PART ONE

I read an article a few years ago by a famous psychologist who studies the neurochemistry of "falling in love." According to his research, the whole process is much more physiological, and much less mysterious, than we normally think. He devised an experiment where he asked his subjects—pairs of men and women who had never met before—to ask each other a series of 36 scripted questions that start out fairly trivial and light-hearted ("would you like to be famous?") but grow progressively more intimate ("what is your most terrible memory?"). Afterward, he asked the pairs to stare deeply into each other's eyes, not saying anything, for four minutes. He found that "couple" after "couple" reported feeling deeply attracted to each other at the end of the exercise, despite only knowing each other for 30 minutes. A significant percentage of the couples started dating, and two of his subjects ended up married and pregnant within the year.

His theory is that what we call "love" is all about the hormones that get released when you share an intimate connection with someone, however brief your acquaintance, and however contrived and mechanical the situation.

I guess I'm telling you this so that you can understand the final chapters of the story between Travis and I. Because just imagine how bonded the subjects in the experiment would have felt if they'd performed these steps instead: 1) pair off with a guy who you are VERY attracted to physically and who you have fantasized about for months; 2) have vigorous sex with him, pretty much nonstop, for around seventy two hours; 3) pause between sessions to lie in bed naked and tell each other intimate details about your childhoods and your marriage, kissing occasionally, with your eyes holding his eyes and your hands exploring his body.

You see, for a girl like me, performing an "experiment" like that, some confused feelings were bound to arise. It's like I told Lacey. I'm not cut out for casual sex. I've always been a one-man kind of woman, body and soul.

I'm not saying that I fell in love with Travis, exactly. It's just that we went . . . further together, physically and emotionally, than I would have thought possible. We went further than we should have, I suppose, even in the context of a "lost weekend."

It's funny though. Looking back on it sometimes I think it was the structure of the "lost weekend" that MADE us go further. It was something about the fact that, from one perspective, a "weekend" seemed like too little time, once we realized how phenomenal the sex was, and, more than that, how good the . . . chemistry was between us. It made us a little anxious. Like we needed to spend every waking second together while we still could, and every sleeping second too. Which was part of the problem. Because from another perspective a "weekend" was too MUCH time for something that burned as bright and intense as our physical attraction, especially considering that in reality the "weekend" would last until Matthew came home, maybe in three or four days. It gave whatever was happening between Travis and I too much space to develop into something . . . deeper. At least it seemed deeper, once the hormones took effect

It wasn't just that I liked having sex with Travis. He was also easy to spend time with and talk with, especially when we were both feeling relaxed: when we were stretched out naked on the bed in the guest room of the faculty apartment, spent and drowsy, with the late morning light streaming through the curtains and the fresh, spring breeze blowing in off the quad, mingling with the salty scent of Travis's seed, still pooled in my navel; or when we were stretched out naked on the plush, shag rug in the living room in Travis's place in the afternoon with the trance music droning through the speakers, the same music we'd been thrusting our bodies together to the beat of for what seemed like hours, both of us too sore and exhausted to move, the bass line pulsing through the floor boards and my sex throbbing in tempo, my dark curls lathered with cream; or when we were stretched out naked together late at night in the master bedroom of the suite in Houston, side by side on our bellies facing the big glass wall that overlooked the lights of the city, with the smoke from our weed drifting upward to the stars, and the sounds of the traffic rising from the streets far below us, his semen warm in the small of my back.

I told him things at those moments that I've never told anyone but this keyboard.

It's hard to explain how it happened. But sometimes, I think it would have been better if we had driven to Houston right away, that same night like Lacey suggested, for a blow out of dancing at the club and sex in the suite. We could have ended things there, clean and simple.

At the time, though, it made sense to postpone our "road trip" until the following night. Travis needed to finish his last paper of the semester (for Claire's class, of course) and I had a mountain of essays to grade for my composition sections. But sometimes I wonder how events might have unfolded if Travis hadn't gotten another night alone with me in the dorm. Another night to . . . work on me. To open me by degrees.

You see in most ways Travis was a simple boy. He was more experienced and skillful at sex than most guys, and more relentless in pursuing it with any female who struck his fancy, but his tastes weren't especially kinky. He liked to have sex with me in pretty much the same ways as most of the other boyfriends I've had. Not that he was my boyfriend, exactly, though I suppose that, unconsciously, I still think of him that way from time to time.

When it came right down to it, as far as his sexual preferences, Travis was a "basic bro." Some of you ladies out there must know what I'm talking about. He liked to put me on my back when he fucked me, so he could watch my boobs bounce, and he liked it when I moved my bottom for him, every which way, when he fucked me on my knees (or on my belly, or on my side, but mostly on my knees with my head on the pillow). And he LOVED to watch me suck his cock, an act that he encouraged me to perform for him with a frequency and persistence that shocked me, at first.

I suspect that in different circumstances Travis would have been content to do the simple things with me, and not push it much further, for weeks or months or maybe more. And the thing is: I would have been too. In my yoga practice I've always been partial to spending LOTS of times with the basic poses before you progress to something more exotic, and I guess the fact that Travis and I had been doing yoga together all semester made it seem natural to approach sex with him in the same spirit. I LOVED exploring the basics with him.

Take "Missionary," for example. It's something that I've always enjoyed doing with my boyfriends. But with Travis it was fantastic. It was like he brought out the essence of the posture, the subtleties of his technique honed to perfection through years of almost constant sex with an array of female bodies and personalities. It didn't take him long to figure out what turned a girl on. I loved it when he threw me on my back on the mattress, or on the floor, and leered down at me with his shoulders and chest bulging, and his eyes drunk with desire, while I tilted my pelvis up to him to open myself to his thrusts, his cock penetrating me with a quickness and precision I could scarcely credit until I was putty beneath him, and I let my shoulders rock backward, his eyes glazing, mesmerized by how my tight, curvy little body shook and bounced for him in all of the places he liked best.

Or take simple "doggy style," another of our favorites. I loved it when he flipped me over, a little roughly, and positioned me however he wanted on the mattress, or on the floor, or against the wall, or one time over the arm of a sofa, and I loved the way he kind of . . . fed his cock to me, from behind, teasing his crown through my swollen lips until I couldn't hold back anymore and started reaching for him with my tail, enticing him deeper.

Or take good old "oral." I loved getting it from Travis, sure. Not surprisingly he had great technique. But I loved giving it to him even more. I'm going to state it for the record in print right here and now because otherwise what's the point of telling you this story, if I'm not being honest? I LOVED to suck Travis's cock. I still don't understand it. I loved it partly for how hot it made him, how much he relished the sight of me doing it, but more, perhaps, because I loved being looked at with that much desire. But most of all I loved the raw, physical sensation of his hands in my hair and his cock in the back of my throat, loosening for him, opening deeper.

I remember thinking one time that if I weren't married to Matthew I would be Travis's girl for as long as he wanted. I wouldn't even have minded being part of his "rotation" of other girls, as long it didn't interfere with the regularity of our own sessions. It was just sex after all.

But the lost weekend structure put a certain . . . pressure on events. It made Travis want more, and it made him want it sooner. Faster. To claim his due. And it made me more . . . possessive than I would have been otherwise. I still can't believe what I told him, that first afternoon in the guest room after we'd just showered together and then "serviced" each other, orally, for the first time.

I was still shaking, literally, from a BIG orgasm (I went down on Travis first and then he reciprocated) and I was cuddled up on my side in his heat with his big arms holding me close, stroking my hair, and he was murmuring, "Shhhh Peggy, shhhhhhh, that's my girl," in that way that always pushed my buttons, and I remember this weird wave of panic breaking right on top of me, from out of nowhere, and before I knew it I was telling him that I didn't want him to have sex with other girls during our "special" time together, not even with Lacey, and especially not with preppy Belinda Myles.

I don't know what was going through my head. It was as if the force of my orgasm, of the intense sequence of orgasms that Travis had given me that afternoon with his tongue, and his finger, and his cock, and with his raw, animal presence had triggered some primordial need in me, some deep memory of loss, my father leaving home when I was still a girl, and I wanted to possess him wholly, for a time, for precisely as long as Matthew was in Los Angeles with Claire making me sick with worry.

I still can't believe how fast my heart was beating while I waited for his answer, our gazes locked, and how relieved I felt when he . . . consented to my proposal, nodding his head slowly and letting his eyes drift over my body, approvingly, almost like he was claiming ownership. He told me that I was the sexiest woman he'd ever met, and he couldn't believe that he was actually having sex with me, for real, because the idea of it had been driving him insane since the beginning of the semester, and that he didn't want to do anything else besides have sex with me for as long as I was up for it, because otherwise he would never get it out of his system, how badly he wanted me, and the thought of everything we hadn't tried together would torture him for the rest of his life.

It was all in the game, of course. Travis knew how to sweet talk a woman to get what he wanted. But it still felt electric. I remember pushing him to his back, and taking hold of him by the root, and shaking my head in disbelief at how hard it made him for me to want him like that, his married professor with the edgy personality who couldn't keep her hands off him once she crossed the line. And I remember trying to count how many times he'd cum that day already, and whether he was likely to cum again when I fucked him this time, which was a distinct possibility given how aroused he was, and that he was just past his twenty first birthday, and that I intended to give him the ride of his life. And I remember hesitating for a moment and thinking of the condoms on the kitchen table. But then his hands were on my breasts and I stopped thinking anything as my thighs straddled him, and my hand slid him inside me, and we tried "cowgirl" for the first time. That was another pose we especially liked to practice together.

So I guess it was me who pushed the boundaries first, in an emotional sense. Which gave Travis license, somehow, to start pushing the physical boundaries. It was just little "special" things that he wanted me to "do for him," or let him do to me. Things I'd never tried.

Like that morning in Houston, after we'd been dancing at the club all night, and we were both exhausted, and he asked me to undress for him, and stretch out on the king size bed with the silk sheets, and touch myself with my finger. He watched me, stroking himself, and I watched him, and then he walked to the foot of the bed (where my face was) and stood over me and held his jewels in his hand and then lowered them, gently, into my wet, warm mouth, gravity pulling them inside, and then my lips and my tongue bathing him. I don't know how long I lay there that way, luxuriating in his taste and scent, letting it fill my mouth, sharp and heavy but also enticingly fruity, like ripened plums, heavy and full, his eyes roving over me, hungrily, as I kissed him, and licked him, and suckled him, and nuzzled him with my nose, and as I fingered my pearl, cumming for him over and over.

And it wasn't just Travis that wanted to try things, if I'm honest. I felt the clock ticking too. I remember later that morning in the hotel, with the sun glowing orange, low on the horizon. We started out in missionary, as usual, and then Travis coaxed me into the "deep one" again, with my knees to my chest and my ankles on his shoulders, and he was letting gravity pull him all the way inside me, extending his arms straight under him and then dropping the weight of his midsection straight into me, filling me like I couldn't believe, and then teasing me on the out strokes, his crown between my lips, circling it there, coating me with oils. I remember my buttocks and stomach and everything else started loosening and opening and then I reached for him with my hand and slid his crown between my cheeks, spread wide for him, my rose greased with our fluids.

"Is that what you want?"

"No! . . . Yes! . . . I don't know."

"Just a little? Just to try?"

"I don't know."

"Shhhhhh Peggy. Shhhhhh."

PART TWO

The other factor with the boundaries issue was Lacey, of course. That girl was ALWAYS pushing.

She sure tried her best to convince Travis to go to Houston that night, let me tell you!

By the time I followed her to the guest room she was already in the twin bed with Travis, lying on her side watching him sleep, still naked from our afternoon session, the sheet at his waist.

I paused at the threshold, watching them through the half closed door. I'm not sure why I didn't enter the room straight away. I guess I'd been hearing Lacey's stories about she and Travis all semester, and I was curious to see one acted out in the flesh. Not that I thought they would have sex or anything. I just wanted to seem them . . . interacting in the wild. And more than that, once I saw them in bed together I felt like I was . . . intruding somehow. Lacey looked so comfortable and relaxed with him.

It didn't take Lacey long to rouse him. She caressed his chest, and nibbled his ear, and Travis smiled dreamily, his eyes opening slowly.

"Hey there sleepy head," she teased him, enjoying his confusion. Before he could get his bearings she leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, slow and sensual. I felt a stab of jealousy, just for a moment.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, rubbing his eyes, his voice throaty.

"Peggy and I were just having a little girl talk in the kitchen," she replied, eyeing him archly, her head propped on one hand while her other explored his torso.

"About what?" asked Travis. I could see the wheels turning as he rolled to his back, his arm thrown casually behind his head, bicep bulging. Lacey leaned down to kiss him again and this time he kissed her back. But with his mouth closed, I noted, with some satisfaction.

"O I don't know." Lacey answered, playing dumb, her hand sliding silently beneath the sheet. "About . . . your cock, mostly."

"You sure you should be doing that?" asked Travis, cool as ever.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Won't Peggy get mad?"

Lacey shook her head slowly, her expression teasing, her hand working, just slightly, beneath the sheet.

"You sure?"

Lacey nodded.

"How come?"

"Because of what we were talking about."

"What's that?"

Lacey paused for effect, sliding her hand down further.

"How beautiful this is," she purred, savoring the feel of him.

"Awwwww Lacey . . . you gotta stop."

"Why? You know what else we were talking about?"

"What?"

"How amazing it feels when you fuck us with this" she replied, sliding the sheet down slowly, all the way to his knees, and then exploring him carefully, both of them watching.

"You know what else we were talking about?"

"Lacey . . . you gotta stop"

"How hard you make us come with this," she murmured, squeezing him tighter.

She wasn't jerking him off by that point, exactly, but she was definitely headed in that direction. And Travis was like putty in her hand. Typical frat boy. Not that I can blame him. What guy wouldn't like getting woken up with a hand job and hearing how much two desirable woman—one of them his married professor—had been gushing about his prowess in bed. I felt guilty even, letting Lacey toy with him.

"You know what else we were talking about?"

"What?"

"How we're not sure if either of us can go without this."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And you know what else we were thinking?"

"What?"

"That maybe you could take us dancing tonight and maybe afterward you could fuck both of us with it. That maybe you could fuck both of us all night whichever way you wanted."

"Unngh Lacey. You can't be serious!"

"Dead serious."

"Peggy said that?

"Yeah."

"No shit?

"Yeah," replied Lacey, slackening the pace. She knew it was the right moment. "Isn't that right Peggy?" she asked, turning her head to the door.

Travis spun his head in my direction so fast I thought his neck might snap. I pushed the door open and looked back at him, my arms folded and my ankles crossed. Head cocked to the side. I didn't miss a beat.

"Well, the last part is an exaggeration. But the subject of Travis's cock may have come up."

"Oh shit!" he blurted, moving to cover himself with the sheet.

"Why so bashful?" teased Lacey, trying to pull the sheet from his hands. "It's nothing either of us hasn't seen before. Right Peggy?

I rolled my eyes.

"So . . . ," said Travis, sitting upright and surveying the scene, once he recovered his composure. "What's the plan?"

"Take us dancing please?" said Lacey, pouting at him, and dropping her hand to his crotch. "Take us to Stereo Live!"

"That's in Houston."

"Please. Peggy wants to go."

"Really? But . . . I have to write my paper for Claire's class tonight. I REALLY do."

"Pleeeeeeeease Travis," she persisted, caressing him through the sheet. "The three of us can work on it together now. Before we go. Right Peggy?"

"I guess."

Travis could sense something in my tone.

