Without thinking she brushed the hand away. Like a fly it flitted around her butt stopping briefly, then moving on. She was deeply into a conversation with several very erudite people. Her presentation had gone well. A well-formulated discourse on Native American myths presented at this small community college, it was but a way stop on the publisher's required book tour. It had been well attended, both by whites and Native Americans, and now she was allowed to be herself speaking directly to people who were truly interested in her subject.
The reception was being held in a posh faculty lounge adjacent to the school cafeteria. Carpeted, comfortably furnished, with low lighting, it made a very pleasant place for casual conversation with this expert on Native American mythology.
Students were playing the role of butlers serving wine in plastic ware as well as canapes. They circulated frequently replenishing both food and wine.
Many in the audience had been surprised at how young their speaker was. Some, without realizing their observations to be inappropriate, commented among themselves on how attractive she was as well.
The hand, or perhaps another hand, was back. Deep in conversation she once again brushed it aside without much thought. It came back making her turn away, but not wanting to lose the thread of this conversation she made no effort to determine if this was someone being purposely fresh or just an accidental brushing of bodies in the crowded room.
She dared not move too quickly for fear of spilling her wine. She moved a foot to her right. A student insisted she take a canape. "I made these myself," she told the expert. The expert smiled and accepted the delicacy.
Wine in one hand, canape in the other, with no hands to brush away the hand exploring her butt, she gave up. He wasn't hurting anything, she rationalized. Truth was she rather liked his gentle touch and was flattered by his attention. Months on the reservations conducting research, more months writing, and now this book tour all without the male attention she craved left her in need. She had been afraid to accept the ardor of those she interviewed for fear of biasing her research. But so many of the men, the chiefs and shamans she had spoken with had aroused her basest of needs. The fine, noble cut of their faces had left her wanting to explore the extent to which their bodies might fulfill the promise they offered.
In her sleep she had seen these men, their erect stature demanding that she yield herself to them. Some, when her dreams allowed, had been naked, their assertive bearing demanding even more forcefully that she yield. She had bought a large replica of a her fantasy of a Native American penis. She used this, but it did not satisfy.
There were about a dozen people around her. There were young, handsome faces, older, thoughtful faces, and the craggy faces of local Native Americans. She began to long for that long postponed satisfaction.
The hand was back. It wasn't possible to determine whose hand it was brushing, touching, exciting her. She attempted to stay focused on the conversation, but the hand was taking its toll.
People drifted and rotated. The hand came and went. When it left, she missed its light caresses. As the crowd thinned and a student refilled her wine glass yet again, she finally was able to turn and face the owner of the hand.
He smiled without embarrassment even taking a firmer grip on the smooth skin of her butt as he smiled at her. He said nothing. She dared not move lest someone see what liberties the hand was taking. It had been under her skirt for some time. Other bodies and the corner in which they stood provided some seclusion. Occasionally, he had caressed her bare skin from within her panties as he did now. He had touched her most private place. A finger had explored inside her briefly.
When others had retreated into smaller groups and it was just the two of them, he leaned toward her and with his mouth brushing against her ear he told her to go to the ladies room where she should remove her underwear, "your panties and your bra", he said as if to be sure she understood. By now she was wet. She would never have believed this could have happened, but she had passed the point of telling him no. His talented fingers had literally brushed away her defenses. Her mouth was dry. Her head floated with the wine and erotic thoughts.
When she returned from the ladies room, she found several men standing, talking, sipping wine. Their group immediately opened to receive her. She wondered if what she was doing was wise. Another girl whom she had noticed in the ladies room was admitted to the circle enlarging it and making the expert feel less ill at ease. The girl spoke to the men with extreme courtesy and deference as though she was a student. "A graduate student," she noted for them with some satisfaction. The men had nodded smiling, accepting.
The circle closed around the women shrinking, compressing. All the bodies rubbed against each other.
The expert saw the girl's face react in surprise. A glance at her butt was enough to know the reason. It wasn't long before an arm draped across the student's shoulders. The hand gently rubbed the side of her breast. The girl stiffened momentarily. She looked at the man caressing her breast. Obviously not a student, he smiled, but did not stop. The student accepted her situation and his attentions. She returned her focus to the conversation.
The expert felt a warm hand slide under her skirt. He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her toward himself. She glanced down at her skirt. Though he stood mostly behind her, what was happening would be evident to anyone who looked toward her crotch. But, of course, no one would dare to look at someone's crotch in this setting. She looked at the student, whose body was so close to hers. Her eyes were closed. The outline of a hand seemed to be stroking her pussy, perhaps with a finger inside. Her face was a mask of pure pleasure. She had yielded. The expert couldn't tell if the mask of pure pleasure was fake or real.
