice and hard, you know.'
Confidence seemed to be working, so: 'That's not all these hands can do.' Sarah's great laugh boomed out again, but it was Olivia's second, smaller blush that caught my eye. She had delicate features, and a pretty face.
Interesting
.
'We'll see about that, Firstie. You gonna be out tonight?'
Dave cut in before I could. 'Miss our first student night? Not likely!'
'Student night? But it's Wednesday!' Came Olivia's objection, to general amusement.
'Don't worry, sweetie' said Sarah, dropping her arm over Olivia's slender shoulders. 'We're gonna teach you everything that you need to know.'
The conversation continued with a discussion of the famous uni triad of sleep, grades, and fun, of which you could have any two but never all three. Then Sarah got a bit more serious and started reflecting on her own first weeks. 'Some people you see every day for a month, then never again; and some people you only see in class but somehow you're best friends three months later. You can't plan anything. And, yeah, maybe you sleep with the wrong person and get hurt for a bit, but a year later it's only the good parts that stick. You only get one chance to make your mark, y'know?'
We didn't, of course, but we made the right kind of assenting noises. There was a bit of a lull in the conversation after that, and Dave popped off to the bathroom while Sarah went to grab another round. I opened my phone and, trying not to think too much about it, sent a text to Emma.
Student night?
My face must have given something away. 'Someone special?' Olivia's voice was soft with a shyness that I found strangely appealing.
If only she knew.
'An old friend,' I said with a laugh, and was telling her a bit about Emma when the others returned. Sarah had apparently seen some open seats at another table, and insisted on dragging us off to the larger group. The next few hours passed in a blur of names, faces, and drinks. Quite a few drinks. Eventually someone bought some food, and soon enough we all followed suit. The plan, as it filtered down the table, seemed to be for a break after eating so people could go home and get ready for the night out.
