"Quick test, is to test it," I explain. "Taste it," I hurriedly amend, attempting to explain what I am doing; attempting to come up with a reason why I licked that part of her -- that particular, rather private part of her. We hardly know each other, after all. And I certainly had no invitation. She doesn't even like me, I warrant -- I wouldn't, if I was her! I wait for the explosion I am sure is sure is about to come.
But nothing comes. Her expression is merely curiosity. Not anger, not outrage, not fury, resentment, objection, alarm. It is merely ... curiosity. 'What are you doing?' seems to be the question in her eyes. "C'est ..." she starts, then stops. Poor little lamb doesn't even know the words! "C'est ... okay?" she asks, gingerly.
I make a face that says, 'not sure,' and, throwing caution to the wind -- and playing on the language barrier that seems to be growing between us -- I lick her other buttock! This time it is a more leisurely broad-tongued taste, starting just over the cleft and finishing high on the tasty mound. The two, a perfect pair. She has an eyebrow raised. "C'est ... Okay!" I announce, acting the wiser, professional, older man. Giving her a smile, but half expecting her to sit up and slap my face.
But she doesn't. All she does is turns her head, albeit with a slightly perplexed expression on her rather lovely face, rest it on arms that she folds at the head of the bench, and stare at a point on the floor of the showers, someway ahead of the bench.
Unable to credit my luck, or properly swallow my heartfelt relief, I brazenly reach for a pile of folded towels on a nearby bench. "Just dry you a little," I say, taking the top one, figuring the drying will let me handle her more than I can with the reasons I am currently giving her, none of which I'd even remotely believe if I looked like her, and she looked like me. "Stop hypothermia," I add, as if I know what it means.
With a towel in my hand I ease out the tails of her lacrosse blouse from the waistband of her skirt and push both hand and dry towel underneath. The towel pushes the blouse up her back, clears the skin, brings a funny-looking bra strap into view. I add a second hand to the job. I haul the blouse out from the restraining waistband all the way around. I get a sudden jolt of electricity, or that, at least, is how it feels, when my hand goes under her. How unfairly firm and flat these youngsters' stomachs are!
"That's better," I say, drying the skin around her waist and heading north. Easing my fingertips ahead of the towel. Then I must lick her again! Her buttocks are addictive. They should come with a health warning -- like a packet of fags. With a hand easing high on her front, as the other does the same on her back; with my fingertips toying with the bra strap, figuring out how it's fixed, (a Velcro patch at the back); I lower my face to the cleft of her lovely butt, and stick my tongue inside.
Sometimes I do this to the wife; when she's asleep, you understand. It is like slipping the tongue between two limp and formless lumps of undercooked blancmange. Floppily loose, no grip at all. But doing the same thing now, to the appetising form of the lovely Miss Ju, was like slipping one's tongue into a dangerous crevasse between two youthful, silk-smooth slabs of muscled power. It was a sensation like no other.
I felt her buttocks clench as the tip of my tongue hit the puckered little access to her anus. It was a wake up call for me to speak. For me to explain what I though I was doing in a way that would convince her of my probity. Not that I was sure what that meant, but it sounded responsible, adult, Good (with a capital 'G'). "Salt ..." I started, speaking again. "Gotta taste salt, or there's a problem, see?" I went on. I chose not to wait for an answer. I pushed my face back between these heartbreakingly gorgeous globes, found her puckered hole again, tested the tip of my tongue against it. I give another lecture, on salt, this time speaking where my mouth was, letting my tongue annunciate all around her pretty little ass-hole. Then I slipped it further in.
My towel was thrust high on her back, near her shoulders. My hands had pushed her blouse there as well. I reached for another towel, brought it to her, my face still pressed between her buttocks, tongue sliding preciously close to her private pussy parts. I draped the new towel over her head and told her to dry her hair. Why I did this I have no idea -- didn't want to move my face, perhaps.
But I had to, in the end. I could hardly mine her ass with my tongue forever. It was not as if she'd said it was sore. (She'd not even mentioned it was there!) I reluctantly removed my mouth and slavering tongue from the cleft of the sweet thing's behind, to find that my obedient little kitten had my second towel draped over her head and was obediently drying her hair. I could not believe what I was seeing. Her head in a towel. Her body partially bared. Her buttocks and pussy fully exposed. I had one hand drying her side -- pretty high up on her torso -- while the other rested on her back, where the bra strap patch of Velcro lived.
