"I hear you like cunnilingus," the woman whispers into my ear as I sit in a long row of identical cubicles in our college library, attempting to study for an upcoming exam.
I do not even hear her approaching, but her hot breath and the soft scent of body lotion immediately take my mind off of the open textbook in front of me, and a shiver of goose-flesh races up my neck when her lips graze my earlobe.
My reputation around campus as a cunnilingus addict is pretty well-known, at least in certain circles, and it is not unusual for me to receive invitations from random co-eds, offering me the opportunity to taste their wares. Many are return customers, although I also get a fair number of referrals.
"Where did you hear that?" I whisper, closing my textbook and setting it on my lap to conceal my enthusiasm, while glancing over my shoulder to size-up what might become my next delicious meal: hazel-green eyes, blonde hair (on her head -- wonder if the carpet matches the curtains?), taller than average, maybe a volleyball or basketball player, college sweatshirt, jeans, boots. I just love helping women pull off their boots as they lay on their backs, unsnap and unzip their jeans, and slide them slowly over their hips. I especially love it when a woman wiggles back and forth as she lifts her hips to remove her jeans, thus exposing my favorite article of clothing, and it is always a thrill for me to see what type of panties she is wearing.
A connoisseur would envy my collection of panties!
"Aurora sent me," she whispers, nodding her head in the direction of the book-return, where I am greeted with a sweet smile and a wave.
Ah, Aurora, one of my regulars: brunette, political science major, works in the library a few hours a week, says she needs the extra money to continuously replace all of the panties she has surrendered to me during our sessions, one of the tastiest women I have had the pleasure of eating, always likes to kiss me after she has filled my mouth with her orgasm, which I think is double sexy, that she likes to taste her own orgasm. It would be easy enough to find out her real name if I felt so inclined, since I know where she works, but pseudonyms are just fine for my purposes.
My tongue gets hard every time I think of Aurora and her delicious female secretions, but I just nod at her and return to the proposition at hand.
"Did she tell you my rules?" I ask, semi-rhetorically, because Aurora knows my rules as well as any of the women on campus: at least one hand on my head at all times while I am performing the act, and I get to keep the panties.
"Yes," the woman whispers, leaning toward me enough to rest one firm breast on my shoulder.
"When and where?" I ask, glancing around to see if anyone is looking our way.
"I have the key to the audio-visual room," she says with a sly grin, tapping her purse, which is slung around her neck and one shoulder, the strap splitting her breasts, a look I have always admired. "Meet me there in five minutes?"
I nod, then watch her as she walks away.
She looks good in her jeans, and I get another shiver of goose-flesh imagining the treasures they contain.
I have one additional rule, which never seems to need mentioning: no names, that is to say, no real names. I go by the monicker "Papillon," the French word for butterfly, because butterflies go from flower to flower sucking delicious nectar, and their tongues are approximately twice the length of their bodies. Sometimes I think I was a butterfly in a previous life!
A couple of minutes after the woman leaves I stand, keeping my textbook close to my lap for obvious reasons. I notice Aurora is still looking my way, and I smile at her. She returns my smile. Then, as discretely as possible, she raises two fingers to her lips, spreads her fingers slightly, and darts her tongue out and in a couple of times, the way I will soon be exploring my new friend's most private places. She knows I owe her a finder's fee, which I will be more than delighted to pay.
The audio-visual room is a small closet in the back corner of the library, and is rarely used except for storage, I soon discover. Among its contents are various remnants of displays used throughout the year to commemorate certain campus activities. The woman locks the door behind us, and, following her lead, I help her move a few boxes from a wooden bench which leans against a wall. She sits on the bench and bends forward to remove her boots. That is when I take over.
"Allow me," I say playfully, pushing her shoulder back gently and removing her boots and socks. Her toenails are painted bright red.
