Harry's Spring Brea

The supper hour had come and gone, but Harry hadn't noticed. Now, as he finally pushed himself away from his desk, with the actual contents of the entire four chapters he'd been supposed to read burning in his memory, he was ready to write his paper.

And starved.

But it only took a glimpse down the hill to show him that the lights were off in the dining hall. The lounge was open; he could even hear the music and see the shadows of dancers moving past the windows. There, he could at least get a bowl of stew, but it would also mean being surrounded by distracting girls. If he was going to get his paper done, he'd better just stay put.

Luckily, he was prepared for such an eventuality. He went home for the weekend twice a month, and his mother always sent him back with a care package. It was getting down to the dregs now, but he was still able to scrounge up a quick meal of not-quite- stale bread, cheese, and meat so thoroughly preserved that it would probably outlast him.

Two more demerits. He didn't want to think about what his total was, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that at the end of the semester, only a few days away, his slate would be wiped clean and he could come back and start fresh after spring break. He was still a few demerits away from more severe disciplinary action.

He finished his meal, washed up, and stretched the kinks and knots out of his back. Then he did a few practice lunges and ripostes, reflecting that even if he was getting nothing else out of school, his fencing was already improved. Too bad there wasn't a prosperous living to be made as a duelist.

Fed, limbered, and more relaxed, Harry sat back down and started working. He whispered to himself as he did; talking came so much more naturally than writing! If only he were allowed to present his homework orally!

He was on the third page and just getting warmed up when he heard a key rattle in the outer door.

Oh, perfect.

Cray was back early, probably sneaking in another girl. He could look forward to another concert of giggles and moans, the Creaking Bed Duet.

"Hello?"

Even though it was barely above a conspirator's whisper, Harry recognized the voice. Sherla, Cray's most recent conquest. He summoned up a vision of her -- rich golden hair, heart-shaped face, lovely legs.

It would be rude not to answer, even though she sure wasn't looking for him. Harry opened his bedroom door.

"Hello, Sherla ... Cray's not home."

The moment he saw her, he knew something was wrong. She was too tense, even for a girl who'd just snuck into one of the boys' dorms alone. And her big blue eyes were puffy, red-rimmed.

Plus, as he spoke, she jumped and 'guilt' screamed across her features.

"I ... I ... didn't think anybody was here," Sherla said, inching back out the door.

Harry frowned. "I thought you and Cray were going to the new illusion-show over at the Academy tonight."

Emotion brought a pink tinge to her cheeks. "He stood me up."

He gaped at her. "Why? Cray, miss a date?"

"Oh, I'm sure he kept his other date." She bit off the words sharply.

Uh-oh. He'd always expected this would happen sooner or later. At any given time, Cray had from three to six girls on the string, and each of them thought she was his one-and-only. Amazing, the things a fellow could get away with when he had bronzed good looks and a build like a marble statue.

He could have covered it up. Could have convinced her. Cray would have owed him one.

But why? Cray was a strutting self-important bastard of the purest ray serene, and would never acknowledge, let alone repay, any debt to Harry.

In that case ...

"Oh, that's right," Harry said easily, with a wide winning smile. "Tonight was Loresa!"

"Loresa! I knew it! That rotten no-good --"

"Shh!" He motioned at the open door. "The Headmaster's already been at me once today; if he finds you in here, he'll bite my head off and spit it into the harbor."

Sherla shrugged angrily. "I passed him in the hall. He knew I was coming to Cray's room. It didn't matter."

"Of course." His mouth went sour as curdled milk.

"Loresa. What does he see in her?"

Harry made it look like he was in the know but choosing not to say.

"What? You have to tell me, Harry!"

"Sherla, he's my roommate, I don't want to get involved. I mean, sure, I hear things from time to time, and he's always talking about his various girlfriends --" He widened his eyes at what sounded like a slip.

She closed the door behind her and came toward him. "Various girlfriends. What kind of things does he say?"

"I ... I've said too much already." He backed toward his room.

"Please! I have to know!"

"Well ..."

"Please!"

"About Loresa, at least ..." He cast about in his mind ... what was it about Loresa? She was another blonde, Cray was limited in his tastes, but ... "She's kind of got a reputation. I guess Cray thinks there are things she'll do that ... that you won't."

"Like what?" she demanded.

