The Poet

The Poet (Part 1)

Kathryn M. Burke

When she was growing up, Rowena Morris hadn't liked her unusual first name--but now she took pride in it. She'd never met anyone with that name, so it made her feel special. There was a charming antique flavor to it--not that she was anything but a modern, up-to-date girl who loved her smartphone and was all over social media. But it turned out that that name of hers got her into trouble in a way she never expected.

Rowena, having turned twenty-one over the summer, was in her senior year of college in southern California. She was

soooo

ready to graduate and get out into the real world. Enough of studying! But, chuckling to herself, she reflected that her college years hadn't been so bad. Maybe it was the fact that she was on her own and away from her parents for the first time; maybe it was because her college seemed to have an unusual number of cute and handsome boys. Whatever it was, Rowena had made herself available to heaps of boys during her freshman, sophomore, and junior years.

She knew she was cute as a button: lovely oval-shaped face framed by an untidy mop of shiny brown hair; a pair of knockers that would have turned the head of a monk; hips, thighs, and ass that any number of guys had actually salivated over. During those first three years of her college life, she hadn't been all that choosy about who she let into her bed: she figured she wanted to cast a wide net to see what kind of guy--and what kind of cock and butt and chest and biceps--were to her liking. She hadn't kept count of the young men who'd poked her, but they probably numbered in the dozens--maybe even a hundred or more. Most of them had exercised that privilege exactly once: they clearly didn't come up to her exacting standards. A few had been invited a second or third time, and only one had lasted for even a few weeks.

By her senior year, Rowena had decided that this revolving door of male flesh was getting a little boring, so she started to be a bit more discriminating. But by then, she'd unfortunately developed a "reputation," and so the only guys who'd approach her were these scumbags at frat parties who'd come up to her, wagging their tongues and saying "Hey, babe, let's get it on!" When she gave them a look you'd give a fly who was taking a bath in your soup, they couldn't understand it.

Where does she get off rejecting such a magnificent specimen of masculinity such as myself?

they thought. Rowena wondered sourly why men never get a "reputation," only women.

So there she was, more than halfway through senior year without much of a prospect for continuing her exploration of the male body--and her own. Maybe she needed to go after a different kind of guy. Whether it was a conscious wish along those lines that led her to meet up with Blake, she didn't know. But that's what happened.

She was wandering through the student center as the second semester of her senior year started, she saw this guy sitting at a table, by himself, with what looked like hundreds of sheets of paper spread all around him. She vaguely recognized him as Blake Turner, who'd published some poetry in the school literary magazine,

The Oracle.

Imagine someone being a poet in this day and age! It seemed kind of antiquated. But he certainly had a fitting name for a poet! And, as she gazed upon him, she thought he was not at all bad-looking. Even though he was poring over those pages as if nothing else in the world existed, she could see that he had an unruly mop of straight black hair, a chiseled face, and what looked like a pretty solid body.

Let's face it,

she reflected,

women are the ornaments of the human species. Men--well, they're just kind of utilitarian. Still, some are better than others.

"Hey," she said, coming up to Blake, "whatcha doin'?"

He was so oblivious of her presence that he gaped up at her with a look of terror on his face, and a jerky motion sent some of his papers floating to the floor.

"Oops!" she said, bending down to pick up the papers. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

When Blake still said nothing, only staring wide-eyed at her, she went on. "You're Blake Turner, aren't you?"

He managed to croak, "Yeah."

"I've read some of your stuff in

The Oracle.

It's pretty good. I'm an English major, so I should know. Kind of dark, even pessimistic, but that's cool."

A glum expression came over Blake's face. "A lot of it is rubbish," he muttered, seemingly to himself.

Rowena flared in anger. "Hey, how can you say that about your own work? I mean, maybe it's not up to Shelley's level, but it's damn good for a-- How old are you?"

"Twenty-one," he said.

"Oh, so you're a senior like me?"

"Yeah."

"If you don't think your stuff's much good, what are you doing? These are your poems, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

This guy, for a poet, wasn't exactly the most articulate person in the world, at least face-to-face!

"And what's the plan here?"

With extreme reluctance Blake said, "I--I'm trying to put a book together."