"Listen Peggy, if you're really up for that then I'll do it. I'll fail Claire's class if that's what you really want."

It was almost comical how conflicted and desperate he looked.

By this point I was feeling guilty. I turned to Lacey. "Do you think Travis and I could talk alone for a few minutes?"

She narrowed her eyes at me, just for a beat, then shrugged her shoulders and strutted from the room.
"I'll leave you two love birds alone."

Travis and I laughed, nervously.

"So you really want to go to Houston?" asked Travis, once the door clicked shut.

"I guess. It could be fun to go dancing." I hesitated, remembering something that Lacey had told me. "Do you really have a beamer?"

"Yeah."

"And . . . Lacey said maybe we could get a hotel?" I asked, drifting toward the bed, almost unconsciously, and lying beside him.

"If you want."

"Yeah . . . and she said, maybe you'd rent us a suite . . . so we could have our privacy later."

"You want that?" he asked, stroking my face with the tips of his fingers, eyeing me, hungrily as always. It felt good to be wanted that way. And it felt good to be . . . pampered, I guess.

"Yeah," I told him. "I want a private room. For just the two of us."

"So you're not going to give me an FMF?"

"Sorry mister. Not my thing."

He took it in stride.

"Then what DO I get?" he asked, surveying me in my yoga clothes.

"I think you got plenty already."

"Yeah? What?"

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head.

I knew what he wanted. For me to tell him what I'd done to him. To remind him off the lines we'd crossed.

I reached for his hand, and moved it to my mouth, and then I wrapped my fingers around the base of his thumb and slid the plump, fleshy part inside my warm, wet mouth, swirling it with my tongue, my eyes meeting his.

"That was nice," he murmured. "But . . . you think it's worth a ride to Houston in the beamer, and a night at the club, and a night at a swank hotel?"

"Yeah," I told him, holding his gaze. I wrapped my lips tight around him, and sucked him deeper inside, and then deeper still, as deep as I could get him, gagging a little as my eyes went wide.

"That was VERY nice," he purred, brushing the bangs from my eyes to watch me. "But I don't know, suites in Houston can be pretty expensive. You really think it's an even trade?

"Yeah," I told him, swirling his tip with my tongue. "Especially the last part."

"I don't remember."

I shot him a look of disbelief.

"Really?"

"Really. Tell me."

"When you . . . finished." I told him, blushing, my head spinning. "You know." I cupped my breasts in my hands, through the loose tee shirt, and held them up to him to remind him.

"Oh that."

"Yeah, that."

"That was definitely worth a night in Houston."

Then he leaned in to kiss me, and we made it out for a while, and then he worked his hands beneath the hem of the shirt so he could play with my breasts, still caked with his cum. I guess I hadn't bothered to wash.

"God Travis. Don't you ever get enough?" I gasped into his mouth, the sparks shooting through me. But I could have asked myself the same question.

"Not of you I don't. You're the hottest thing ever."

Before long we heard a knock at the door. Lacey was standing there watching.

"So what's the plan?" she asked, as Travis and I composed ourselves.

"We can go to Houston tomorrow," said Travis. "But I have to finish my paper for Claire's class tonight if I'm going to have any chance of getting into a good law school."

PART THREE

After they left I ate a quick dinner of some leftover pasta, standing at the kitchen counter, and made a schedule for getting through the rest of my grading. If I gave ten minutes to each essay, with no exceptions, than I could be through an entire section of twenty students in two-and-a-half hours (allowing for breaks to stretch or pee or whatever) and then I could get through my three remaining sections by the end of the night. With a nice early start, and some good momentum (it was just past 4 p.m.) I could be finished by midnight, give or take, which wasn't terrible.

I wasn't looking forward to it. The piles and piles of shitty undergrad essays that the students didn't care about, and I didn't care about, and no one on god's green earth could possibly care about except maybe their mothers. But in a way I was glad to have something to focus on for the night.

Because as soon as Travis and Lacey walked out the door, maybe ten minutes before (Travis turning back to kiss me, full on the lips, while Lacey rolled her eyes and gagged: "You two are SO disgusting.") I'd been overwhelmed with a different kind of worry, churning in my stomach like poison: about my marriage, and what Matthew and Claire were doing in Los Angeles. I threw the rest of the pasta in the garbage, and the tupper ware in the sink, and then I marched to the study.

The grading was torture. The final essay topic was about the new policy on sexual consent at the university, and some of the students seemed like they hadn't learned a blessed thing in my class all semester. And even with the students who had some smart things to say, you could tell, somehow, that their hearts weren't in it. I couldn't blame them. It was a shitty required class that they were trying to grind through without destroying their GPA. I pictured Travis in his dorm room working on his psychology paper for Claire's class and wondered why I never seemed to inspire such passion.

So I decided to read Travis's essay—to treat myself—rifling through the piles to find it. I remember drifting to the twin bed and lying on my belly to read. And I remember that before long I stopped reading, distracted by the aroma that was still pouring off the sheets: a potent cocktail brewed of Travis's cologne, and sweat and semen interfused with the more delicate scent of my own secretions. I pressed my face into the sheets and took a long deep whiff, my head swimming.

When I'd gotten my fill I sat on my knees, my thoughts wandering, and realized that I could still smell his cum. I stuck my nose inside the neck of my t-shirt and took a long, deep whiff again. Jesus I was ripe! I stripped the sheets off the bed, and changed them, and then I headed to the shower, running the water as hot as possible and soaping myself carefully, every inch and crevice. I remember my stomach doing flips when I realized that I was . . . preparing myself for Travis. And I remember noticing that my breasts seemed fuller than normal, and that my nipples were sore, and my labia, and wondering, half-consciously, whether I was just sore from being fucked and sucked so hard all afternoon or if I was close to ovulating. I turned off the water and stood there quietly for a minute trying to collect my thoughts. I remembered the box of emergency contraceptive on the kitchen table.

I was headed to the kitchen to find the box of pills (just to read the instructions again to be sure) when I heard my phone ding in the study. It was an old friend from graduate school who I hadn't talked to in maybe a year. It seemed strange. I definitely didn't want to talk with her. But I had a bad feeling. So I scrolled through my message and saw a couple more texts from the same friend, from earlier in the evening. "Just saw Matthew and a friend at a bar near the conference. Are you in LA too? Call me." "Hey Peggy! Is everything okay with you and Matthew?" "Hey Peggy! Call me, okay. Matthew and his friend are acting . . . weird."

I could imagine the scene in vivid detail. Matthew and Claire flirting at the bar, post-coital maybe, or biding their time until later when they went up to her room to screw each other into ecstasy. I thought I might vomit.

I forwarded the text to Matthew with a short, sharp note. "Please be discreet!"

I was fuming mad. How could he be so careless? But then I started thinking. Was that really fair? Was I being discreet, with all the chances I'd been taking? What if someone recognized me at the frat party last night? What if someone saw me walking into his dorm room in my party dress? Or letting him into the faculty apartment this afternoon, when he followed me back from yoga? Or what if someone heard us together in the kitchen when I couldn't keep quiet and started piecing together the facts. That Matthew was out of town. That I'd just bumped into Travis's shoulder, hard, at the end of yoga class, and then stormed down the hall. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out who was having sex behind that door. I tried to remember if I had called out his name ('You like bouncing on my cock?' 'Yes.' 'You like being my little fuck doll?' 'Yes.'). I was almost positive I hadn't. Still, if someone had heard us, the voices wouldn't be difficult to recognize.

But it was the frat party that was the real problem. People must have been curious about the mystery woman. Like my cute composition student with the baseball hat who I let flirt with me a little, dancing close, and shimmying my chest and shoulders, even turning around for him and backing it up, before Travis 'claimed' me. What if he'd been hurt and jealous and started asking around? What if he'd recognized me somehow? The engagement ring on my finger?

Then the thought hit me square in the face. What if Travis . . . had bragged about it. I mean, Lacey had told me about the "Player's Club" contest, so what was to prevent Travis from 'collecting' from his stupid bros for bedding his married professor, multiple times, in multiple positions? That was sure to be worth TONS of points. How could he resist? How could I have been so stupid?

Then my phone rang. Lacey. Before I could think I picked it up.

"Hey. Do you have Snapchat?"

"Yes." I'd downloaded it a few weeks ago when I was experimenting with sexting Matthew to save our marriage. The thought of it depressed me.

"What's your address?"

I gave it to her.

"Hold tight. Imma add you."

Then she hung up. Two minutes later my phone dinged.

"What do you think?" read the message. "For the pool at the hotel?"

There were two snaps of Lacey in a bikini, one from the front and the other from the back. She looked MAD sexy. It had a leopard skin pattern, and it was blue, like her hair, and it was tinier than you can believe: just a strappy halter top with a high tie that accentuated her smallish but perky bust, and her delicate shoulders, and a strappy triangular bottom that barely covered her lady parts. It was as close as you can get to a thong without crossing the line, which made it that much sexier.

"Wow!" I texted.

"You think so?"

"I KNOW so."

I couldn't help feeling jealous, thinking of Travis seeing her in that at the pool. Why was she packing something so sexy anyway? Was she still holding out for a threesome? Or did she think that they were going to share him in a regular rotation or something? I thought about telling her about the exclusive arrangement. But then I remembered what I'd been thinking about before she texted! How could I have forgotten? I felt sick with worry again. And anger. So I picked up my phone and called her.

"Listen Lacey Imma ask you something and you have to SWEAR to be straight with me okay? No games."

"Okay."

"Did Travis tell his frat brothers that he had sex with me? Did he use me for points in that stupid fucking players club contest?"

"No Peggy! Why? Did something happen?"

"Like what?" I couldn't help noticing her nervousness that something might have gotten back to me, despite her emphatic denial.

"I don't know. It's just . . . you seem so upset. Did someone recognize you at the party?"

"No."

"Wheewwww, you scared me. So what's up then?"

"I don't know. I'm just tense I guess. But . . . why WOULDN'T he tell his frat brothers?"

"Because I told him not to, for starters."

"Really? When?"

"Before yoga class. I told him that it had to stay secret."

"Why?"

"Because of the 'lost weekend.' The whole point is that nobody can ever know, right? That's what gives you the . . . freedom."

"I guess."

"Anyway, I shouldn't have worried. You know what Travis said?"

"What?"

"He was . . . offended. As if he didn't know the difference between telling his brothers about some bubble-headed undergrad he'd bedded and his married professor! As if he didn't realize that you had things to lose, things that you loved."

I remembered saying those very words to Travis in his bedroom and felt gratified that he'd taken them to heart. Plus, it corroborated Lacey's story. How else could she know unless Travis had told her?

Lacey changed the subject.

"So have you started packing?"

"No. I've been too busy grading."

"Do you know what suit you're bringing? For the pool?"

"No," I told her, lying through my teeth.

"Well try one on and show me, dummy. Come on it will be fun!"

"No thanks."

"Such a good girl! Come on, I'll see it tomorrow anyway. What's the difference?"

The thing is, I wanted her opinion. I . . . trusted her about things like that. She always told the truth. Anyway, I've always been self-conscious about my "swim suit" body, ever since I was younger, and . . . heavier, before all that yoga. I remember my mom telling me one time that I needed to wear suits that were more "modest" to conceal my "chunky thighs."

So I grabbed the bikini from the closet and slid my arms through the straps of the top, jutting my chest out in the full length mirror when I reached behind me to fasten it, and then bending over and stepping my feet through the legs of the bottom. Then I stood there for a few seconds, contemplating the results.

I liked the earthy brown color against my tan shoulders and arms (my Sephardic roots mean that I'm on the dark side pretty much all year round) and the way the underwire top pushed my breasts up high and full on my chest, almost like one of those retro balconette bras like the ladies wear on Mad Men sometimes. And I liked how the cut of the bottom showed off my long, toned legs. But I worried that the high waist would seem too . . . matronly. Old-fashioned. I snapped a shot and sent it.

"Wow!"

"You sure?"

"Definitely."

"You don't think I look fat?"

"I don't know, Peggy." My stomach dropped when I heard the hesitation in her voice.

"That bad, huh?"

"Ha! Relax girlfriend. I don't know because you haven't sent me a picture from behind."

So I posed myself in the mirror, arching my back and sticking out my butt, and then I sent her the picture.

"Double Wow!!"

"Really?"

"Really! O my god. You won't make it out of the suite wearing that number. Travis will be ALL over you."

"Stop!" But I loved it.

"Count on it, girl. You look SO . . . sophisticated! It brings out your hot, little thirty-something wifey about to be the hottest MILF in town vibe. Travis will eat that shit up!"

"You think?" I laughed.

"O yeah! The cut is amazing on you. It really shows your curves. But with the shoulder-length hair it gives you that reluctant and vulnerable look that I KNOW drives him crazy about you, that whole prim professor with a wild streak just dying to be coaxed out of her."

I laughed.

"That whole loyal wife feeling tempted to cut loose, one last time, before the baby making starts."

Something about it bugged me.

"What's with the baby making stuff?" I snapped. "I'm not trying to get pregnant with Matthew. We aren't ready for that."

"Oh sorry. It's just . . . I imagine that's what frat guys think when they look at hot thirty-year-old married girls. Like they're always wondering if maybe they have a shot because she's looking to sow some wild oats before settling down for real, for keeps, and wouldn't that be amazing because women that age are just SO sexy. So kind of . . . fecund. You know what I mean?

"So I do look fat," I said, contemplating my figure in the full-length mirror.

"No! I'm just saying that when women hit thirty they have that liiiiiiiiiiitle bit extra. That . . . voluptuousness. It's like a sure physical sign that you're approaching your peak sexually, or your first one anyway, just at the moment that you're going 'off the market.' So for the guys it's the last chance to get a piece of you! It's like they can intuitively sense your . . . fitness. You know what I mean? Your reproductive fitness."

"I hardly think that college guys are thinking about my reproductive fitness. That's the last thing a frat guy would be thinking about. Right?"

"What? Putting a baby in your belly?"

"Lacey!"

"I'm not talking about what they think with their conscious minds. I'm talking about what they feel down deeper. Where they live. In the reptilian brain. What do they call it?"

"The amygdala."

"Yeah! You know what I learned in Claire's class this semester?"

"What?"

"That neuroscientists have discovered that the amygdala is connected directly through the spine to your genitals. Isn't that amazing? It's like when you feel aroused for sex you stop thinking. Consciously anyway. It's like the peripheral nervous system can function on it's own, independently of will or intention or rational decision making in the neocortex. Isn't that SO interesting?"

"I guess."

The conversation lulled, both of us lost in our thoughts. I was still in front of the full-length mirror in the suit. I remember admiring my full breasts in the bikini top, and then . . . sticking out my belly a little. It was something I'd been doing for the past few months. I'm not sure why.

"You know who you kind of look like?" asked Lacey.

"Who?"

"That girl from that old show about the movie star and his bros in Hollywood. What was it called?"

"Entourage?" That show wasn't old! Was it?

"Yeah. You look like Eric's girlfriend. What was her name . . . Sloane!"

"Emmanuele Chriqui? I wish."

"No I'm serious. You're the same height. What are you like 5' 3"?"

"About."

"Yeah and you're busty like her. What are you like 34C?"

"Yeah."

"Anyway, if you don't believe me ask Travis. He noticed first. That first day in class he said you looked exactly like Sloane from Entourage and you were the hottest woman he'd ever seen. I kind of hate Travis for scoring you. He's arrogant enough as it is. You know what would be evil?"

"What?"

"If you sent him the bikini shots. He would lose his mind. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on his essay at all."