All the nights he'd listened to them through the walls ... but there had been something, hadn't there? He distinctly remembered ...

"Something he always begs you to do."

Her mouth dropped open and she covered it with one hand. "And Loresa does? Oh! Oh, that slut, that tramp, that trollop!"

Now Harry was really wondering! All he'd heard were Cray's whining pleas of "come on, Sherla, just once, we can stop if you don't like it."

"Plus," he ventured onward, remembering another difference between the girls. "She's ... no, never mind."

"She's what? What? Please, you have to tell me!"

"Why? Sherla, I'm sorry he stood you up, but what good does it do to get wound up about it? It's just the way he is. None of his other girls are upset."

"How many does he have?"

"Gods, I am really making a mess of this!" Harry feigned being distraught, ran a hand through his hair. "I just figured all of you knew, and none of you minded. I had no idea --"

"How many?"

"Four, I think."

"Four!" She held onto the back of a chair for support. "Four! But he told me ... he gave me his spare key!" Held up beseechingly.

"His brother's a locksmith," Harry said. "He's got a drawerful of spare keys."

Her fist curled around it so hard he bet she'd be seeing the reddened imprint there tomorrow, then she hurled it against the wall to Cray's room. "That snake! He lied to me! Well, it's for the last time! I am through with him!"

"I'm really sorry." He hung his head and looked miserable. "I always thought you were the prettiest one. Smartest. Nicest. Too good for him. A shame he couldn't see how special you were. That he'd let you get away just because of a set of --"

"A set of what?"

He couldn't meet her eyes, abashedly motioned toward her bosom. Saw the realization dawn on her just what feature Loresa had that was superior to hers.

"But she's huge! Freakishly so! She looks like a great big milk cow! And the way she wears her blouses ... she tailors them to be too tight, you know!"

Oh, he knew, every male on campus knew.

"So that's it," Sherla fumed. "A pair of melons and a ready mouth and he'll go a'running!"

Aha, Harry thought. That's what he was begging for.

"But if you suspected he was out with someone else," he ventured, "why did you come looking for him?"

That scream of guilt crossed her face again, and she pulled a short-bladed knife and a paint-pen from her skirt pocket. "I was going to ..."

"Trash his room?" Harry's eyebrows climbed in astonishment.

She nodded.

"Getting back at him like that won't help."

"Why not?"

"He'll laugh. He'll say, 'look how upset I got her.' I've seen it before," he admitted. "There's got to be a better way." How he did love a good gamble ... now it was time to see if this one would pay off.

Sherla bowed her head, then looked up at him, and in his mind Harry heard the tumble of gold coins -- jackpot! "Do you think Loresa's are better than mine?"

He laughed with a hint of embarrassment. "I ... I wouldn't know. I mean, hers are right out there for all the world to see, but otherwise, those blouses they give you girls kind of leave everything to the imagination."

"Oh." She slipped the top button, and Harry stared in an incredulity that was only partly feigned. Another button. And another. Now the upper swells of her breasts were visible, and the beginning of her cleavage.

"Um, Sherla ...?"

"I asked you a question, Harry." A fourth, then a fifth, and she paused to untuck the hem of her blouse from her waistband. The fabric yawed open as she moved, giving him an eyeful of luscious flesh nestled within a pale blue silken chemise.

He cleared his throat. "I ... I can see enough now to be sure of one thing. They're beautiful. You're beautiful."

She let the blouse fall from her shoulders. Her eyes were blue and cold, the eyes of revenge, exactly as he'd hoped.

"Better than Loresa's?"

"Like you said, hers are too big. But, um ... you really shouldn't be ... um ... doing that."

"Why not?"

"I may not be known as a campus cocksman like Cray, but I am only human." He coughed and averted his gaze, tugged at his tunic as if trying to cover the swelling there, drawing her attention to it precisely as planned. "I can't help ... reacting."

"Are you scared of me, Harry?"

"No, scared, nah, not me." He produced a shaky laugh.

"Are you my friend?"

"Of course I am!"

"Then you'll help me?"

"Help you what? Trash Cray's room? No, I can't, I --"

"No, you're right. That won't do. But I still need help. He made me feel so bad, so terrible, worthless. I need to know if I'm pretty."

"You are," he assured her in complete honesty.

She stepped toward him, reaching for the ties that held her chemise closed in front. "I need to feel good about myself."