"A book!" Rowena burst out. "That's great! So you must think your stuff has

some

value, if you're assembling a book."

"No one's gonna publish it," he said morosely.

"You don't know that." Suddenly becoming all businesslike, she sat down in a chair next to him. "Lemme read some of it. Maybe I can help you."

Blake's face took on that look of horror again, and he spread his hands all over the table to cover up the sheets of paper. "No! It's private!"

She chortled. "Don't be silly. If you're thinking that these poems will make a book, then obviously you expect them to be read by people."

She brushed his hands away and began picking up random poems. A lot of them were really good, but they seemed even bleaker than the poems he'd published in the school magazine. Maybe he'd never submitted those particular poems--or, more likely, they'd been rejected because they'd be a real downer to most of the bright-eyed and rather naïve coeds who read them.

All of a sudden a poem--or, rather, the title of one--arrested her attention. As Blake looked on in a sort of frozen alarm, she picked up a poem entitled "Rowena."

Her own hands were shaking as she looked at the sheet. "Is this about me?" she said.

Blake didn't answer, and turned his head away from her.

It must be about me,

she thought.

Who else is named Rowena around here?

As she read the poem, a glow of pride and pleasure filled her heart. The poem started out by suggesting that the Rowena in question was something close to a goddess--in her beauty, her regal bearing, her obvious superiority in so many different ways to the mere mortal women around her.

But then, toward the end, the poem took a less pleasant turn. In short, it made it pretty clear that this goddess had demeaned herself--had, in fact, lost her divine status--by allowing an endless succession of oafs and churls to ravage her body without the least thought of what she was doing to herself.

She put the paper down slowly and carefully on the table. Suddenly choking up, she said defensively, "I'm not like that anymore."

"It's not about you," Blake said, an obvious lie.

"It

is

about me!" Rowena snapped. "How--how did you know?"

And then Blake spoke two devastating words that made her feel as low as she could possibly feel. What he said was, "Everybody knows."

A sob burst forth from her. She knew she had a "reputation"--but she didn't think it was this bad!

God, does the whole college think I'm the campus slut?

Feeling hugely sorry for herself, she burst into tears and threw her arms around Blake, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

He was taken aback by her outburst: he thought she was a tough, hardened female who didn't care one way or the other what anybody thought of her. And he really didn't know how to deal with crying girls (what man does?), so he tentatively put his arms around her and patted the back of her head, saying silly things like "It's okay" or "You'll be fine!"

"I won't be fine!" she exclaimed. "Everyone thinks I'm--"

"Don't say it," Blake interrupted. "You're not--I know you're not."

She pulled her face away from her shoulder, now bedewed with her tears, and looked into his face. "If you knew that, why did you write that mean poem?"

Now it was Blake who was close to tears. "I--I'm sorry. I--I--" He swallowed hard. "Look, let's get out of here. People are staring at us."

He clumsily struggled out of Rowena's grasp, swooped up his papers into his arms and stuffed them into a backpack. Then, getting up, he made Rowena stand up and marched her out of the building.

Blake lived in a tiny apartment a few blocks away, and he led the weeping girl to it, just to get out of the sight of inquisitive students and anyone else who might be noticing them.

When they entered his place, Rowena tried to get a grip on herself--but it was hard. She was now thoroughly wallowing in self-pity, maybe hoping that this nice guy might do something about it. But, as she lowered herself upon a loveseat that was practically the only other piece of furniture--aside from a desk, chair, and a queen-size bed--in the one-room apartment, she was irritated to see that he was just hovering around, in a state of utter perplexity.

She patted the space on the loveseat next to her, saying, "Come sit here, Blake."

He all but tiptoed over to Rowena and sat down. Without warning, she slid over to him and landed on his lap.

She was a petite five foot four, and Blake was at least five foot ten, but his head seemed to fit snugly into the bare space around her collarbone as she clutched it to her chest. She was wearing a tight-fitting top that revealed a goodly amount of cleavage. Not that she had intended to display her wares, but this was California, and it was already balmy even in January. In fact, there was just the slightest sheen of perspiration on her chest and the top of her boobs, and she sensed that Blake--who was breathing so fast that he was close to hyperventilating--was inhaling her body-scent and liking it.