"Better not, then," I said, not especially convincingly. The idea was not . . . uninteresting.

"Yeah. But it would serve him right."

"Why?"

"Because I texted him MY bikini shots and he didn't reply. The big jerk. I guess you're the alpha girl now. Number one in the rotation. But I would feel awful if he responded to yours after ignoring mine. Part of me wants to test him though, just so I can give him shit later. What do you say? It could be fun. For teasing him at the club tomorrow."

I considered it for a few beats, posing in the mirror.

"I don't think so."

"Okay. But I'm sending you his address, in case you change your mind."

My phone dinged. Like always, Lacey was content to plant the seed.

I drifted to the bed and started skimming Travis's essay again, on my belly with my knees bent, ankles crossed, still wearing the bikini.

The essay was smart, like I'd expected. Other than Lacy's it was probably the smartest in the class. But I couldn't help thinking that he was going through the motions, when we wrote it, rehearsing the arguments that we'd worked through in class, rather than really . . . engaging with the question, and when I thought of him back in his dorm room throwing himself into his paper for Claire (about the benefits of teacher-student sex, for both mental and physical health and for improved "learning outcomes") I couldn't help feeling bad about myself. It didn't take too much to bring me down those days. It was obvious that Travis wasn't giving me his all, as a student anyway. That he wasn't completely. . . present.

The prose was nowhere near as lively and sharp as the writing he did for the online fraternity magazine, for instance. Or was I just being over-sensitive? It's my great flaw as a teacher. I drifted over to the desk and opened the browser to Travis's author page, scrolling through the titles for one that looked interesting. Just to compare the style with his paper for my class. It didn't take me long to find one: "How to be My Best Girl." I clicked on it without even thinking.
As soon as I started reading I rolled my eyes. It might as well have been called, "How to Give Me an Amazing Blow Job." That was the joke. Get it? If you want to be my best girl then be the best at sucking my cock.

It was basically a list of "helpful suggestions" for the best times of day to suck his cock (pretty much any time) and the best places to suck his cock (pretty much any place, but preferably somewhere semi-public) and of the best techniques for pleasuring him with your mouth.

My reactions were strange. Some of the items on the list really pissed me off, at first, like: "4. Have short hair (because it looks confident and sophisticated, and so I can see your face better you when you suck my cock)," or, "5. Wear special jewelry (because you look beautiful when you wear it, and classy, and because it reminds me how much your boyfriend loves you while you suck my cock)."

But the thing is, I knew what he meant about the short hair. The eye contact had been electric between us. I LOVED being watched by him so closely while I did all the things he loved best, instinctively. I skimmed through the list of techniques, feeling . . . prouder by the second. There's no other word for it. "10. Give me those dreamy eyes while you slurp my crown. 11. Lick my balls, slow and sensual, like scoops of ice cream on a hot summer day. 12. Gag a little (but just a little) when you take me deeper than your boyfriend goes." That kind of thing.

And I loved being able to watch him too, to gage his reactions. It was like the first time I felt like I had any . . . power over him when we were in bed together. It was all over his face how crazy I was driving him. He couldn't hide it, or control it, like he usually did, looking so smug and cool. I could push him to the edge, and even just over the edge, and then back off in the nick of time, over and over, prolonging his pleasure. "Awwww Peggy," when I nuzzled my face into his jewels, my nose in his curls, caressing his testicles with my lips and tongue. "Awww Peggy," when I wrapped my lips around his shaft, tight and hot. "Awwww Peggy," when I opened the back of my throat, letting my eyes go wide, looking up at him, his fingers tangled through my locks.

And I knew what he meant about the jewelry too. How crazy it made him when I twisted my hand, just so, and the sunlight glinted off the sapphire of my engagement ring, his eyes transfixed. Every time it happened he pulsed in my hand, or in my mouth, feeling harder and fatter and hotter, and when I looked up at him his jaw was unhinged and his eyes were glazed, drunk with pleasure. I felt a rush of satisfaction. "You like my ring?" I asked, tonguing the underside of his glans, my hand wrapped tight to his base, squeezing him. He nodded, staggering backward a little (he was standing at the foot of the bed and I was on hands and knees on the mattress). I started playing with him, enjoying my . . . control, turning my wrist to make the sapphire blaze brighter as his hands went to the back of my skull and I opened wider for him, sliding my lips down his length.

The only part of the article that made me feel . . . disappointed was: "20. Dress for the occasion (lipstick on your pretty mouth, and eye-shadow for your beautiful eyes, and something silky or lacey on your gorgeous breasts). I hadn't been wearing anything at all! Not that Travis seemed to mind, especially when we reached the end of the list ("25. Let me finish somewhere special"). I remembered holding my breasts up to him with my forearm while I stroked his length, admiringly, twisting my hand on his knob, glistening with my saliva, while Travis leaned backward and groaned. "Awwwwww Peggy, awwwwwwww fuck that's hot."

I drifted to the closet, absent-mindedly, and started sifting through my special things. I didn't have many, and none of them seemed right. But then I remembered a bra and panty set that Matthew had bought me for my birthday the year before and that I'd never really worn for him, for some reason. It's like with the condoms. It's one of those things that we always mean to put on before sex, but then skip over when the time comes.

I tried them on, posing in the mirror, wondering if Travis would like them. I had a feeling he would. They were black, with semi-sheer lace, and the cut of the low-rise panties (kind of square like boy shorts) really flattered my hips, just a hint of pubic hair visible through the fabric. And from the back they were VERY cheeky, the lace up detail adding a flirty touch. The bra pushed my breasts up nice and high, with LOTS of cleavage, my nipples dark through the dark mesh. I pictured myself on my back with Travis looming over me, all smug and self-satisfied that I'd "dressed for the occasion."

I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to decide on lipstick, when my phone dinged. Instagram. It was two snaps of Lacey in a club dress, one from the front and one from the back. Two seconds later she called.

"What do you think?"

"Sexy."

"Thanks. How's the grading coming?"

"I'm taking a break. I've been trying on . . . outfits."

She could hear something in my voice.

"Sexy time outfits?"

"Maybe."

"O my god! Show me!"

"I don't think so"

"Oh come on. If you're not going to let me join you for a threesome then you can at least give me some material to fantasize with while I'm alone in my bed tomorrow night."

"Maybe you'll meet someone at the club."

"Are you saying I'm a slut?"

"No . . . I'm just saying you're . . . a very pretty girl."

"Awwwww! Anyway, you're probably right. I get hit on like mad every time I go to that club. Plus, with Travis being . . . preoccupied lately, and the stress of finals and graduation, I am INSANE for cock. It's hard to find someone in Travis's league though. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I kind of do."

"You gunna show me the sexy time outfit?"

She always knew how to soften me up. So I snapped some pictures and sent them.

"Triple wow to infinity!"

"You think?"

"Yassssss girl. I don't even have a dick and I have an erection right now."

I laughed.

"What brought this on?"

"What?"

"Dressing up for Travis."

"I don't know . . . something I was reading."

"What?"

"One of Travis's articles. The one about 'How to Be My Best Girl.'"

"You mean the one about how to smoke his johnson?"

I laughed.

"So that's the plan, huh? You gun wear that to the club, under your party dress, and then strip to your special things at the hotel afterward, and then suck his cock, just to get things rolling?"

It sounded a little tawdry the way she described it, but jesus it turned me on.

"I hadn't worked out the details yet, but, yeah, I guess that's the plan."

"Sometimes I really do hate that boy."

Just then my phone rang. It was Travis. I said goodbye to Lacey ("Seriously? You're dropping me?") and answered it.

"Can you come over?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Because I need help with this essay. I don't know if it's any good."

"I can't come over! What if someone sees me?"

"Can I come over to your place then?"

"I have papers to grade."

"Please Peggy I'm begging you. I'm in deep shit here."

"Just make sure no one sees you."

I regretted it instantly. But it seemed like as soon as I hung up the phone I heard a knock at the door. Shit I thought to myself. I grabbed the first thing I saw in the closet (my trusty TEXAS hoodie with the zipper in the front and some cotton shorty shorts) and threw them on. When I opened the door Travis was standing there in a baseball hat and shades.

"Get in," I whispered, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him into the kitchen.

"Did anyone see you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Then . . . have a seat and let's get started." I motioned to the kitchen table, where we usually sat to work on his essays.

He eyed me curiously, removing the hat and shades and setting them carefully on the counter. I could practically feel his gaze burning through the hoodie. It was like he knew, somehow, with that alpha male, frat boy intuition—that "spidey sense" for female arousal—that I was wearing something interesting underneath. I felt my stomach drop and my nipples stiffen.

"How about we sit somewhere more comfortable," he said, his eyes scanning the length of my zipper. "Maybe the couch?" he suggested, motioning his head toward the living room. "Maybe we could . . . unwind a little before we get to work."

I couldn't help noticing his outfit. A v-neck striped tank top that showed lots of shoulder and neck, and some jean shorts cut at the knee, and snug at the hips. Flip flops. Leather.

"I don't know, Travis," I said, my eyes lingering on his feet for some reason (I kind of loved his toes). "I don't think I want to have sex here. In my house. It's too weird, you know? Maybe I can figure out a way to come to your room later, after we're both done with work."

"Sounds nice," he purred. "But no promises. I'm feeling kind of tapped out and sore, to be honest. I'm not sure I can keep up with you!"

I laughed, watching his face relax. Those deep brown eyes beneath that heavy brow.

"That's okay. I'm a little sore myself. I guess we can sit on the couch."

"How about a beer?"

So he sat on the couch and drank his beer, watching me closely, while I read through his essay, his eyes boring through the hoodie and shorts. I could tell he was dying of curiosity.

The essay was quite good. He'd done his homework and I was impressed. He had lots of smart things to say about the psychological benefits of having sex with a new partner (how it releases some of the same hormones as taking an anti-depressant), and about some interesting studies that showed the connection between positive learning outcomes and students feeling attracted to their teacher, and then he concluded with a historical survey of ancient Greece and the importance of teacher-student sex for the development of western philosophy.

"It's REALLY good, Travis!" I said, over the tops of my cat eye reading glasses. I was facing him on the couch, with my knees up, and my feet on the cushions, almost touching his thighs.

"You think so?" he asked, meeting my gaze. But I knew where he'd been looking. Through the gap in my shorty shorts. Peering into the shadows.

"Yeah," I answered, trying to play it cool. But my heart was racing. From the glint in his eye I had a pretty good idea that he'd seen what I was wearing underneath. The hint of black lace. "Claire will be very impressed."

"Wheeeewwwww," he sighed. "That's a big relief. It's hard to tell sometimes if your own writing's any good, you know?

I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.

He took a long swig of his beer, and then swallowed it, exhaling slowly, his eyes scanning my legs. I don't know why it made me feel so nervous, but it did. It was like I was embarrassed for him to know what I'd been doing in the bedroom before he came. "Dressing for the occasion." The occasion of letting him fuck me to oblivion.

"I'm beat," he sighed, yawning, stretching his long brown arms. "Feel like watching a movie?"

"Ha, ha!"

"What?"

"Lacey told me what it means when a frat guy asks you to watch a movie."

"What does it mean?"

"It means do you want to watch the credits of some shitty Netflix show and then 'bang' on the couch."

"So do you want to?" he asked, his brown eyes flashing.

"I thought you were 'tapped out?'"

"I was," he said, scanning the letters on my hoodie, left to right, slow as he liked. My back was resting against the arm of the sofa in a way that made my chest push forward.

"I don't know, Travis. It's like I said. It's . . . weird having sex with you here."

He nodded.

"How about I finish my grading and then come to your room later, when the halls are quiet?"

"Sounds good. How long, you think?"

"Maybe a couple hours."

He nodded.

"Then how about a little shoulder rub? Your neck looks a little tight from hunching over those essays all evening."

He wasn't wrong. I had a knot between my shoulders blades the size of a golf ball. And I remember noticing that my . . . chest seemed tight as well. Or not my chest, exactly, but more my . . . throat, I guess. I'd been reading about the chakras lately so I knew it was a problem area for me. The Visshudha. The gateway to true communication. My yoga instructor back at Stanford had given me some breathing exercises and such to help balance and open the area, so I could "speak my inner truth."

"Okay," I agreed, flushing, though I knew it was ridiculous. I mean, I was sitting with a guy who had seen my naked and sweaty, in full light, from pretty much every angle imaginable in the last 24 hours.

"Come sit on the rug," he said, motioning to the space between his feet.

So I did.

His hands were wonderful. Strong and supple and precise. It took him no time at all to find the little pressure points along the vertebra of my neck. Those spots near the tops of my shoulders, two finger widths out from the base of my neck, his fingers pressing, and pressing, and circling, until they finally released. And those spots in the hollow underneath the base of my skull, softening beneath his fingers, my head lolling backward.

"Feel good?"

"Mmmm hmmmmm."

"How 'bout we open this a little, then" he murmured, his fingers at the zipper of my hoodie. "So I can work the shoulder blades."

"No, Travis!" I blurted, my stomach tightening. Why did it feel like such a . . . transgression to let him see me in my 'special things'? Like such a . . . submission to let him know how excited I'd been thinking about the things we would do together in the suite? The ways I planned to repay him.

"Shhhhh, Pegggy. Shhhhhhhh. Just a little."

The zipper sliding down, tooth by tooth, to the middle of my sternum.

"There we go," he purred, his thumbs sliding deeper, tracing the edges of my shoulder blades, my head lolling forward as the tension released. My shoulders felt small and delicate in his hands. With his thumbs on my shoulder blades the tips of his fingers could still work the ridge of my collarbone, that hollow space beneath the adam's apple where the tightness had gathered, somehow, loosening at his touch.

"Can I ask you something?"

His breath wwarm in my ear. I nodded.

"How come you don't want to show me?"

"Show you what?"

My stomach doing flips as his scent hit me.

"Relax, Peggy. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"What?" I asked, his thumbs pressing deeper.

He leaned forward further, his lips at my ear.

"Dressing up for me," he whispered, the gooseflesh rising on my chest.

"Unngh," I groaned, his thumbs probing deeper still.

"Are you wearing something special for me?"

His fingers at the zipper again, sliding it to my naval.

I nodded.

"Something you want to show me?"

The zipper opening as I nodded again.

"That's my girl," he crooned, sliding the hoodie from my shoulders, his hands pressing them firmly, but still gently somehow, turning me toward him, on my knees on the rug.

"Awwwww Peggy," he groaned, his eyes devouring the lace, his fingers tracing the edges of my collarbone.

"You trying to be my best girl?" he asked, working his fingers through my locks.

I nodded, looking up at him, reclining on the sofa, so sure of himself. I watched him peel the tank top from his torso and then lean back and then I watched him smile with satisfaction as my eyes glided over his body, the silver chain bright against the bronze of his chest, the blue stone framed in the crevice between his pectorals. My hand went to him, flat and wide on the ridges of his abdomen.

"That's my girl," he told me, working his button and fly with one hand while his other hand massaged the back of my skull, my nostrils flaring as his shorts opened and I caught his scent.

"That's my girl," he told me again, sliding the shorts to the rug, his cock springing into view, curved and pink.

"That's my girl," he told me, one last time, guiding my face toward his lap with one hand while the other hand held his cock by the root, angling it to my lips.

"Awwwwww Peggy," he groaned, as I licked my lips, and parted them slightly, and let his spongy crown slide slowly between them, meeting it with my tongue, caressing his tip with my tip, his sweet saltiness suffusing my palette.