He stammered, watching avidly as she bared herself to the waist. He hadn't been lying, her breasts were beautiful. This was going better than his wildest hopes, but how far did he dare to push it? A single misstep would be catastrophic.

"I'd like to help," he said, swallowing so that his throat clicked audibly. "But what ... what can I do?"

"Touch me," she invited, almost pleaded. "Make me feel pretty."

Harry started to oblige, then stopped as if struck by a sudden thought. "You're not using me to get revenge on Cray, are you?"

"Certainly not!" she lied, and he inwardly smiled in satisfaction.

"Because I wouldn't want to do that to him," he said. "We may not be the best of friends, but he is my roommate. I ... I wouldn't want you to feel like you were getting back at him through me. Or even ... doing anything you don't want to because it might hurt him."

He saw the light rise in her eyes, but she said, "This isn't about Cray." She took his wrists and pulled him toward her.

"Ah, Dorian," he murmured, letting himself be pulled, letting her guide his hands to cup the twin globes of her breasts.

Her back arched and she uttered a little gasping sigh as he gently brushed his thumbs across her nipples. He let the reluctant-adolescent act fall away and sought her lips in a compelling kiss.

Sherla's mouth opened in surprise and he thrust his tongue into it before she could voice a protest. One of his hands stole around to the small of her back to hold her against him, the other massaged her breasts more urgently. Hers fluttered by his elbows as if she wasn't sure what to do with them.

He sensed her startled indecision, her sudden worry that she had gone too far and gotten more than she bargained for, but then her body shivered and she pressed herself to him with a low moan. The previously undecided hands encircled his neck.

Their kiss broke and he moved to her jawline, her earlobe, finding the sensitive spots and nibbling at them.

"Oh ... oh ... Harry, what ...?"

"So beautiful," he whispered, inching down to her collarbone, then further.

Her fingers curled in his hair, tightening, as if to stop his progress, but halfheartedly. When he reached the tip of her breast and drew it gently into his mouth, even that token protest stopped and she held his head as if she might never let go.

The uniform skirt was secured by a series of small clasps. Harry undid them so deftly and without ceasing any of his other activities that Sherla didn't notice what was happening until the skirt puddled to the floor and left her in knickers, stockings, and belt. No succubus-red here; the school colors of blue and gold continued even to these garments.

Harry knelt with fencer's grace, sinking slowly so that his lips could kiss a path from breasts to navel -- a dart of his tongue there made her giggle through her moans -- to the upper edge of her knickers. They were pale blue and sheer, fitting snug against her hips and lower belly, puffing out over a mound cushioned by a lush patch of dark blonde hair.

This, he could tell, was something she hadn't counted on. Fully prepared to do what she must to avenge the slights dished up by Cray, but she hadn't considered the prospect of her own arousal. He read it in the rosy flush on her pale skin, the taut points of her nipples, the sweet perfume of her musk.

The complexity of women's underclothes could confound many a man, but Harry divested her of them with ease.

"Sit down," he urged.

She did so, moving like one in a dream, on the narrow couch. Her eyes, meeting his, were swimming with surprised longing.

"You ... I never thought you would ..."

"Shh." He parted her knees and knelt between them, running his tongue along her inner thigh.

"What are you doing?" she breathed.

He paused and raised his gaze back to hers. "Didn't Cray ever ...?"

"Ever what?"

"Kiss you here." His hand settled lightly on her mound, the hair crisp and soft beneath his palm.

She shook her head slowly. "I've heard some of the other girls talk about that, but I never believed them. But he ... he wanted me to ..."

"Let me kiss you here. Please. You don't have to do anything for me unless you want to, just let me do this for you."

"You're ... so different now!"

His fingers moved lower, finding damp heat. "Will you let me?"

By way of answer, she let her head fall against the back of the couch and her legs relax apart. He bent and breathed of her scent, then opened her folds with his thumbs and brought his tongue to her tender center.

She exhaled in a long sighing, "Ooohhhhhh," that contained a world of wonder.

He kept on, gently lapping as he inserted two fingers deep into her channel to probe and explore.

Soon Sherla's fingernails were scratching convulsively at the cushion, her breath heaved and her hips writhed, but the few cries she made were the low and muffled ones of a girl accustomed to the risk of being caught.