And Rowena was liking it too. After her crying jag, she desperately wanted to feel better--she wasn't the sort of person who lapsed into brooding melancholy (as she suspected Blake did), and the best way she knew how to feel better was to have some physical action. And, uncharacteristically, that hadn't happened in a while: she hadn't had a cock in her for almost two months!

So, when she snuggled up to Blake and felt a certain bulge emerging in the area of his groin, she knew that something good was about to happen to both of them.

She slid gently off his lap onto the floor, and, gazing up impishly at him, said, "Let's see what you got down here." And she began undoing the zipper of his jeans.

In a matter of seconds she gasped in amazement.

You have to realize that it took a lot to make Rowena gasp. She'd seen dozens, maybe hundreds of cocks, in her time--but somehow she wasn't expecting this soulful poet to have something quite this impressive.

His member was at least ten inches long, maybe a bit longer. And it was thick too.

She gazed up at him in admiration. "Wow, this is a real monster!" she cried.

"I'm sorry," he said in confusion.

"Don't apologize! I'm sure I can manage."

She managed to get his pants off of him so that he was bottomless, and then she directed her attention to the "monster" in front of her nose. For all her experience with the male organ, she wasn't all that good at deep throat--and there was no way she could get this thing (which looked more like a huge pink cucumber than a dick) into her mouth more than halfway. But she was determined to try.

First she just gave the tip of Blake's cock a few flicks of the tongue--she knew that drove men wild. Sure enough, Blake let out a pathetic little whine as he stared down at Rowena, amazed to find himself in this situation of sudden intimacy. As his eyes continued to be fixated on her, she began licking the shaft up and down while gently tickling his balls with one hand. She wished he wasn't sitting down, because she had a powerful hunger for the male butt and would have liked to squeeze Blake's with her other hand; but she took what she could get.

At last she put about three inches of his cock into her mouth, relishing its warmth and girth as it filled her oral cavity. A few bobbing motions of her head, and she was well on the way to giving Blake some fine foreplay for what she hoped would be a long, pussy-filling bout of lovemaking.

But would it only be foreplay? As Blake started moaning incoherently, Rowena was astounded to detect his cock pulsing in her mouth. And then it exploded, sending out long, viscous ropes of his come so forcefully that it splashed against her palate before sliding thickly down her throat.

She wasn't all that fond of the taste of come, but she dutifully swallowed this enormous load. She could hardly help doing so, because Blake was now holding her head in place with both hands as if he'd stuck his cock into a ripe melon.

Then he abruptly let go and pulled his cock so quickly out of her mouth that the last remnants of his emission spattered her lips and chin. "Oh, God, Rowena, I'm so sorry!" he cried in utter mortification.

"That's okay," she said, reaching over to an end table and snatching up some Kleenex to wipe her face. "I just didn't expect you to be so quick on the trigger." She chuckled, hoping that Blake didn't think she was making fun of him.

Standing up, she said, "I hope you'll be able to, um, revive in a bit?"

"I--I think so," he muttered.

"Good. Maybe you can do me in the meantime."

And she proceeded to strip. Once again, Blake watched her raptly as she removed one piece of clothing after another. She loved to see men go crazy as she showed off her "assets"--and she had plenty to show off. In that little five-foot-four package she had large, round, firm breasts (32D, if you please), just the faintest bit of a bulge around her tummy, nice gentle curves at the hips, strong thighs, and--as she showed Blake when she twirled around on her tiptoes--a curvy butt that any Renaissance artist would have loved to paint or sculpt.

As Blake remained in a sort of daze, she took him by the hand, made him stand up, and undressed him slowly but efficiently. The rest of him also wasn't what you might expect from a poet, because here was a guy with a fine set of black fur over his chest, stovepipe thighs and calves that must have indicated good workouts at some point in his life, and--to Rowena's delight--a muscular butt complete with those oh-so-cute dimples in each cheek. She could feel herself getting wet just looking at him.