"Awwww Peggy, he groaned again, as I slurped his crown, giving him those dreamy eyes, like his best girl should.

Because that's what I wanted to be. That's what I wanted him to feel and think: that I was the girl who pleased him best. I wrapped my fingers around his shaft, and squeezed it gently, and then I brought my nose to his jewels, breathing in deeply, savoring his aroma, and then I pressed my tongue against them softly, licking them from top to bottom, hanging there so round and full, one and then the other, like scoops of ice cream.

"Awwwww jesus that's hot."

Smiling inside. Glowing with satisfaction.

The effect was strange. It was like the more I smelled, and tasted, and sipped him—pressing my nose to his curls and inhaling greedily, coating my tongue with the sweat from his jewels, slurping his precum as he bubbled over—the more I wasn't doing it for Travis any more. The more I was doing it for my own pleasure.

It was something about his intoxicating scent, pouring off him as his excitement rose. And it was something about his distinctive taste, raw and musky in my mouth.

It was like as soon as I smelled him, and tasted him, I remembered . . . whose cock this was. What it had done to me in the guest room. How hard it made me cum. It was like as soon as I sensed his aroma on my lips, tight to his shaft, and on my tongue, gliding along his underside, and in the back of my throat, I knew: THIS is the cock. THIS is the guy who pleased me. My mouth exploring every ridge and crevice, slow and deliberate, every fold of his skin, watching him closely to see what pleased him best.

And it was something about his heat in my throat whenever my tongue pleasured him in some new way that made him lose control, his pelvis rising from the couch, thrusting toward me slightly, his stomach tensing beneath my hand.

I closed my eyes and pictured his heat, emanating from his crown in big, bright waves as my throat opened for him just a liiiiiiiiiiitle wider, and a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiitle deeper, my eyes studying his eyes, contemplating my effect.

I don't know how long I pleasured him with my mouth that way, letting his cock thrill through my throat. Enjoying him. The firmness and width and warmth of his meat in my mouth as the blood coursed through him, throbbing from my ministrations. The sweet saltiness of his oils, leaking profusely from his glans. The heaviness of his testicles as I circled them in my palm. The rich brown of his eyes, glazing over. The sharp cut of his jaw, hanging open as I pushed him to the edge and then pulled back and then pushed again. Over and over. Longer and fatter and hotter in my mouth with every long, slow, delirious plunge of my lips, the minutes gliding past.

And then it happened. Then the tight space at the base of my throat started to loosen and open. Unfolding like the petals of a flower. The energy flowing.

"Awwww Peggy," when I breathed out hard through my nose, pressed tight and hot to his pubes, my lips sealing his base.

"Awww Peggy," when I gagged for him (just a little) my eyes wide, glistening with tears.

"Awww Peggy," when I circled his jewels in my palm, and my throat opened, and his crown pushed deeper than any of my boyfriends had ever probed me, past the barrier in my mind, not gagging anymore, somehow, my eyes glazed with pleasure, Travis's jaw unhinging.

"Awwwww fuck that's hot."

Surrendering my throat to his penetration. Yearning for it. His crown pressing some secret place in the back of my throat. Slow fucking my hot, wet throat. His hands holding my head in place. Not forcing me. Just guiding his length down the back of my throat.
I closed my eyes and felt his heat pulsing inside me, breathing deep into my belly, his fingers clenched in my hair, yielding control to me with every flick of my tongue so I could use him with my mouth. Sucking him for MY pleasure.

"Awwwwwwwww fuck me."

And then something else happened. Whatever it was. It was like the length of his cock reached straight down my throat—the heat and light of it—and straight down my esophagus too, and straight down the base of my spine, spreading through my loins, permeating my sex, my clitoris bursting against the lace, blossoming with heat and blood.

My uvula thrumming. Vibrating. My throat . . . cumming on him. Somehow. The waves of saliva pouring over him like a fountain, and the waves of bliss expanding in concentric circles from the spot where his crown pressed my throat, from the top of my head to the soles of my feet and all through my quivering limbs. Not thinking. Not worrying. My mouth overflowing. My drool bathing his plums, still cupped in my palm, retracting into his body as I pushed him to the edge. Not worrying how it looked.

"So fucking beautiful!"

My body shaking all over. The tears streaming down my face. The breath forced from my nose in hot, hard gasps. The pleasure flooding my brain. Every cell of my body.

Then I was limp on the rug and Travis was pulling me to my feet, still seated on the couch.

"So fucking beautiful," he told me, sliding the shorts from my hips, the black lace panties easing into view, my knees wobbling.

"Is that my pretty little pussy all wrapped up for me?" he asked, pressing it with his thumb, plumb and red, still quivering, my body still quaking.

I nodded.

"You gonna sit on my lap like a good girl?"

I nodded.

"You gonna show me what you can do with that pretty little pussy?"

I nodded again, straddling him with my knees as he pulled the lace panties to the side and guided his crown to my opening.

"So beautiful," he purred, holding himself in place as I circled my lips against him, glossing me with his clear oils as they leaked from his opening.

That glow of satisfaction, letting his bulb probe deeper, pushing his oils inside me. Stirring my shallows as we delayed the moment that we both loved best. The moment when I let myself go, and gravity took over, and his cock plunged me to the depths of my being.

It fascinated me how lewd it looked. His full length sliding slowly inside me, and then slowly back out again, glazed with my juices, the black lace panties still covering my crotch, but slid to the side to open my pussy for his pleasure, my warm, wet lips, flushed with blood.

"Unnnngh Travis," as he slid the cups of the bra over my heavy breasts and then his mouth found my nipples.

"Unnngh Travis," as his big hands covered the width of my backside, spreading me wider.

"Unnngh Travis," as I let myself go, the breath rushing from me, impaled on his cock, and then raising myself, and thrusting myself down on him, faster and faster, determined to please him, eager for his cum.

"Awwww Peggy," as he thrust his cock up to meet me, timing it with my plunge, the force of it making both of us grunt, lewdly, laughing as the pleasure mounted, and as the slapping of flesh grew louder, and as his balls pulled tight to my cheeks as I held him deep inside.

"Shhhhhhh Peggy, shhhhhhh," as he slowed down the tempo. As I . . . danced for him in his lap. Swirling my pelvis. My sex basting him.

"You like it the other way?"

"Huh?" Dancing for him in black lace. Dancing on the head of his cock, probing my spongy depths.

"You ever turn around and dance with your back to the guy?"

"I don't know," I grunted, swirling for him, my breasts level with his mouth. "I don't remember."

"Well you're gonna remember this," he told me, turning me the way he wanted.

And he was right. I do remember. I remember every detail of the next ten minutes while we practiced 'reverse cowgirl' together for the first time, and definitely not the last. The new angle. The curve of his shaft strumming me like a bow along the front of my pussy, bright with nerves. The plunge of his crown as it arched backward toward the small of my back. Toward my sacrum. Opening me in new ways.

And then there was nothing but the slurping sound of cock and pussy and delirious pleasure as I danced for him with my hips, and pelvis, and with my full, womanly backside that I knew he could never get enough of. Picturing how it looked to him as it thrust and bobbed and jiggled for him in the black lace that I'd worn to please him. Giving him what he'd . . . paid for. What he'd bought with the promise he'd made me: the club and the suite and the ride in his Beamer. Slurping and sucking and gasping together, my arms shaking as I clutched his knees for support.

And then there was nothing but his beautiful hand sliding the lace panties to the side in a new way, exposing my crevice, and his beautiful finger circling my rose, slippery with lube (he must have stashed it nearby). And then there was nothing but the feeling of my rose being stretched by his finger, as he held it there for me, and as my backside engulfed it, millimeter by ecstatic millimeter, entering me to the knuckle.

"Shhhhh, Peggy. Shhhhhhh," as I tightened with fear.

"Be gentle."

"It's okay, Peggy. Just take it slow."

So I did.

I slow danced for him. For both of us. His cock stretching me, and my backside opening for his finger, inviting it deeper, and deeper, and deeper still, and the waves of ecstatic pleasure radiating from a point as deep inside me as it was possible to be, between the mushroom head of his glorious cock (ALL of it inside me) and the broad bulb of his middle finger (ALL of it inside me) and the current was flowing between them and electrifying my core, the energy coursing through me, bright and hot at the center of my being, until the current was too much and my brain went white, and my nerves went white all through my limbs, and I was shaking like a demon and there was nothing but the spot between my pussy and my anus that nothing could ever reach, physically, but that Travis was still touching somehow, throbbing like a second heart, deeper down, at the root of me.

"Unnnnngh Travis. Unnnnngh fuck me."

And then we were pulsing with light.

PART FOUR

The next thing I remember Travis and I were on our backs on the bed in the guest room, still naked, the sheets thrown to the floor. He must have carried me there and undressed me. I'm not sure why.

"Did you come?" I asked, when I came to my senses, still catching my breath, my breasts heaving.

"Huh?" he replied, from the edge of sleep.

"Just now. Did you come inside me?"

He turned his face to my face and eyed me. Then he shook his head, his chest still heaving too.

"Do you want to cum?" I asked him, rolling to my side, my hand moving to his abdomen, shiny with sweat, sliding downward slowly.

He shook his head again, perusing my body drunkenly.

"You sure?" I asked, my hand on his cock, sticky now, but still semi-hard.

"Yeah. I'm not cut out like you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I can't keep cumming over and over and over like that. Jesus you're on fire! How many orgasms have you had today anyway?"

"Don't tease me!"

"But I like teasing you."

We kissed for a while, and I caressed his plums, and pretty soon he was hard again.

"Sure I can't do anything for you?"

"Just keep doing that."

So I did.

We drifted away for a while, our bodies relaxed and open. I remember the sound of crickets and cicadas chanting in the big oak trees outside the window, on the quad, and the sound of the speakers from some party somewhere, pounding and pulsing, and the sound of kids flirting and laughing on the grass. It was like the whole atmosphere was drenched with sex, with the desire and promise and memory of it.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah."

"Promise you won't get a big ego?"

He nodded.

"Is it like this with all the girls?"

"What?"

"Do they all . . . finish so many times. You know: 'over and over and over.'"

He laughed. "Gentlemen don't tell."

"O come on! I've talked with Lacey about it plenty."

"During your interviews?"

I nodded.

"Look," he sighed, rolling to his back, his arm still holding me as I curled toward him, massaging his jewels, not even thinking about it. "Are you asking if girls usually cum when I have sex with them? Yeah. Pretty much. And from what I've gathered most of them tend to cum a little harder, and maybe a little more often, than they do with the other guys they've been with. That's what I've been told. I'm not bragging about it. I'm just answering your question. And, yeah, for a few of them it was the first time they came, EVER, and that's cool, and for a few more than that it was the first time they came from another person, and for more than a few it was the first time they ever came from, you know, penetration."

"Does that always happen?"

"Not always. But . . . more often than not, for sure. Look. I don't understand it either. It's like a . . . gift I have."

We both laughed.

"Didn't I say something about not getting a big ego?"

I'm not, though. I'm just saying. That's something that tends to happen when I have sex with a girl. And that's . . . cool. You know? Sometimes I read those statistics about how only 25% of women can orgasm from vaginal penetration and I think, that's a damn shame, and sometimes I think I'm just doing my part to make the planet a happier and more equal place."

"Such a good Samaritan!"

"Now you're teasing me!"

"A little."

"But are you asking me if today is typical?" he continued, turning to survey me. "No way. I mean, there's usually a little sex bender at the beginning of a . . . relationship, you know?"

He eyed me, realizing his slip of the tongue. I nodded, smiling to reassure him. "Relationship" was as good a word as any to describe what was happening between us. When you think about it, we'd gone further together already, physically at least, than with most of the long-terms boyfriends I'd had, maybe with any of them except Matthew.

"But not like this," he continued, brushing my nipples with the back of his hand, the gooseflesh rising as the breeze blew in off the quad. It must have been past curfew because all of the sudden I noticed that the party music had stopped and all I could hear now was the sound of chanting insects and low voices outside the window, just couples murmuring to each other on the way home for the night, flirting with each other, lingering on the brink of sex.

"It's never been like this," he said, laying it on thick. "THIS is something else."

"What?"

"THIS," he said, gesturing his hand down the length of my body, all the way to my toes, and then back again, slowly, to the crown of my head.

"Jesus you're fucking hot!"

"Travis!"

I squirmed away from him as he moved to pull me closer, ticking my ribs, my breasts jiggling as I slipped from his grasp.

"Sorry, sorry, but it's true Peggy. You make my balls ache every time I look at you."

He got a funny look in his eyes. I was on my back now and he was leaning over me, surveying my torso, stroking me with the tips of his fingers from my naval to my ribs to my collarbone and throat and then back down again, with the backs of his fingers, admiring the view.

"You know what you are?"

I shook my head.

He leaned in close to my ear, his voice deep and husky.

"A little fuck doll," he purred, his nails raking my curls, his fingertips teasing my sex.

"Unnngh Travis," I gasped, my legs spreading unconsciously.

"O my god, are you wet AGAIN," he teased. "You really are my little fuck doll aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Good," he said, tracing the outline of my breasts. "You know what they'd call you at the frat house?"

I shook my head again, biting my lip.

"A short stack," he told me, cupping my breast from below. "A shorty booty," he told me, rolling me to my stomach and slapping me, playfully.

"Travis!"

"They were crazy for you at the party, let me tell you. When you were shaking this for me. They all wanted a taste."

"Unnnngh."

We made out for a while. I thought we were going to fuck again but I guess we were both too tired, or Travis was anyway.

"So why is the sex so good between us?" I asked. "The . . . chemistry."

"Kinsey says it has to do with the 'genital prime.'"

"You've read Kinsey?"

"Yeah, in Claire's class. It was super interesting."

"Which part?"

"The part about sexual hormones, for starters. I mean, according to him we're both at peak supply. Testosterone peaks at age eighteen for men, and women's estrogen hits its high point in the late twenties."

"Then I'm past my peak."

"Huh?"

"I'm thirty. "

"But that's the thing! It's not just about the genital peak. It's about the sexual peak too! Hormonally speaking, you're still very close to your genital peak, so your body is close to maximum responsiveness. But your sexual peak has more to do with . . . who you are as a person. Where you are in life. That's what I noticed about you right from the start. Not just how hot you are. How . . . confident and everything."

"So what about you? Is this your sexual peak?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know . . . I don't think I'm like other guys."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I know this will sound weird. Egotistical maybe. But . . . well, Claire said I'm an 'alpha in the making.'"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, the way she explained it, it means that I have a set of physical traits (like high testosterone) and mental characteristics (like confidence and focus) that make women . . . respond to me, despite their social roles. That make then want to be . . . dominated by me."

"When did she tell you that?" I asked, my stomach tightening. I didn't like having Claire in 'our' bedroom all of the sudden.

"When she . . . watched me have sex with Lacey. Afterward, when we were all chilling on the bed."

I nodded.

"Does that bother you?"

"Not really. Lacey told me at the frat party."

He nodded.

I saw his thoughts drifting. I didn't want them to.

"So is that why I can't stop cumming on your cock?" I asked, still massaging him leisurely. "Because you're an alpha male with high testosterone?"

We kissed for a while. But he still seemed distracted.

"What is it?"

"Look, there's something I should tell you. Something that Lacey doesn't know because I . . . promised to keep it a secret."

"I'm listening."

"It wasn't just watching with Claire."

"What was it, then?" I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"I had sex with her."

"When?" I could barely breathe.

"A week or so after she watched me with Lacey. She called me up one night. Her . . . boyfriend was in town. She invited me to her place."