When the final treasure of Dorian's Gift was finally hers, she trembled all over and her inner flesh clasped at his fingers in a way that made his heartbeat race even faster.

He pillowed his head on her thigh and waited with a smile -- a rather smug smile, he had to admit -- as she rode out the waves.

"Oh by the gods," she panted. "That was ... oh!"

"Thank you for letting me," he said. "Did it help?"

"Help?" She blinked, then remembered. "Yes. Very much. I've never felt prettier."

"You've never been prettier."

It was the truth, nothing was lovelier than a woman in the afterglow of rapture, unless maybe it was a woman on the very fringe of reaching it.

He made sure she saw the passion warming his eyes. Now was when she should --

"But what about you? That can't have done much for you."

"On the contrary, it gave me a great deal of satisfaction."

"Don't you want more?"

He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I wouldn't refuse, but I don't want you to feel as if I expect it."

"I want to," she declared as if she had just convinced herself of it. "Let me return the favor, Harry, please."

He let some of his confidence fall away, replacing it with a bit more of the unsure youth routine. "You mean ... you can't mean ...?"

"I do mean that."

"If you're sure ..."

"I am." She unlaced the collar of his tunic. "But you'll have to help me take this silly thing off; I've never been able to do it very well."

"Happy to oblige!" He shed the tunic as she slid onto the floor beside him.

"I never noticed before how nicely made you are," she said, skimming her hands over his chest and stomach.

He refrained from remarking about how girls like her were too busy swooning over the behemoth-sized grassball players to pay any attention to other sports, only shrugged as if he was a little embarrassed and enjoyed her caress. The bulge in his tights was straining its outline unmistakably against the thin fabric.

"No, I never did notice," Sherla murmured as she ran one fingertip along the rigid length. "Lay back, Harry, let me get you out of these tights before you split them."

He complied most readily, stretched out on the rug as she knelt over him with her hair swinging in golden waves around her breasts. She rolled the tights down and off.

His rod, freed from confinement, sprang up stiffly from its thick black nest. Sherla took hold of it, and began to rub with excruciatingly pleasurable skill. Cray might have found her lacking in some respects, but Harry'd often heard him boasting that what she could do with her hands alone would put a high-priced whore to shame.

The sensations swirled through him and he had to struggle not to give in to them.

So long since anyone but himself had touched him there, and his body was in a frenzy, but he didn't want it over too soon. Wanted to savor it, make it last, because gods knew when he'd get another chance!

Sherla bent down with her face twisted into a little grimace, as if braced for something foul but determined, for her revenge, to carry it out. Her lips brushed the tip, her tongue flicked out for a quick sampling taste. Then a longer one. He groaned helplessly as smooth, warm, wet pressure slid over-under-around the head.

He saw it in her eyes. Her new awareness of two things -- that it wasn't at all what she'd expected, and that he was utterly in her power. Then a cunning glint that told him she was going to apply herself to this task as she'd never applied herself to anything before, that she was going to do her all to make it something that Harry would never forget ... and by extension, strike back at Cray because he would never experience it himself.

Oh, and she did. The practiced expertise of her hands was quickly adapted, and Harry nearly had to put a pillow over his face to stifle his cries as Sherla proceeded to give him the best mouthplay of his life.

Not even thinking of economics could forestall the inevitable for long. He held onto her head as it bobbed up and down, his muscles tensing, his jaw clenched, a ribbon of fire winding through his body to collect in his loins ...

A key in the lock.

What he'd subconsciously been waiting for this entire time. They could have gone to his room, he could have coaxed her to, but he hadn't. A daredevil trait, some might say suicidal, because he wanted Cray to catch them in this act of all acts.

The door opened and Cray was there, one arm looped around Loresa so that his fingers were hidden inside her gaping blouse. They were both drunken and laughing and shushing each other, and just as their expressions were blasted into shock, Harry quit trying to hold back.

Sherla hadn't heard, hadn't seen. She started as the first jet of his fluid filled her mouth, then redoubled her efforts, throat working smoothly as she drained him of what felt like a year's worth of pent-up passion.

Harry couldn't keep from crying out this time, so he made sure it was not loud but incredibly intense, the sort of soul-wrenching end-of-the-world cry that would make any red-blooded male wonder what in the name of the gods a woman could do to make a man sound like that, like he was dying from sheer ecstasy and was happy to go.