I dropped into motor-mouth mode. I abandoned my towel across her shoulders, leaving it there, reached for the Velcro patch of her bra and pulled it loose. Just like that. Pulled the sucker apart! But that's not all I did. Having done that -- having risked an international incident by baring the breasts of a sovereign member of a friendly nation (at least I think where she came from was friendly, otherwise what was she doing here at the college?) -- I then reached for the waistband of her skirt, unfastened the catch, ran down the zip, and began to ease it over her hips, and thighs, and down her legs.
All the time I am doing this, as my well-behaved little cream pie is lifting her hips to help me get her skirt off, I am babbling away with my, "Bla-de-bla-de-bla," about salt, and restricture, and loosening, and relaxing, and drying her head as a form of therapy, and not speaking unless she feels pain ... and my obedient little temptress, all body and curves and pulsing arousal ... with the face and the manners of an angel ... continues, uncomplainingly, head draped in towel, to dry her hair.
I slip off her skirt.
I reach beneath her and start to unbutton her rucked up blouse. I explain, as I am doing this, the problems of concussion of the sternum. The sternum is a bone, I explain. Somewhere round the front. (I think it is, at least.) Of women, mostly. Though men have them too. Four buttons loosed. The sternum is in the chest, I say, as it comes flooding back: all the sweat I have spilt over books to prepare myself for a situation precisely like this. The sternum is in the middle of the chest, I announce, with a tinge of pride. Five buttons gone, then six. The sternum is the bone between the breasts! What heavenly thoughts that conjures up. The breasts on someone young, and fresh, and ripe, and healthy At their peak ... as it were. Her blouse is open. I am about to draw it off -- practically starting the manoeuvre, in fact -- when I find, to my surprise, that in one hand -- the left as it happens -- there is now nestled, inadvertently, a staggeringly firm, generously plump, and agreeably warm young female breast.
It is one of hers.
I take a deep breath. I mention Sternumitis: its problems, the pitfalls, the need to take care. I cannot move my hand. It is as if it would be sacrilege to do so. What it contains, what it is around, what nestles so trustingly in my unworthy mitt is the sort of thing they build religions around. I stare at the smooth expanse of her back, the opened bra, the stockings to her knee, the lacrosse boots on her feet -- muddy still. I stare open mouthed at the middle bits. Especially the twins. Smooth and soaring high like the topmost peaks of a notable range. The valley within. The gorge between the taper of her legs, and all the succulent bits that lie between. Good God, but what could one do with all this. What to do now?
I keep my hand lightly cupped around the breast she has so trustingly placed in my care; the breast that has inadvertently found its way into my clutches -- I can feel her heart beat through it; the breast I may even, in some small way, have helped arrive where it now has ... to lie there almost contentedly, nuzzling gently at my palm like the friendly muzzle of an affectionate horse. I lean to her and lick her back. I lick it all the way from waist to shoulders. "Salt ..." and stuff, comes onto the menu again. I slip my other hand around the curve of her; slip the tips of fingers under bra and ease her off the bench by the simple expedient of cupping two lovely breasts, naked, and lifting her up. Just like that. And to my amazement, she lifts.
Her head, in towel, remains, in towel. But her fingers have ceased their drying.
"Keep drying," I tell the girl, not relinquishing my hold on the freshest, firmest, most luscious-feeling breasts I have ever had in my hands, (either in this life or any previous, going back as far as you want). At this point, of course, the bliss being far too heady to be allowable, I expect my game is up and she will scream. Or kick out. Or do something counter-productive to my driving lust. But she doesn't.
She doesn't do a thing ... other than keep her back curled tight around her chest, on the other side of which my hands have her surprisingly generous breasts warmly clasped in my sweating palms. Noting my hands aren't moving (perhaps?), she starts to dry her hair again. Slender fingers in white cotton curl and probe and rub, massaging the scalp beneath the towel. And as they do, and almost in time with her fingers, I start -- with the utmost respect, tinged with lashings of caution -- gently to fondle the youthful breasts that fate has placed in my hands.