"And?"

He shrugged.

"Things got a little crazy."

"What kind of crazy?"

"I mean . . . well, I already told you we had sex. And, it was kind of crazy because . . . her boyfriend watched."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"He watched you fuck Claire?"

Travis nodded, eyeing me apprehensively."

By this point I felt more . . . curious than upset. I remember thinking how odd that was.

"Did he like it?"

"I guess so. I mean, I left right after I . . . finished with Claire. I don't think either of them noticed. They were ALL over each other."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"And what about you? Did you like it?"

"It was hot, yeah. But, it was . . . weird too."

Part of me wanted the details and part of me didn't. In the end I couldn't resist.

"Weird how?"

"I don't know. Look," he sighed, taking a deep breath and then exhaling in a rush. "It's just . . . weird when you're fucking another guy's girlfriend, and she's cumming on your cock and telling you what a stud you are. It is Just. Plain. Weird."

I laughed.

"Had they done that kind of thing before?"

"No. At least that's what Claire said. And I believe her. The atmosphere was so . . . tense."

It was all so hard to process. I lay on my back, thoughts racing. Is that what Claire saw in Matthew? An alpha male in the making, like Travis, but old enough and smart enough to be boyfriend material? The best of both worlds? Maybe husband material? Was that the moment when she'd turned her sights on Matthew? When her boyfriend watched Travis dominate her in her bed? Had that . . . changed something in their relationship? Had it made her respect him less, or maybe vice versa?

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, turning on my side to face him.

"Because I want things to be clean and simple between us. No games."

I nodded.

"And because it seems only fair. Claire hasn't exactly been honest with you so I don't mind spilling some of her secrets."

I nodded again.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"Based on your . . . 'experience' with Claire," I began, feeling a flash of jealousy and anger, "what do you think she and Matthew are doing right now?"

He thought about it for a while.

"Peggy, Imma be honest. With that lady, I have NO idea."

We both rolled to our backs, laughing, staring vacantly at the ceiling, and then we stayed quiet for a while, the cicadas and crickets chanting in the trees, and the couples flirting on the quad. The temperature was dropping so Travis pulled the sheet over our bodies.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Sure."

"Earlier today when I . . . finished inside you, and you said you'd . . . take care of it. What does that mean?"

I rolled toward him.

"It means that I'll take precautions. To avoid getting pregnant."

"So you're not on the pill? For real?"

I shook my head.

He nodded. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Okay."

"Why aren't you? Are you and Matthew trying to get pregnant?"

"No," I sighed, feeling my stomach muscles clench, and exhaling forcibly to relax them, the way I'd learned in yoga. "It was just this mind body yoga program I followed, for rebalancing the hormones. Women go through a lot of changes in their late twenties, and I just wanted . . . my body to adjust. You know?"

He nodded, flashing his eyes.

"I do know, and I LIKE the changes."

"Travis I'm being serious!"

"Sorry. Sorry. So . . . did it work?"

"Yeah . . . It's like you said. I feel . . . energized. Inspired. Like I'm at my peak."

Travis paused, considering.

"So what do you and Matthew normally use then? For protection."

I sighed, shaking my head. "We don't use anything. We always mean to use rubbers, but, we both hate those things, and we usually just end up . . . ," I remembered the expression from my talk with Lacey, "we usually end up 'hitting it raw.'"

"Really? That's kind of hot!"

"O my god you are just like Lacey! No wonder the two of you get along so well."

"Sorry, but it is. You and Matthew losing control like that. Giving in to biology."

I turned away from him, reflecting. I knew what he meant. I felt free and open and before I knew it I was saying more than I intended.

"I guess that's why I . . .," there was no point beating around the bush, "I guess that's why I 'hit it raw' with you, that first time in your room. It seemed . . . natural. I didn't even think about it."

He nodded.

"And then today after yoga you . . . surprised me. I didn't think we would fuck, honestly, and by the time it was happening I kind of lost my head. Matthew has been cumming inside me lately and I guess. . . that felt natural too."

"So what are you going to do?"

I told him about the emergency contraception. He looked relieved.

"Don't worry." I teased, turning to him and trailing my fingers down his sternum and abdomen. "I'm not trying to trap you into marriage or anything . . . use you for your potent sperm."

He laughed.

"No, it's not that. It's just that I feel bad. I thought you had it covered."
"Well, I do have it covered," I said, kissing his chest to reassure him.

"So what are you saying . . . that we're covered for the rest of the weekend?"

I nodded.

"Sound good?" I asked, watching his heart beat faster through his ribcage.

"Yeah . . . I mean, I hate rubbers too!"

We both laughed. Then he pushed his luck.

"Especially with a pussy like yours," he blurted, rolling me to my back.

"Travis!"

"Sorry, sorry Peggy. But it's true. You are MAD tight."

"Travis!"

"And when you start moving that pussy, and that ass? DAMN. You are SUCH a little fuck doll. You drive me wild! It's like you seem all cool and sassy and unapproachable on the outside but when a guy gets you on your back on the mattress, in your . . . natural habitat? BOOM. You are the hottest little fuck doll ever."

We made out for a few minutes, the tips of my fingers tugging at his foreskin, almost absent-mindedly.

"You're pretty hot too," I told him." But listen. Its probably better if we . . .," I searched for the right way to say it, ". . . if we cool it with the creampies, okay stud? Since you're an 'alpha in the making' with high testosterone. There's no sense in tempting fate, right?

"Right."

I had almost drifted to sleep when Travis woke me, murmuring dreamily.

"Do you want to have kids though, eventually?"

"I don't know, Travis. Go to sleep."

"Okay. But . . . I do. Someday."

"Yeah?" I asked him, caressing his chest.

"Yeah. That's why I need to get into a good law school. You really think the paper's good?"

"Yes, Travis. It's REALLY good. Let's sleep, okay?"

I turned on my side, and he spooned up behind me, and I slept like a queen.

PART FIVE

Sometimes I think it was all the morning sex that pushed us over the line. At night it was simpler, somehow, to keep the boundaries clear. It's true that things got pretty intense between us, those first two evenings, with all the dancing and flirting and kissing and fucking at that frat house that first night, and afterward in his dorm room, and the deep sleep that followed, naked in his arms, and with the new kinds of kissing and fucking that happened on the couch in my living room the next night, and all the pillow talk that came after, and then the second sleep, naked in his arms again. But even with all that it was easier, at night somehow, to remember that we were just playing our roles.

Even when I threw myself into the performance like I had with him in the living room, on my knees on the floor in the black lace bra and panties with my head in his hands and the back of my throat filled with his cock, giving us both what we wanted, like his best girl should, it was easier to stay . . . in character, I suppose. Not Peggy the person, but Peggy the frat boy fantasy, the buttoned-up professor with the submissive streak a mile wide, just waiting for the right guy to come along and unleash the little fuck demon within.

And then afterward, late at night, when we stepped out of our roles, and opened up to each other, and were surprised by how good it felt, how . . . uncomplicated and right, it was still easy not to confuse the . . . friendship between us with all of the crazy emotions and sensations that were left over from the fucking, the . . . euphoria that both of us felt, in our own way, our desires sated for the moment but our bodies still hungry for closeness, just stroking and looking and kissing sometimes, talking freely as the hours slid by.

But in the mornings it was harder to keep the feelings separate from the fucking. I can't explain it, really. It was like in the mornings it was really Peggy, body and soul, who was fucking Travis, and it was really Travis who was fucking me. And whatever I was feeling it was . . . me who was feeling it, and it was Travis who was making me feel it. It wasn't just that the conversation was good because the fucking made me feel so relaxed and friendly toward him, the way it happened at night. It was also that the fucking was so good because I was starting to REALLY like the guy who was fucking me, to feel . . comfortable with him, physically and emotionally, in a way that I'd never quite felt with another guy before.

It still baffles me.

Sometimes I sit at my desk and stare out the window and rehearse the details of Sunday morning in the guest room, replaying it in my thoughts.

How I woke up early, feeling energized, and slipped out of bed for a long, hot shower and then wandered into the kitchen and cooked myself a sumptuous breakfast of eggs and toast and melon and fresh coffee (not my usual nutrition bar as I dashed out the door) and then sat down and ate it while I graded the last twenty or so composition essays so that the whole day would be free.

How as soon as I finished I drifted back to the guest room, not even thinking really, and stood at the foot of the bed watching Travis sleep, naked on his stomach.

And how as soon as I saw him I felt my pulse quicken, and my head swim a little, and then before I knew it I peeled the t-shirt from my torso and let it drop to the floor, and slid the panties from my ass and let them drop to the floor, and the next thing I knew I was lying on top of him, face down, my boobs pressed tight to his deltoids and my crotch pressed tight to his buns, just feeling him breathe, smelling him.

And how as soon as he felt me on top of him his body started squirming against me, the muscles in his butt and shoulders tightening and relaxing, groaning from the edge of sleep.

And that smug smile that sent chills all through me when I started squirming against him in response, massaging him with my breasts and curls.

"You're up early," he teased, his eyes still closed.

"Mmmmmm. Hmmmmmmm."

"What you been doing?"

"Eating breakfast. And grading."

"What do you want to do now?"

How electric it felt when he spun himself to his back, in one fluid motion, and I found myself face to face with him, my breasts mashed to his ribcage and my crotch pressed tight to his cock, stiffening already, his hands tight to my buns.

I shrugged, teasing him back.

"How 'bout I cook you some breakfast?"

"You wanna cook me some breakfast?" he asked, pinching my side, his brown eyes teasing beneath that heavy brow.

"O you like it when the girls want to cook for you, don't you," I teased, squirming against him, his cock stiffening further.

"Yeah," he said, bringing his nose to my neck and inhaling deeply, his hands pressing me to him tighter, his hips rocking a little. "There's just one problem."

"O yeah," I asked, gasping a little as his lips found my neck, tasting it.

"Yeah."

"What's that?"

He brought his lips to my ear, his breath hot and close.

"I never eat before yoga," he purred, flipping me to my back on the mattress.

My stomach flipping along with me.

"O you want to do some yoga?" I asked, trying to squirm from underneath him, but not really, my nipples tight to his chest as the sparks shot through them, hard and bright.

He nodded, his hands tight to my wrists as he raised my arms and stretched them slowly behind me on the mattress, extending me to my full length, pinning me with his weight, his forehead against mine.

Then we were kissing, our eyes still opened wide, and I was squirming against him in a different way (slower) and I knew that he liked it because his eyes were glazing over in that way that they did, whenever I REALLY nailed my part, and because his cock was fully erect now, my wet lips tight to his base.

Sometimes when I replay that morning in bed together I try to remember the precise instant when I started to feel different about Travis. As if pinpointing it in space and time would help me understand it. To . . . accept it, I guess.

Was it the first pose we practiced? "Lotus blossom," though neither of us knew the name yet. We just kind of followed our mood, and our bodies, and found ourselves in it, inventing it together. I told him that "class is in session now" and that he should sit cross legged on the mattress ("criss-cross apple sauce"), and try to stay as upright and motionless as possible, and to keep breathing smoothly, no matter what distractions might happen to arise, and then he smiled arrogantly and did exactly what I told him, watching me the whole time as I wrapped my hand around his neck and eased myself slowly into his lap, wrapping my legs around him too, ankles crossed, heels tight to his buttocks.

"What do we now?" he asked, holding my gaze.

"We breathe," I told him, pressing my chest to his chest, his cock snuggled between our bellies as my legs pulled him closer.

We sat there together for a while, upright and still, feeling our lungs expand and collapse, and fill and empty, over and over, until our breathing synched, his cock rising all the while, my sex slick against him.

"Now we breath into our bellies," I told him, and he did it, and then our bellies and pelvises were moving in sync, my sex sliding along his shaft, pink and arched and as upright as it could possibly be.

"Slow, Travis, slow," I told him, as his hands moved to my buttocks, supporting them, as I slid a liiiiiiiiiiiitle bit higher on the upstrokes, arching my pelvis toward him, breathing deep into our bellies, and let him drop me a liiiiiiiiiiiitle bit faster on the downstrokes, the breath forced from us in a rush, our eyes smiling, his chest sweaty now as my breasts slid against him, my nipples stiff.

I've learned in the years since that in Tantric philosophy "Lotus Blossom" represents the ecstatic union of Shiva and Shakti, the divine masculine and feminine energies, and that partners who practice it are enacting the moment when Shiva transforms into a passive mediator and Shakti takes control of the action, dancing in his lap, pure awareness meeting pure energy, as they shed their earthly forms and attain spiritual transcendence.

Well, I don't know about all that. But I do know that I danced in his lap that morning, that's for sure, and that the first orgasm kind of blew my mind. He wasn't even inside me yet! We were just breathing together, not even kissing, and I was sliding against his scepter as he watched my excitement rise, the fire building inside me, and then he cupped my breast from underneath and brought it to his mouth and then bent his lips down to taste it, savoring the plumpness of my nipple. (the right one and then the left one, and then the left one and the right one) in tempo with the sliding, my hands all through his hair.

I knew what was happening, at a physiological level. I'm a scientist for christ's sake! I knew that every time Travis put his mouth to my nipples and sucked at them, pulling them to their full length, nice and slow, and then kissing them hard, his lips smacking . . . I knew that every time he did that it sent a little dose of oxytocin straight to my brain, the same hormone that gets released in massive doses during orgasms, and I knew that study after study has shown that oxytocin makes you feel more bonded to the person who is with you when the hormone is released, and I knew that this hormonal release had evolved over millions of years so that breast-feeding mothers would feel more bonded to their babies, the pleasure of caring for them flooding their brains.

I knew that was the reason that the longer I let Travis suck my tits that way the more connected I felt to him, raising them to his lips with my forearm as I watched his face nuzzle me, naked with him and upright, breathing together as the sunlight streamed through the curtains.

And I knew that was the reason that when I came the first time I held him as tightly as I could in my arms and legs, our skin pasted with sweat (the atmosphere was dense and humid with a slight breeze off the quad), the dopamine flooding my brain as my limps kept shaking and shaking, my clitoris bursting its sheath.

And I knew that was why I felt so eager to make Travis feel the same way about me when I finished cumming, and reached for him with my hand, and angled his cock beneath me, just how he wanted, and sat down on him and started dancing again. Dancing harder and faster. Letting him know with my eyes how good he was giving it to me. How much I loved getting fucked by his cock. How badly I wanted the next dose, bigger than the first, and how hard I was willing to work him for it. Giving him everything I had.

I knew it was just the hormones talking.

But in my heart of hearts I was feeling:

"I LIKE this guy . . . I REALLY like this guy."

And in my cum-addled brain I was thinking:

"I'm going to Rock. His. World."

His cock plugging me tight. Dancing for him in his lap.

Or sometimes I think that maybe I started to feel differently toward Travis when I let him start throwing me around on the bed that morning, inventing more adventurous poses, things we'd never tried, things that only Travis and I were strong enough, and flexible enough, and . . . hungry enough to practice with each other. Poses for fuck-mates at their "sexual peak." For slut goddesses and alphas in the making.

Like the moment in missionary when I was ruling his world with the feel of my sex (tight and hot around him, milking him sensuously using all my secret muscles) and with the heave of my breasts (timing my exhalations to make them bounce more enticingly for his eyes) and he was thrusting into me so hard that I was sliding down the length of the mattress, toward the foot of the bed, and then cascading over the edge, my head upside down with my hands on the floor supporting me, transforming the angle of our fucking, Travis marveling at the new sensation.