As she lay down on her back, spreading her legs, she patted a place on the bed next to her, where Blake should recline while masturbating her. She figured that this act of pleasuring her would revive him for the full monty that she expected would happen later.

But as Blake devoured her with his eyes, his semi-hard cock quivering, she said, "You know what to do, don't you?"

Blake gave her a plangent look and shook his head.

"You don't know how to make a girl happy?" she said incredulously.

He looked away from her in humiliation.

"Well, it's no big deal," she said confidently. "It's not so hard--a lot easier than writing poetry!"

She took his hand and directed it toward her sex, pointing out the various parts that she liked stimulated. She was one who liked everything--labia, clitoris, even asshole--fondled, and she was determined both to get her rocks off and also to instruct this naïve young man into the art of making a girl come.

It seemed he was a quick learner, because pretty soon Rowena was writhing and moaning and clutching the sheets as Blake, amazed at how much fluid was pouring out of her, did yeoman's work in bringing her to the edge of climax. And then she did go over the edge, letting out a shrill squeal as she pounded the bed with her heels while bone-shaking tremors coursed through her entire body. Blake was smart enough to realize that he should keep on stroking her as long as she could endure the exquisite delight--and only when she pushed his hand away and curled up in a ball, still quivering uncontrollably, did he sense how successful he had been in this initial attempt at bringing a female to the pinnacle of pleasure.

He thought he might write a poem about it.

But Rowena, once she'd settled down, understood that this was just the beginning. Fellatio and masturbation were all well and good--but nothing beats penetration! And she noticed with satisfaction that the very act of bringing on that orgasm to her had revived Blake's organ to its full and imposing length. He could hardly believe it himself, as he gazed down at the erect member jutting out of his groin.

"You wanna go into me?" she said dreamily, uncurling herself and spreading her legs wide.

But Blake just lay there on his side, staring at the vision of feminine loveliness in front of him.

Then an incredible, almost unbelievable thought went through Rowena's mind.

No, it couldn't be. Could it?

Very softly and sympathetically she asked, "You haven't done this before, have you?"

Blake shook his head disconsolately.

Omigod, a virgin! She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a virgin--maybe never! She knew this was a delicate moment: any hint that she was ridiculing him for his inexperience might put the kibosh on their relationship, to say nothing of making him wilt. And she wanted that immense cock in her so bad!

"You must know the basics of what to do, right?" she said encouragingly.

"I think so," he whispered.

"Good boy. Again, this isn't rocket science. So in you go."

But as Blake remained motionless, she said a little more sharply, "Blake, get on top of me and go into me."

He climbed onto her tentatively, as if afraid he might crush her. She had to resist rolling her eyes and saying, "Blake, I've had loads and loads of guys on me and I've always lived to tell the tale." But she kept quiet and waited for him to get into position. He stared intently down at his cock, then took it in his hand and guided it to where he thought it should go. But he made the usual rookie mistake of aiming too high along her crevice; and his frustration at being unable to get in made him whimper pathetically.

"Let me do it, Blake," she said, taking his cock in her own hand and directing it into her vagina.

It slipped in smoothly, almost half its length disappearing into her. It was now Blake who let out a huge gasp as he felt the transcendent, almost heavenly sensation of being lodged in a girl's pussy for the first time. Lowering herself onto her, and having sense enough to use his elbows to prop himself up, he went in still further, almost passing out from the wet, warm, velvety feel of his cock being engulfed by her twat.

And Rowena was far from an idle spectator--that enormous organ was forging into her in a way that had rarely happened with any of the guys who'd plugged her up, and she experienced that sensation of being

filled

that makes a girl feel utterly connected to her man. Pretty soon Blake was thrusting in and out gently but vigorously, and then he began almost pounding that well-used pussy while plastering her face with hot kisses and squeezing her generous breasts and luscious bottom with eager hands.

He lasted about ten minutes, which Rowena thought was pretty good for a novice, before he started sending a second and equally massive discharge deep into her. Now he lost all fear of crushing her and lowered himself over the entire length of her body, glorying in the feel of her breasts pressing up against his chest. They were joined from head to foot, and she kept him in place by wrapping her legs around his hips. Even though he was finished, she didn't want him to come out--and he didn't either.