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Summary: When Jake and Alyssa meet, it's an instant love connection. She's amazing in every respect and everything seems perfectly idyllic. Her friends, who keep finding ways to get her out of her clothes, may start to drive a wedge between them.
Chapter 1 - Thirsty Thursday
In my business psychology class, we learned about something called "Imposter Syndrome." It's defined as "
the persistent inability to believe that one's success is deserved or has been legitimately achieved as a result of one's own efforts or skills
." It's also a very good explanation of how I feel whenever I think about my girlfriend of eight months, Alyssa. I'm batting well out of my league, and she really seems to love me. It's incredible, and if I stop and think about it, I find myself with the consistent inability to believe that my success with her is deserved.
She's incredibly smart, driven, stand-up comedian level of funny, very down to earth, and humble despite all of her success and accolades. And, she's practical; despite being an amazing dancer, here on a fine arts scholarship, she has a dual major - business and dance, with a minor in education. Her goal is to dance for as long as her body holds out, and then to open a studio and teach.
I'm almost done with my MFA in theater management, have a part time job, and I volunteer in the theater department part time. I was working backstage when I met her. Alyssa, the love of my life. She's a dancer and looks every bit the stereotype. She's five foot five, slender, with long, insanely beautiful legs, sinewy but defined muscles, lightly visible abs, an amazing butt, and a face that is a cross between a model and the girl next door. Her chest is a bit larger than most dancers, but still only a big B cup. She jokingly calls herself a B-/C+ because, depending on the brand and item, she can be either. Still, on her frame, they look great. And they're the perfect shape and density, with cute eraser-head nipples and small pink areola that crinkle and pucker when her nips harden. Although they can erect due to all the usual suspects; temperature, fear or surprise, suspense, they're a highly accurate and early gauge of sexual arousal.
Claiming that chaffing and razor burn don't go well with unitards and sweat, she goes for laser hair removal a few times a year. It's been enough years that almost nothing grows anywhere on her body, save for the small tuft of hair positioned a thumbs width above her faintly pronounced clitoral hood, perched atop her otherwise denuded coin-slot pussy. She rarely has to shave or worry about anything.
Doing what she does, she's very used to wearing tights, leotards, and leg warmers, and that carries over into her personal fashion choices. Dancing is a physically demanding activity, and she sometimes has very small bruises on her legs that she is very sensitive about. She chooses to cover them up or hide them, so her default uniform is thigh highs, a skirt, and some sort of shirt, ranging from a simple T-shirt to a camisole to a blouse and everything in between. She prefers the thigh highs so that she doesn't have to mess with tights or pantyhose under her skirts. She has told me that she has over thirty different pairs: sheer and semi opaque nylon, silk, cotton, wool, in multiple shades of most colors.
Don't get me wrong, though. Her look is high class; the shorter skirts and dresses are a few inches above her knees, but more often longer. No one can really tell she's wearing thigh-highs most of the time. A-lines, wraps yoke, panel, pencil, handkerchief; I don't even know all the different kinds of skirts she owns, but she looks amazing in all of them.
Her dorm is a large single; her roommate dropped out of school halfway into first semester, and she was never assigned a replacement, so she's living the high life for now.
It was a Thursday night; Thirsty Thursday around campus, one of the rowdier nights. I had a huge paper that I had to email to my professor before 1:00 AM, and I needed to finish it. It wasn't that I had unduly procrastinated. It was about 80% complete, but it was one of two papers for the entire semester, a big part of my grade, directly supporting my major, and I needed to do really well. I was prepared to go to the library when Alyssa offered me her dorm room. "I'm going out, so it'll be nice and quiet here. And, I can reward you for studying when I get home!" she teased, licking my upper lip and lightly cupping my hardening manhood.
Pat and Steve were two guys she knew from her business major track who were currently in her accounting class, and she had plans to hang out with them, and with Steve's roommate Zach. She had been paired with Pat on a project spring semester the prior year, and through that work had become friendly with him and, through him, Steve. She liked having what she called "normal" friends, who were people outside of theater, dance, and fine arts circles. Although I would have been more comfortable with two girls being her new besties, I tried to be supportive of her needs.
"The dance people can be wild, but no one wants to really let loose," she'd complained near the beginning of this term. "Nobody wants to eat anything. And they always end up turning it into an opportunity to show off. 'Oh, I choreographed a dance to this a few years ago,' or 'This music is so tired," she said with a heavy layer of sarcasm. "I really like the works of some jackass that no one's ever heard of who works primarily with a theremin and an electric xylophone.' Ugh! I love hanging out with normal people!"
I got all set up at her desk while she showered. She was always a distraction, even though, this night, she wasn't trying to be. Standing naked by her full-length mirror, so that I could see her from all angles at once, she blew her hair dry and applied her makeup. I really tried not to stare, but it was asking the impossible. I often marveled at how comfortable she was with her body. I had never had the confidence to just be casually naked like that.
"Shit!" she said, looking in a drawer. "Shit!" she repeated, now in her closet.
She was completely out of clean thongs. That was another thing about her; she often wore no underwear, especially under longer skirts, which meant that she owned very few. She said it was much more comfortable. Years upon years of yoga pants, leotards, unitards and Spanx had somehow conditioned her to forego underwear almost entirely. In deference to me, she tried to wear panties if she was going out without me, even though I would never insist. One of the reasons she'd given for her past relationships not working out was that the guys were controlling and jealous, and I had vowed to be the opposite.
I had to remind her that I didn't have an issue with what she wore under her clothes. "You hadn't worn underwear under your skirts and dresses on our first four dates, and I had absolutely no idea. I truly have no issue with you going commando tonight." That finally worked. She kissed me goodnight and promised to be home by about 1:00AM. She was wearing black, sheer thigh highs that stopped about three inches below her butt, a charcoal grey, knee length gathered skirt, and a black button up long sleeved blouse with white piping around the collar and sleeves, and white decorative buttons. Underneath, she had on one of her gauzy black bras, this one with turquois accents and straps. Aside from her workout bras, I think all of her lingerie was sexy if not downright risqué.
About half an hour later, I heard her laptop ding. A minute later, it did it again, and then three more times in quick succession. It was plugged in on her bedside table with the lid closed. I didn't want to pry, so I didn't open it or try to look, and texted her instead.
"Your computer is alerting something. Just FYI, it's not bothering me."
It took her a little over a minute to respond. "Sorry! That's my cloud photo storage. I never figured out how to turn notifications off! We're taking a bunch of pictures! I wish you were here! You can try to turn it off if you want. Photo app on my desktop."