"Awwwww fuck that's good pussy!"

"Unngh Travis fuck me!"

Or like the moment in doggy when he stood at the foot of the bed and pulled me to him roughly, on all fours, and entered me again, sealing me with his root, and then raised my legs and wrapped them around his waist, my elbows pressed to the mattress and the rest of my body suspended by his arms, Travis controlling the depth and angle of the fucking that was making my body feel like it was flying through the air, desperate to fuck him back, squeezing him with my deep core.

"Awwwwww fuck that's tight pussy!"

"Unnnngh Travis fuck me!"

Or like the moment in cowgirl when it was MY turn to control the depth and angle and Travis was leaning back and enjoying the show, with his eyes and hands ALL over me, and then I arched my back, and reached my hands to his thighs, pressing them for support, and my body opened to him further, our thrusts accelerating, and then my hands were at his knees, and then his shins, and I was arching farther than either of us could believe, the curve of my tunnel matching precisely the arc of his cock as I let go with my legs and started grinding on him hard, Travis's jaw unhinging.

"Awwww fuck that's hot pussy!"

"Unnnnngh Travis fuck me!"

Or like the moment in missionary (round 2) when he couldn't hold out any more (finally!) and my feet were on his shoulders and his cock was deeper than I could have imagined before I felt it inside my body, and I was already cumming on it, not surprised this time, more . . . expecting it, more . . . accustomed to being fucked this way, to Travis making me cum this way, on and on, and I could see in his eyes how hard he was about to erupt inside me, how well I'd fucked him, the cum boiling inside him as I drew it to the surface.

"Awwwww Peggy. Awwwwwww fuck me."

Savoring the last, few, delirious thrusts inside me. Both of us.

"Unnnnngh Travis!"

His jewels retracting as they prepared to scatter their load, the pleasure intensifying, fucking each other with all we had.

"Awwwww Peggy. Awwwww fuck"

His cock withdrawing with one, last, lewd suck of my lips and then both of us watching it as Travis drenched me in hot, wet drops, splattering my breasts and ribs.

"Awww Peggy."

Splattering my belly.

"Unnnngh Travis,"

Slathering my curls with cream, my sex coaxing his dregs. More and more of it, because I couldn't let him go. I didn't want to let him go.

My lips wrapped to his base, stroking his shaft, my pelvis undulating of its own sweet will, both of us watching.

"Awwwww fuck me you little slut!"

Then the folds of my clitoris were glazed with his seed, and I was pressing it to him, red and throbbing, and I was cumming, and I couldn't keep still, and the base of his cock was massaging his seed into my edges of my sex like some precious ointment and I didn't know who or what was making it happen.

PART SIX

Afterward we lay in bed naked, catching our breaths, laughing about how loud we'd been. We could hear voices outside the window, students playing Frisbee, or calling out greetings from across the quad.

"Do you think anyone heard me?" I asked, blushing deep red. I still couldn't believe that I'd called out his name that way!

"I don't know, Peggy," laughed Travis, shaking his head. "But next time we definitely need to close the window."

I laughed too. I should have been more worried, I guess, but I wasn't. Dopamine will do that to a girl.

"Jesus Peggy," he asked, "do all women your age know how to fuck like that? Because if they do, then, well, after the weekend is over . . . maybe you could introduce me to some of your friends!"

"Beats me," I shrugged. "Do all of your frat brothers know how to fuck a girl like you do? Because if they do then maybe we should go to the frat house tonight instead of Houston!"

"Very funny," he replied. I remember how . . . happy I felt when I realized I'd made him jealous, just for a second.

"So am I the first older woman you've slept with?"

"No."

"Tell me."

"Promise you won't judge me?"

"I'm your yoga teacher, remember? I never judge."

"I had . . . sex with my aunt once."

"You mean like your mom's sister?"

"No, gross! I mean like my dad's brother's wife."

"Sounds like an interesting story."

"In the annals of the Hughes family it's a mere footnote I assure you."

We kissed for a few seconds. Then he rolled to his side, toward me, surveying my body, rubbing his semen into my rib cage with tip of his pointer finger.

"So have you ever been with a younger guy?"

"Yeah," I teased, his eyes flashing with surprise. "When I was younger."

"What about an older guy, when you were younger?"

It still surprises me that I told him the story. Everything just seemed so mellow and full of possibility, and as soon as I started I realized that I'd been waiting for years to tell it. For the right opportunity. The right . . . person.

PART SEVEN

"It was my first summer back from college. My mom and dad had split by then, and I was staying with my dad in California. He rented a bungalow on the ocean and for most of the summer we shared it with his best friend from back when he was married to my mom. Which was cool with me, because his daughter Erin and I had been best friends since grade school, and we had lots to talk about: new boyfriends and sexual experiences at college and all that. We were working together at a restaurant waiting tables and pretty much every night we traded stories about getting hit on by guys, some of them customers, some of them the same age as our dads.

"Erin was more adventurous than me. She had a string of one night stands with the boys our age who worked in the kitchen, and she was sleeping with the owner of the restaurant regularly, even though he had a wife and kids, and one night she ended up having sex with a couple of German tourists whose table she waited in their van in the parking lot. I had a boyfriend back at college, naturally. I always had a boyfriend. So I didn't do much except fool around with a few guys my age, which was more than I should have done, given the boyfriend.

"But Erin always had a way of . . . challenging me, pushing me past my comfort zone. I guess I did more than fool around. I . . . fucked a couple of guys: a prep cook who was a lacrosse player at Cal State (he was pretty hot, actually, and Erin told me he was good in bed) and later his roommate, who sold weed, sometimes, and was a serious surfer. He was hotter and Erin told me he was better in bed. Which was true.
"Erin and I kept it on the down low. I didn't want it getting back to the boyfriend, that's for sure! But around the house, on our days off, we were always dishing about 'lacrosse man with his big hard stick,' and 'surfer stud with his LONG board shorts': at the breakfast table when one of our dads was making coffee, or out on the deck in the evening while our dads were grilling up whatever they'd caught surf fishing that day. They both worked freelance for IT companies and kept irregular working hours. We'd sit off in the corner and whisper, probably a little too loud, about different positions and male equipment and that kind of thing, laughing like crazy. It was something in the atmosphere that summer. It was like . . . sex was everywhere. All around us.

"And the vibe around the house, with just our dads and us, was kind of . . . sloppy. You know what I mean?"

Travis nodded. He was lying on his side facing me, both of us still naked, and he was listening intently, trailing his hand idly across my belly and ribs. It was humid, and my skin was slick with perspiration and cum.

"We were practically naked all the time for one thing. Erin and I had been vacationing at the beach together since we were kids so it seemed natural for us to 'dress' that way around our parents, though the dynamic felt different because our moms weren't around, and because our bodies had . . . matured, to say the least. We were both the same type: busty Jewish girls with a lot of sass.

"It felt good to be away from my mom because she was always undercutting my confidence, at the beach or the pool or whatever, with little comments about my 'chunky thighs.' My dad never did, whatever his other flaws. It was good to be around Erin too. She had pretty much the same body as me and look how confident she was showing it off!

"So I followed her lead. It was tank tops and shorty shorts for breakfast, sometimes with nothing underneath, and tiny bikinis all day long if we weren't working the lunch shift at the restaurant, and then maybe bikinis for dinner too on our evenings off, if our dads were grilling on the deck at sunset, maybe with some friends from town, including women sometimes. Women liked them. They were attractive guys.

"Some nights when Erin and I went home after the dinner shift, maybe two nights a week if we were tired of partying with friends, and it stayed warm, like most nights that summer, it was tiny bikinis for board games or cards late at night with our dads. Sometimes we'd end up staying up on the deck until sunrise, just the four of us, making music together. They both played guitar and Erin and I liked to sing.

"Most of the times our dads didn't wear much either. Surfer shorts with no shirts. They were both in good shape for their mid forties. They went jogging together in the mornings, and surfing at high tide. They had girlfriends from time to time, sure, but nothing serious. Nothing that broke up the little, temporary nuclear family we'd improvised at the bungalow.

"Things rolled on that way for most of the summer. It was a happy time, at least on the surface. But like most improvised families ours had certain underlying flaws. You know? And eventually they showed themselves. I remember the night Erin and I were walking down the beach drunk trying to get home from a party. I was pretty buzzed but Erin could barely stand. We must have been stumbling badly because when my dad saw us from the deck (he waited up for us most nights) he came striding over to us in his hoodie and board shorts (almost like a life guard) and helped Erin into the house, and into bed, clinging to him the whole time and laughing in her short tight dress.

"Later when we were both in bed (the bungalow had three bedrooms so we shared the queen sized mattress in the smallest room) she told me that she knew it was wrong but my dad was HOT. She told me it made her MAD horny to have him tuck her in like that, and if she wasn't my friend she might have tried something with him. She told me that when they were stumbling down the beach my dad's hands ended up on her boobs, for just a second or two, and she didn't think it was an accident, because it happened again, and then again after that. 'And you know what?' she mumbled. 'What?' I asked, my stomach queasy. 'He was hard.' I don't know if she was even conscious at that point.

"But from that night on she started . . . pushing things. She would convince our dads to let us drink a beer with our dinner, on the deck, and then maybe another beer or two afterward when we played cards. I remember one time when we'd been up all night and it was nearly sunrise. I think that was maybe the first time that Erin worked up the nerve to bust out a joint that surfer stud had given her that afternoon (as a 'present' after she fucked him) and persuade our dads to smoke it with us. 'Come on Mr. Lansky. There's no harm in it, right?' she pleaded, bending over my dad in her bikini top and blowing the smoke in his face.

"Anyway, we were all a little high and drunk and the sky was still full of stars. Her dad was playing guitar and I was singing some Kate Bush song. "Cloudbusting." You know it? Kind of slow and sensual. The wind was picking up, and the air was getting colder, and I watched Erin stand up and put on her sweat shirt, shivering, and then I watched her walk over to my dad, reclining on the chaise lounge, and ease herself into his lap, as cool as you like, wearing nothing below her waist except a bikini bottom that barely covered her ass.

"She looked straight at her dad, almost like she was daring him to say something. And then she looked at me with this glint in her eye that made my stomach go queasy again. As if we were in on the joke together. Of seeing if she could . . . make him hard again, I guess. She snuggled back against him and he put his arms around her. In a way it made sense. She'd known my dad since she was a little girl and we were all comfortable together, in a physical sense.

"Her dad and I played a few more songs and I watched Erin keep shifting her position, subtly, until she was curled up in a ball on my dad's lap with her head on his chest (he was shirtless) and her arms around his neck, both of them with their eyes closed. Breathing together. Then her dad stood up and handed the guitar to my dad, poking the neck in his ribs to wake him. I think he wanted to change the vibe.

"But it didn't change the vibe. It just . . . intensified. Erin persuaded my dad to play this power ballad that she loved back then ("Crash into Me," by the Dave Matthews Band). 'But it's so cheesy.' 'O come on it's beautiful and . . . romantic.' Then her dad and I watched them. Strumming and singing. 'You've got your ball, you've got your chain, tied to me tight, tie me up again.' Erin had a beautiful voice.

"I don't know if I had a thing for her dad for real, or if I was just . . . letting Erin push me. Like always. But when Erin pleaded with my dad to play the same song again ('Pleeeeease? It's so . . . mysterious and sensual'), sitting a little too close to him, and acting a little too drunk, something switched on inside me. I felt jealous, sure. But that's not all I felt. Can I tell you something?"

Travis nodded, still listening intently.

"There was maybe some . . . tension between my dad and I that summer. Some . . . weird chemistry."

Travis nodded again, not pushing me to explain or clarify.

"Before I knew what was happening, really, I walked over to Erin's dad (he had taken over the chaise lounge) and smiled at him, awkwardly, and turned around, more awkwardly, and then I eased myself into his lap, wearing a bikini bottom that was every bit as tiny as Erin's. They might have matched, actually. We did that a lot of times, around the house. It was a little joke between us. 'Look we're twins!'

"I remember my dad looking at me funny, trying to read my expression, and then I remember looking right at Erin, with that same glint in her eye as my stomach went queasy again, but in a different way.

"Like I said, it was a sloppy summer. My dad and I hadn't been getting along very well since I hit puberty and he divorced my mom and there was still antagonism between us. And I was just starting to explore my . . . power over men. Of all sorts and all ages. I was curious about Erin's dad, sure. What was going through his head sometimes. I'd seen him looking at me when we were playing frisbee on the beach, or one day when he was teaching me to surf.

"I was snuggled into him, straddling his thigh, and he had his arms around me, and I could tell by the way he was holding his body, kind of stiffly and to the side, that there was something he didn't want me to feel. He had his eyes closed, I think, though it was hard to check too often without being obvious. Then after a while I felt him relax. From the rhythm of his breathing he might have fallen asleep. My dad had his eyes closed, strumming intently, losing himself in Erin's vocals, and in the liquor and weed, I suppose.

"Erin was flashing her eyes at me in that way she always did when she was daring me to cross some boundary with her, like she had since we were little girls, and she was crooning, 'I'm bare boned and crazy for you, when you come crash into me, baby, and I come into you.'

"So I did it. What she did first with my dad. I shifted my weight from his thigh, and then eased my bottom backward, and to the right, until it was snug against Paul's board shorts (that was his name), watching my dad the whole time to make sure his eyes stayed closed. When I looked back to Erin her eyes were even wider than before, and flashing even brighter, and she was crooning, 'Oh and you come crash into me, baby, and I come into you.'

"Then I felt it. There was no mistaking. The bikini bottom was bunched between my cheeks and he was pressed tight against me. He might have been sleeping, but all the same, he seemed to like what I was doing. His arms were holding me a little tighter, and his breath was a little hotter and heavier in my hair.

"When I looked at Erin her expression had changed. She looked strange. Almost . . . philosophical. But she looked aroused too. There's no other way to put it. She was a strange one. She was singing, 'Hike up your skirt a little more, and show your world to me, hike up your skirt a little more, and show your world to me.' Then she closed her eyes. I knew she was daring me again.

"It felt electric. It felt so, so wrong. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, squirming my backside against Paul, dreamily, nestling closer, his breath hotter and heavier by the second. Erin sang the whole song again straight through, maybe two or three more times, and Paul and I kept doing what we were doing. Whatever it was. Moving together. His mouth nuzzling closer to my neck, pulling me against him subtly ('I'm bare boned and crazy for you') and my backside nuzzling closer as I shifted in my 'sleep,' the bikini bottom riding higher between my cheeks ('hike up your skirt a little more, and show your world to me'), and the thing that I shouldn't have been feeling, but was, pressed deeper between them. It fascinated me that I could do that to a man with just the touch of my flesh. I started squeezing my buttocks, just a little, and then relaxing my cheeks, slow and steady, and then squeezing again, while Erin's voice intoned dreamily, 'Come crash into me, baby, and I come into you.'

"When the song finished I opened my eyes. My dad was looking right at me. I don't know what felt stranger: my arousal, or his anxiety and displeasure. But what could he say? He'd done the same thing with Erin. It was all too much. I said good night and went to bed, Erin watching me closely.

"As soon as my back hit the mattress my hands were in the bikini bottom. It was soaked through. I wondered if Paul had felt it, touching myself, thinking of him for the first time. By the time Erin's back hit the mattress, maybe ten minutes later, my breath was almost back to normal.

