This is a two-part short story about a married woman is taught the meaning of love by an exotic Indian woman. There is a rumour where I live about the garage door signal I write about in here. I don't know if it's true. My imagination imagines all sorts of things. Which led to this story. Enjoy.
*****
I MARRIED OUT of college. I love my husband, but sometimes I think perhaps I married him to put my college years behind me. I think about it all the time. It effects our marriage, but I think I hide it well. I was the typical freshwoman in college. I arrived all wide-eyed and eager to learn. Within months I was sleeping with most, if not all, the women in my dormitory.
It's something I'm actually proud of. I loved my four years in college. I loved the women I slept with. I was happy. Immensely so. They were the best years and the most formative years of my life. I went from a chaste religious virgin, to a wanton sex addict; addicted to pussy and the soft loving touch of a woman.
It was in my last year in college that my girlfriend suggested I try men. She said I owed it to myself to see if perhaps I batted for the other team. Or both. Internally I was mortified but recognised I would be returning home in six months, and my bible-belt town would never accept a lesbian. I would be ostracised. Humiliated, or worse. My girlfriend said I needed a boyfriend to hide behind. Horrible words, I admit, but I saw the logic.
It took me about a month to gather the nerve to approach the only boy I found cute in my English class. He wrote poetry and I loved his words. He was talented. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed, fit, tall and wrote about love and romance. I had thought him gay for the past three years, but one of the girls I slept with in the dorm had slept with him. She said he was terrific in bed, even if his cock bent to the left. She had giggled and demonstrated what his cock looked like on the double-ended dildo we were sharing.
I had never seen a penis in real-life. I had seen plenty of pictures and my vibrators copied the shape. Mostly. I had watched videos of men ejaculating and thought it all pretty gross. The same girl told me it wasn't and that it was powerful and amazing to watch. She said it made her feel powerful when she was able to make a man hard for her and then cum. She also said it tasted okay.
I found that repulsive.
I had my whole future in front of me, but my mom and dad expected I would settle down and raise a Christian family with Christian values. It was my only destiny for them. Every time I called home it was always filled with questions on whether I had found a boy yet. Never about my studies. I was months from a Batchelor of Arts with a major in Journalism and they asked me about boys. They ignored that the town paper had already promised to hire me. Soon, I would have a job in my field, reporting on cow patty bingo at the state fair. But it was a job in my chosen profession. I was excited about it. I imagined breaking some great story and becoming famous. Winning awards. In those dreams I never had a dutiful husband by my side. I was alone and proud and standing tall.
But apparently, I needed a husband to fulfil my future. My parents reminded me every day. My friends back home had already married straight out of high school to their high school sweethearts. Half of them already had babies sucking on their tits. They would never be smarter than their high school education and they didn't seem to care. My parents asked me why I couldn't be more like them. I had no positive response to that and bit my tongue.
So I approached the cute boy in my class. I had noticed him watching me over the years. Women always notice. Sex for women is an hourly event. We are surrounded by it all our lives. From the moment we mature we are soaked in sex. Men don't understand this simple fact of life. Sure, men think about sex all the time. I'll give them that. Their need to stick their dick in something and cum drives their lives. For women, it is looks, suggestions, a constant barrage of advances—wanted or not—to have us spread our legs and invite the male organ inside us. Commercials, advertising, movies and television all drive this home. We are sexualised. Our value only priced by how we look. So fuck you men, I am not an object. I am a person first. I am almost exactly the same as you. I would even say superior in all that matters. But I am a second-class citizen by society and its laws. So fuck you men. I don't need or want you.
But sadly I do. I need to come home with a man holding my hand to protect me and keep me safe. This is what my parents expect. My friends expect. And future expects. I hate it.
The boy's name is Paul Jennings. He plays baseball for the college. Third base or something. He also runs. I've seen him many times running along the paths I use. He would nod at me and mostly ignore me; which was perfect. He has a cute ass, for a boy. And a nice laugh. As I said, my dormitory had thought he was gay, my friend said otherwise from first-hand experience. I didn't know one way or another. He meant nothing to me.
I kept this central to my thoughts as I approached him when class ended. The professor was up front talking to some students and I saw Paul back up his backpack and head up the stairs to the exit. I moved in front of him and dropped my books on the stairs. It was a Disney move. But it worked. Paul rushed to help me; the poor damsel in distress. Whatever would women do without men? Perish, most certainly.
I made a suitable squeal of dismay and Paul dropped his backpack and stooped to start picking up my books. I stood over him with my hands held up under my chin and pushing my C-cups together in a sexy way. I had practiced in front of the mirror. I put a shy look of horror mixed with embarrassment on my face. Paul rose triumphant with my books in hand and handed them to me. I saw him stare at my tits. My nipples were hard-I had made sure of that before I dropped my books-and they looked alluring. My girlfriends loved my nipples. They were huge, I admit. I had played with and sucked many nipples over the years. I loved the large ones and knew mine were the largest of all my girlfriends.
I have many girlfriends. All at the same time. Our dormitory has over ten lesbians. We sleep together routinely. Surprisingly, very little jealousy enters our lives. We share and enjoy each other. Sometimes all at once. Sleepovers are common and there can be as many as five of us together at one time. A male wet-dream I suppose. It was normal for me and I loved it. I was liberated and happy in college.
Paul tore his eyes away from my tits and I tracked them. They left my tits grudgingly and stopped at my lips before reaching my eyes. It was the first time I ever really looked at him and he was beautiful. His eyes were a bright blue, so very bright they looked unnatural. His hair was messy and brushed by hand to the side. I could see blond stubble glinting with the overhead fluorescents. He was dreamy, as the other girls would say. I admit he was not hard on the eyes. But I didn't feel the attraction. My pussy stayed dry. My nipples started to relax despite my earlier discreet pinching.
He was cute, but he was a boy and not what I needed between my legs.
"Hi," he said, and made a cute smile with his mouth. "That was quite the accident."
"Yes, thanks for helping," I said and debated whether now was a good time to bat my eyelashes.
"My pleasure. I've always wanted to meet you. We've been together in the same classes for years. Funny how we never spoke."
I nodded in what I hoped was a cute way. My hair was blond like Paul's and reached just below my shoulders. I had it pinned back over my ears with clips that looked like butterflies. "True. It is strange. What are you majoring in?"
"Writing. I want to be a writer."
"Oh? What kind of writing?"
"Anything, really. I'll write for anyone."
"I've really liked your poetry. You have a gift."
Paul surprised me by blushing. He looked away for a moment. "Yeah, well. That's just a hobby. I want to write freelance. Offer my services to whoever needs it. Copy, editing, the whole works. How about you? Journalism, I think?"
"Yes, journalism. I love it."