"The rest was practically inevitable. Paul and I started flirting with each other more around the house. It wouldn't have been obvious to my dad, but I guess it was obvious to Erin. It was nothing we'd never done before. It was more the way we did it. The vibe. Shoulder rubs in the afternoon when I came back from the lunch shift, my arms aching from carrying plates, or in the morning when Paul had a kink in his neck from surfing the day before. Helping each other with the lotion when we were laying out on the deck on the weekend. And, yeah, sitting on his lap at night sometimes, if it was cold. If we were partners for one of those old-fashioned card games our dads like to play, and Erin was doing the same thing with my dad on the other side of the table. She and I were competitive with each other and sometimes the games got a little edgy. Sometimes the music got a little competitive too. Who could persuade the other's dad to play the sexiest song. Or who could 'snuggle' with the other's dad on the chaise lounge in the most provocative way, without crossing the line.

"Things went on that way until the end of August when our dads threw a going away party for Erin and I and invited the whole neighborhood. Everyone was drinking. Adults and college kids. Everyone got a little high. And everyone got a little . . . sloppier. You know? Including Paul and I. The whole afternoon he was hanging around me. Frisbee turned into 'touch football' and that turned into night swimming, and that turned into wrestling in the surf, practically naked, and suddenly it was the end of the night and it was just the two of us. Everyone had gone home, or passed out on the deck, or the beach, and my dad and Erin were . . . somewhere. I had a funny feeling in my stomach. But like I said, I was drunk and high.

"Things got a little hot and heavy. Paul and I horsing around in the waves. Eventually we decided to go boogie boarding and he started giving me pointers about my form. Sometimes riding the waves with me, both of us on our bellies on the same board, his weight holding me down, his arms around me. Sometimes helping me to my feet after a big wipeout. At some point I wanted to cool things off. I told him I was cold and jogged up the beach to my towel, bending over to pick it up. I remember him watching me dry myself. The wheels turning. For both of us.

"He asked me to help him carry the boogie boards and stray folding chairs and such to the little storage shed in the dunes. So I slipped on my hoodie, and picked up my board and a chair, and headed that way, Paul trailing close behind.

"I think we both knew what was going to happen. As soon as we were out of sight of the house, behind the dune, I paused, and bent over, and dropped the things I was carrying, and turned to face him. He hesitated for a split second, and then he dropped his things, and then we were ALL over each other, the tension releasing in a rush. Before I knew it my hoodie was unzipped, and my breasts were spilling from the bikini top, and he was cupping them in his big hand, one and then the other, his tongue in my mouth. I don't think I'd made my mind up to go all the way with him but I was DYING to fool around. I was twisting my tongue around his tongue like a madwoman, and scratching his back (it was broad and hard and covered with soft hair) and grabbing and squeezing his ass, and when he broke the kiss, and brought his mouth to my breasts, still cupping them hard from beneath, something snapped inside me and I slid his board shirts right over his butt until they dropped to the sand, and then I reached for him with both hands, and then I started . . . jacking him, fast and hard (the way my boyfriend liked it) and then we stumbled backward into the beach grass.

"Then we . . . fucked. Right there in the sand. I slipped off the bikini bottom. And he climbed between my legs. And we fucked as fast and as quietly and as hard as we could."

"Sounds hot," said Travis. He was as hard as I'd ever felt him.

"At first it was. We were both so primed. And it was SUCH a transgression.

"But then it all turned strange and wrong. I guess once the first rush of excitement washed over him, he couldn't handle the reality. I watched his eyes go blank. Then he got a little . . . rough. But not in a good way. You know? It was confusing. Frightening. I wanted him and all, but not like that. Just rutting away at me in the sand. He was bigger and beefier than the boys I'd been with and kind of crushing me beneath his weight. But the weirdest part was that I was still aroused. Being . . . used like that.

"I don't know. Matthew always says that female arousal is about the desire to be desired. And even though there was something that sickened both of us about the WAY he wanted me, there's no denying that it excited me how MUCH he wanted me. How very hard he fucked me.

"But afterward was horrible. His guilt and . . . disgust. It was written all over his face. As if I'd done something horrible to him, and to myself. I ran straight down the beach as fast as I could, away from the house, and I didn't stop until my lungs were bursting and my knees gave way.

"But all year long, back at college, I couldn't get it out of my head. I . . . fantasized about it, almost every night. I still fantasize about it from time to time."

PART EIGHT

When I finished the story I felt cold. It wasn't until then that I noticed the thunder storm that was rolling in fast, the way they did sometimes in Texas, the thunder claps still low and muffled in the distance, but growing louder by the minute, the intervals between them contracting. I curled on my side into Travis's heat, my leg thrown over him, resting my head on his chest. It felt broad and calm.

"You don't think it's weird?"

"What?" he asked, stroking my hair.

"That I still fantasize about Paul. About being . . . used by him."

"No," he said, turning his face toward mine. "A lot of girls I know have had experiences like that. Getting . . . in over their head with older guys. And a lot of them . . . still get off to the memory. Most of them keep it secret too."

"But they tell you?"

He shrugged. "Some of them."

"How come?" I asked, stroking the fine hairs on his chest.

It was a question for me as much as for the other girls who had confided in him. I was glad I had told him the story. Disburdened myself. But I was puzzled all the same. I barely knew him, in a certain sense.

"I don't know," he reflected, running the tips of his fingers along the length of my spine as I snuggled in closer and tighter, the thunder almost on top of us now and the temperature dropping rapidly. I could smell the ozone scent pouring off the sidewalk outside the window and then I heard the rain falling in heavy drops. The sounds of kids screaming and running for cover.

"Usually they tell me after we have sex."

The thunder rolled a little louder, shaking the window slightly, still opened to the breeze. I snuggled in tighter, my face buried in the crook of his neck, his scent enveloping me.

"After you make them come?" I asked.

"I guess."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. It's just something about . . . my style, I guess. Sometimes when I have sex with a girl it gets a little intense, you know?"

I nodded.

"And I think it reminds them of the memory. It kind of lets them . . . relive it. But from a distance. Transform it."

It made sense.

"Has Lacey told you things?"

"Yeah, Lacey has some history. But I can't tell you more than that."

"How come?"

"Because I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Well don't tell anyone about me either okay?"

He nodded.

Then we kissed for a while. Tongues twining. The curtains flashing with light as the storm passed over us. Neither of us was ready to have sex again, just yet, so after maybe five minutes we stopped kissing and rolled to our backs, letting our thoughts carry us.
"So was it hot when you had sex with your aunt?" I asked. I guess I was craving distraction.

Travis nodded.

"How come?"

"Because SHE'S hot, for one thing. Not as hot as you, but definitely hot. She's your basic . . . big-breasted, bubble-butted, Texas blonde."

"Charming," I quipped. But I didn't really mind the cave man talk by that point.

"I'm just saying. But it was mostly hot because we . . . got a little rough. But in a good way."

I laughed.

"Tell me."

PART NINE

"We'd been angry at each other for months. This was the summer after my freshman year at UT and I was living with my aunt and uncle at their ranch near the border. I'd been kicked out of home for failing macroeconomics, and political science, and a bunch of other courses that I needed to ace for law school. Dad was furious. He gave me so much shit. After a while I couldn't take it and we had a big argument. Fists and everything. He called his brother and asked him if I could spend the summer with him, working for his construction company.

"Tammy (my aunt) wasn't thrilled about the arrangement. Not that I can blame her. I was pretty unbearable those days. Sulky and arrogant. We didn't see each other much for the first month or so but then one day at the construction site I burst a ligament in my ankle and was stuck at their place for a few weeks.

"It was MAD boring for me. And for Tammy it was MAD annoying. Most days I just chilled around the house, eating their food and watching their television. Not particularly friendly or grateful. Definitely not contributing to the housework. She was a freelancer, some kind of designer, so most days she worked at home. She was always riding my ass about not doing dishes, and could I please put away the sofa bed in the guest room because that was her study during the weekdays, and she needed to get some work done, unlike some people in the house! Sometimes I would sleep in late and hear her come back from her morning jog and start throwing things around in the living room, just outside the door to the guestroom, because she couldn't get started with her design work until I rousted my ass from bed.

"Then one morning she came back from her jog and walked straight to the guest room and started working while I was still sleeping. At least she thought I was. But it was more like I was . . . vegetating. You know? Just chilling under the sheets, contemplating life, bored and angry at the world and maybe a little depressed.

"A few days later she did the same thing, and a few days after that she did it again. It must have annoyed her, at some level, to have me sleeping in her study. And it must have been a little awkward too. I slept in my boxers, as a rule, and in the morning when the sun came in through the big window that faced east over the desert, just behind the sofa bed, I normally threw the blankets off me and lay there with the sheet at my waist. And sometimes if the sun was particularly hot I threw the sheet off too.

"But the arrangement seemed to work for her. Before long it was the new routine. I guess it was the most efficient way for her to get to her work in the morning, without any friction between us, so she could keep her flow after jogging. She was under some kind of stress. Some deadline for a big project. She tried to tell me about it a couple of times. Sometimes we ate lunch together. But I didn't really listen. Like I said, I was unbearable back then.

"But I was careful to keep quiet while she worked. It was kind of . . . interesting to watch her.

"She wore a ponytail most days and her usual routine was to stay in her running outfit all morning, working, and then shower before lunch. There was a yoga ball near the desk, across the room from the sofa bed, and that's what she sat on to work. Spandex shorts with matching jog bra top. Facing away from me. Every morning a new pastel color. She just sat there on the yoga ball, typing and clicking, and sometimes kind of . . . bouncing a little. With her hair up in the ponytail I could see practically all of her neck and shoulders, still sweaty from her run.

"I guess that's why I started staying up late watching tv and shit, drinking my uncle's beer, and then sleeping late in the mornings. I don't even think he would blame me. I was nineteen for crying out loud, and he and Tammy lived in the middle of nowhere. It was a desert. Literally in terms of the heat and barrenness of the place. And figuratively in terms of the lack of pussy. No offense."

"None taken, I assure you," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Every morning I would wake up and open my eyes and there she'd be, at the laptop, bouncing away on the yoga ball while she worked, and I'd just lie there watching her.

"Sometimes she did little stretches while she worked. Nothing too crazy at first. Just extending her legs out in front of her and tensing her stomach, or holding her arms out to the side and twisting, slowly, to the left, and to the right, and back again. Over and over. With the ponytail and the jog bra top I could see practically every vertebra in her spine shifting. The intricate pattern of bones. Or sometimes she would squat down on the ball, her feet spread wide, and raise her hands above her head, clasped, and start bouncing on the ball while she made these little panting breaths. Or sometimes she would hold her hands on her hips and bend forward as far as she could, her booty straining toward me in the spandex shorts. Or sometimes she even lay on her back on the ball and arched herself backward until her hands reached the floor, her head hanging upside down, and her chest pushing toward me, her eyes looking straight in my direction, but beyond me, to the desert.

"I didn't know much abut yoga, but even I could tell that she was doing a lot of exercises to strengthen her core and pelvis. Plus, I'd seen all these New Age magazines around the house, on the coffee table or the back of the toilet, and invariably they were open to some article about natural ways to increase your sex drive, or your partner's sex drive, or your fertility. That kind of thing. But I was pretty much in my own head that summer so I didn't give it much thought.

"Still, even I sensed something was up. Like one time, when she was doing the backward stretch with her hands on the floor, hanging upside down, I SWEAR she was watching me. Her expression was relaxed and dreamy, and she was breathing smoothly, and her eyes were just travelling over my body.

"Pretty soon that was part of the routine. Watching her watch me. Sometimes she would take a break from work and turn on the yoga ball to face the window, and the desert, and just . . . sit there, upright and still, her expression focused, and her breathing regular. It was confusing at first. I didn't know what she was doing. Meditating maybe? But then I realized from an article in one of the magazines around the house that she was doing kegel squeezes. 'Exercise your Vagina Now for Orgasms and Conception!'

"Most mornings when she finished with her kegels she would just chill out on the ball, contemplating the desert, and most mornings that's when she checked out my body. I don't even know if she was aware of it. But she looked . . . thoughtful too. Like the wheels were turning.

"I guess her project wasn't going well because, as the days rolled by, she started sighing more, and cursing at her keyboard more, and taking more breaks for stretching, turning around to face me.

"It was hypnotic. The tension in the room whenever we were in there together, alone, with Tammy immersed in her work, and thoughts, and stretches, and me just chilling with the sheet at my waist in my boxers, enjoying the weird vibe. Thinking about it, I guess. What it could possibly mean. It was the most interesting thing happening that summer in that godforsaken place by a Texas mile and I wanted to see where it would lead. Probably nowhere. But I just lay on my back on the mattress, watching her eyes glide over my torso."

"Did it make you hard?" I asked. I knew the answer because my hand was on his cock (it was almost always on his cock when we were talking in bed) and just the memory was making him hard.

"Yeah," he said. "At first I tried to hide it. Bunching up the sheet or turning on my side or whatever. But then I was like . . . fuck it. She thinks I'm asleep. What does she expect? Imma be nineteen years old, stranded in the desert, without a girl in sight except my aunt, and NOT have a huge boner while I'm sleeping? The thought must have occurred to her when she decided to let me sleep in the study while she worked. And if not, then it DEFINITELY must have occurred to her when she started watching me sleep, doing her kegels. Sometimes I wondered if she could see it. And sometimes I let my hand drift under the sheet, real casual, just stretching in my pretend dream-state, and watched her eyes follow it while it slid into my boxers.

"Most mornings I'd lie there as long as I could, until my bladder was ready to explode, and then I'd yawn theatrically, and wrap the sheet around my waist, and shuffle off to the bathroom for a shower. As soon as the water hit me I'd fantasize about Tammy, of course, stroking myself like there was no tomorrow, the tension pouring out of me. Sometimes I wondered if I was picturing the same thing she was, while she watched me sleep.

"The worst part was that I KNEW she was a freak in bed. She and my uncle were banging on the regular all summer, like practically every night. The house had an open floor plan so a lot of times I could hear them, when I was lounging in the living room watching a movie and they were upstairs in the loft screwing. She always made a lot noise. So most nights that was my go-to fantasy. Fucking Tammy in her bedroom while she called my name.

"Things went that way until the middle of August when my uncle had to go away for a business trip. Tammy was spitting mad. The night before he left, after they fucked, they had an argument in the bedroom. She was saying something about the timing being awful, and how they'd planned the schedule so carefully, and she had a strong hunch that this was the month for them, and couldn't he just postpone the trip and stay home with her? I didn't think about it much at the time.

"But when she came back from her run the next morning (my uncle left early for the airport) she was still furious. She marched right into the study as usual, but this time she cursed out loud when she saw me sprawled out on the mattress, naked to the waist, probably hung over from the beer and weed and pizza I'd consumed in the living room the night before, and neglected to clean up.

"She was slamming things down on the desk, and sighing, and swearing at the keyboard. It got to me.

"'Do you mind? I'm trying to sleep in here!'

"She turned around on the yoga ball in a flash, her eyes murderous.

"'Do you mind getting out of my study you fucking loser!'

"So I left.

"Maybe twenty minutes later I was standing at the kitchen counter in my towel, still wet from my shower, when she came out to apologize.

"'Sorry Travis,' she said, nervously, crossing her ankles and looking embarrassed. "I'm just tense. This deadline is killing me. I'm just . . . blocked creatively, that's all.'

I could sense something in the air so I decided to draw her out a little.

"'What are you gonna do?' I asked, sipping my coffee.

"'I'm gonna go for a hike.'

"'Want some company?' I asked. 'You could tell me about it.'

She just eyed me curiously.

"'Are you sure you can do it?'

"'What? Listen?'

"'No.' She pointed to my bum ankle.

"'Yeah,' I laughed, feeling the tension ease. 'As long as you don't bust out that famous power walking stride I'll be fine.'

She laughed too.

"'I'll go easy on you,' she said, a little sparkle in her eye, maybe.

"So I threw on some shorts and a shirt and we went for a walk.

"The walk was strange. She was acting strange. Objectively I knew the reason but I was having trouble putting it together. She was telling me about her 'creative block,' and I was listening and nodding, and trying to respond at the appropriate moments. But I was beyond distracted by her body language. She was acting exactly the way that girls act when they want to . . . get with me. She was holding herself in just that way: shoulders back, chest forward, pelvis arched so that her butt was sticking out a little further when she walked, swinging her hips a little extra. Even laughing at my jokes and shit. It felt good so I went with it, flirting with her, bumping shoulders as we walked next to each other. We had to walk slowly because of the cast so the hike took maybe two hours. At some point I slowed down even more than I needed to because the vibe was good, and it was leading in the right direction. I guess I was working her. Prolonging the build up.

"That's the problem with me. As soon as a thought like that crosses my mind I have to follow it wherever it takes me. I didn't really have a choice. I was nineteen and bored and horny and I was being flirted with by a veeeerrrrrrry interesting female who was alone for a few days, and unhappy about it, and who liked to fuck.

"I'm not sure why it didn't matter to me at the time that it was my uncle that she liked to fuck. Or maybe it did matter. But not in a way that helped. My uncle was okay, but he could be an asshole too. He wasn't much different than my dad really.

"My heart was racing because I knew I was going to make a play for her and I knew that it was big trouble if she got offended. If I'd misread the signals. But the potential upside . . . jesus she was hot.

"When we got back to the house, she told me, 'Thanks for the . . . company,' with a funny glint in her eye, and then she strutted off to the study, swinging her tail. Not for the first time that day. The whole way home, whenever we got to a narrow spot in the path, I'd let her walk ahead of me, bowing theatrically. 'Ladies first.' 'Such a gentleman!' She knew the deal. I could tell by the way she walked. There's all the difference in the world between the stride of a woman who is just walking from point A to point B, and the stride of a woman who knows that a guy is watching her walk. A guy who . . . interests her.

"So when she strutted off to the study I just followed behind her, real quiet. She must have known. When we were both next to the sofa bed, still unmade, I came up behind her and grabbed her arm and turned her to me and kissed her, gripping her by the back of the head. And when she opened her mouth and kissed me back I felt like my cock was going to shoot right off me. It felt so wrong in my brain, and so right in my balls.

"I knew I had to seal the deal before we had time to think. So I pushed her to the mattress, a little too roughly. She was furious. Mostly I think she felt embarrassed that I'd seen her in that light: as a woman who I could throw to the mattress and fuck. That I'd picked up on the vibe, how obvious it was that she was hot for me, underneath the disgust she'd shown for me all summer.

"She was glaring at me, sprawled on her back, her chest heaving. 'You fucking bastard!' I thought I was done for. Exiled from the Hughes dynasty for eternity.

"'You fucking bastard!' she said again, but this time her eyes were different, wilder. She peeled off the shorts in a flash, breathing hard, and laid back on the mattress, her legs spread wide. What could I do? I dropped my shorts, and flung myself on top of her, and in two heartbeats we were fucking.

"We were fucking like animals. It was an old sofa bed and I remember it was bouncing and creaking like crazy. I ripped off her jog bra, and she ripped off my tee shirt, and just like that we were naked on the mattress with the sunlight streaming through the window while we fucked each other as hard as we could.

"But not hard enough for Tammy. She was on fire. She got a little . . . angry about it: 'Fuck me you little punk! Is that the best you can do? Do something for once you lazy motherfucker and just fuck me with your big fat cock! Is that the hardest you can fuck me?'

"It was hot, yeah, but it kind of pissed me off too, and I guess we got carried away, fucking harder and harder. I wanted to show her what I was made of. What I could do. So I flipped her over. I already had more experience in the sack than most guys twice my age, and she wasn't hard to read. It might as well have been stamped on her forehead: 'Submissive. Rear-entry. Rough.'

"She was all: 'Oh fuck me you big bastard. Oh fuck that's good cock.' She came hard and loud, fingering her button. Then she rolled me to my back and climbed on top and then SHE fucked me. Jesus she fucked me. Maybe two hours later I woke up naked on the mattress alone, with my balls aching, drained to the dregs."

"What happened after that?"

"She kicked me out of the house and told me that if I ever breathed a word of this to anyone she would ruin my life. It was almost the end of the summer so I drove back to Austin and crashed with some friends until the semester started and I moved into the frat house. I haven't seen them much since then, except for the occasional family holiday."

"How come?"

"Because Tammy got pregnant."

"What!?"

"I mean she and my uncle had a baby the next summer."

"When exactly?"

"I think his birthday is in May."

"And the story happened in August?"

He nodded.

"Jesus Travis what are you saying? Did you guys use protection?"

"No. There wasn't time."

"Did you . . . ," I remembered the expression that Lacey had used, "bust a nut inside her?"

"A couple times. But it wasn't my fault."

"What do you mean?"

"She encouraged me to. Loudly. The first time she was on her back and she grabbed me tight by the ass and held me inside her. She was strong when she wanted to be! She was all: 'Cum in my pussy, cum in my pussy.' And the second time I was on MY back and she sort of pinned me beneath her weight and started . . . teasing me. 'You got any more for me stud? You gonna fill me up again?' Doing her kegel squeezes on my cock, as far upside her as she could get it. It was weird. I just assumed she had it covered and she liked it raw and freaky. Lots of girls do, when they're taking precautions."

"Have you ever talked with her about what happened?"

"No way!"

"Can I ask one more question?"

He nodded.

"What does the kid look like?"

Travis shrugged.

"He looks like a combination of my uncle and aunt."

"And what does your uncle look like?"

He shrugged again.

"He looks like a Hughes. We're all cast in the same mold."

"So he looks like you?"

"I guess."

"Jesus Travis! That is INTENSE."

"I know. But it's good to talk about it, actually."

"Have you ever told anyone before?"

He shook his head, holding my gaze.

I lay there for a minute, thinking.

"Why me?"

"Huh?"

"Why tell me about Tammy?"

Travis shrugged.

"I guess it's a 'lost weekend' for both of us."

PART TEN

After Travis finished his story we lay naked on our backs for a while listening to the storm roll past us, the thunder claps growing softer and fainter and the silences between them lengthening. Then Travis fell asleep. I had the back of my hand thrown casually across his stomach and I could feel when his breathing changed.

I wanted to follow him but I couldn't, though I was bone tired. So I lay there watching him. Wondering about him, I guess. About his story.

I don't know why but I kept picturing myself in Tammy's situation. Watching Travis while he slept. Walking with him through the desert. Being fucked by him on the sofa bed. Cumming with him, and then resting, and then cumming with him again.

I guess I could sort of . . . relate to Tammy. What she was going through in her marriage. How badly she must have wanted him. I kept imagining what would have happened if Tammy hadn't gotten . . . frightened and had let him stay a little longer. The whole weekend maybe. The things they would have done in the house: in the loft, and the living room, and on the yoga ball. Especially on the yoga ball. With her hands on the floor and her head hanging upside down, Travis standing over her, her legs wrapped around him . . .
And the whole time I was thinking those things my fingers were in my curls. The semen on my belly and chest had mostly evaporated by then, or oozed down the sides of my rib cage and dried, but my curls were still moist to the touch. I was fascinated by the sight of it, all that milky translucence in that forest of tangled black. I kept working the globules between my fingers, coaxing them through the strands. Then I raised my fingers to my nose and smelled them. The sharp saltiness of my own scent mixed with the mellow bleachiness of Travis's. I held it up to the light and examined it.

I remember thinking about it a lot. What it literally was. A delivery system for hundreds of millions of Travis's sperm, filled with enough alkaline to help them survive the acidity of the place where nature had designed them to be ejaculated, deep in my vagina, and enough fructose to feed them on their long, hard swim.

But I also remember thinking about what it . . . meant to me. To have my body covered by it. Marked by it, I suppose.

Most of the other boyfriends I'd been with would kind of . . . apologize for finishing on my body, especially on the rare occasions when they produced as much stuff as Travis normally did, and shot it as far. Not literally maybe, though sometimes they did say sorry. But they would do things like scramble to wipe it up with a Kleenex, or maybe their underwear if it was nearby, or sometimes, if they kept their cool, they would walk to the bathroom and come back with a warm, wet cloth, washing me slowly.

But Travis didn't do any of that, because he didn't feel sorry. You could see it in his eyes when he leaned back, and relaxed himself, groaning, and then scattered his pearls, hot on my flesh. He acted like it was meant to happen. Like it belonged where he'd put it. Like he knew that I liked it.

And the thing is, I kind of did. Or at least I was starting to. And not just because it pleased him. But because I LIKED being marked by him. That's why I always let it dry on my skin. So I could feel his mark.

I remember thinking all of that before the tiredness took me.

PART ELEVEN

Maybe an hour later my phone dinged: a text from Lacey. Travis and I were both awake. We were still naked and he was spooning me. I reached for my phone.

"Imma be late. Maybe a few more hours. Doing errands for my dad."

I told Travis. Turning to face him.

"So what do you want to do?" I asked.

"I don't know," he shrugged. Then he flashed his eyes. "You wanna fuck again?"

"Yeah" I told him, not hesitating at all. I was . . . excited to fuck again. "But maybe . . . not here, okay?"

"How come?"

"It's too weird having sex with you here, Travis. It's too . . . domestic. You know?"

He nodded.

I was grateful that he didn't make me say more. That was one of Travis's best qualities. He knew when to be quiet.

"So where should we go?" he asked.

Looking back on it I have to admire how skillfully he threw it out there. The seed of the fantasy. It was like my brain started running some automatic program, scrolling through the possibilities of the best places to go for sex with your man when your house, and his house, were out of the question, the adolescent memory still locked in the cells of my body. None of the places I thought of were exactly private. In the front seat of his beamer, maybe, if we parked it somewhere out of the way (maybe up in the foothills, looking down over the city); on the desk in my faculty office (it was tucked away in some miserable basement on the edge of campus and it was the weekend so the building would be empty, for the most part). For a split second I had the crazy idea that he could sneak me into his frat house and fuck me to smithereens on the mattress in his private room upstairs. They all had . . . potential. But none of them seemed right in the end.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think we should keep it simple and go to my dorm room."

"But what if someone sees me?"

"They won't. I'll go first and keep the door open. You wait ten minutes and then follow me. Just bring a laundry basket full of clothes, and walk casually past my door, toward the staircase to the laundry room, and make sure that nobody is behind you or in front of you, and if the coast is clear just duck inside."

"Sounds like you've done this kind of thing before."

"What can I say? I've had some guests who didn't want their identity known. Ladies who had 'things to lose.'"

I laughed. But I was glad for his understanding.

"Besides. There are other advantages to my room."

"Like what?"

"Like nobody will think it's strange to hear a girl getting all, "Unngh Travis! Unnngh Travis!'"

"O my god you are such an asshole!"

"I'm just saying. It wouldn't matter if you do get loud."

And there it was. Another seed of a fantasy.

"Whatever. Just don't start getting all, "Awwwwwwww Peggy, awwwwwww Peggggy' on me, okay? Because that WOULD sound weird coming through the walls of your room."

"Cross my heart."

As soon as he left I slipped off to the bathroom and took a quick, hot shower, washing myself carefully between the legs and cheeks. Then I walked to the master bedroom and opened the closet. I was just about to reach for a bra and panty set when I stopped myself, reflecting calmly. What was the point? I reached for my favorite blue Adidas tracksuit, slipping my arms through the sleeves of the jacket.

What was the point of wearing anything underneath? I'd been naked with Travis all day, and all night before that, and I was going to be naked with him as soon as I stepped in his room. That's why I was going there: to get naked and fuck.

Besides he'll love it, I reflected, zipping the jacket, the nylon cool against my breasts. I slipped the pants over my bottom, stepped into my flip flops, and filled the laundry basket with dirty clothes. Might as well make it look authentic, I thought.

.

PART TWELVE

By the time I got to Travis's room my nerves were shattered. I couldn't believe how crazy it felt strutting down the hall so brazenly for our little afternoon fuck session, and I couldn't believe how close I'd come to getting busted.

I was all set to duck into his room, cradling the laundry basket in my arms, when I stole a last glance over my shoulder just to make sure the coast was clear. And who should be right behind but that cute guy from Travis's fraternity, and from my composition class, wearing his baseball hat as usual.

Shit, I thought to myself.

"Hey Professor Pierce!"

There was nothing to do except return his greeting and walk down to the laundry room together.

He was looking at me strangely the whole time. I guess he could see me bouncing a little extra under the track suit as we walked down the stairs, side by side, making small talk, and when he paused to let me walk through the door to the laundry room ahead of him I had a feeling that he was appraising my backside for the conspicuous lack of panty lines.

"So what are you up to?" he asked, a little gleam in his eye, like he could sense my nervousness and excitement.

"Just doing laundry!" I said, throwing my dirty things in the washer, my heart hammering.

"Forget something?"

I suddenly realized that I hadn't brought any detergent. I was worried that it looked suspicious, sure, but in a way it was the perfect excuse to head back upstairs and ditch my little frat boy admirer. It was SO obvious that he was hot for me, that I was driving him crazy in my little weekend outfit.

"Whoops, I better go back to my apartment!"

"That's okay, I'll loan you some detergent."

"But . . . I forgot quarters too."

"I can loan you some."

"Thanks," I said, returning his flirtatious smile. "I'll . . . pay you back when I come back to the switch the loads."

"Cool," he said, looking satisfied by our new rapport, seating himself on the bench with a magazine to wait for his wash to finish.

"Bye," I told him, flashing my eyes, and turning on my heels, and wiggling a little as I strode away. I'm not sure why.

Then I climbed the steps, and checked over my shoulder again, and this time the hall was empty.

I ducked into Travis's room and slammed the door behind me, making sure to lock it.

And there he was, looking beautiful in his tight boxers, the silver chain with the stone medallion gleaming on his chest, and I realized that he had the music turned up loud (some high energy trance that synced perfectly with my anxious mood) and that he was smiling at me with his eyes and dancing, a vaporizer at his lips.

Then the scent of the fumes hit me and before I knew it the vaporizer was at my lips and I was breathing in deeply, exhaling in Travis's face as he danced up close to me, his leg between mine.

"Is this too domestic?" he asked, grinding his hips and rolling his chest and stomach in that sexy way he always did, the one that showed the girls, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would rock their world when they finally let him take them to bed, or the floor, or the closet, or wherever he made his mind up to fuck them.

I remember feeling . . . lucky to have him all to myself for the next couple of days. And I remember noticing at precisely that moment that Travis had rigged up some kind of strobe light system to his stereo so that the color of the room was shifting with the tempo of the bassline and the bass drum as the trance music droned on and on, the floor pulsing, the LED light strip along the border of the ceiling flashing red, and green, and blue, and green.

"No I told him," taking another hit of the vaporizer. "This is perfect."

"You gonna dance with me?"

I nodded, shimmying my hips.

"You gonna show me your moves, for tonight at the club?"

So I turned around and showed him, shaking it for him, and then backing it up, Travis laughing.

"Yeah girl!"

Jesus I was on fire! It was something about the anxiety of the interaction with Mr. baseball hat in the laundry room, and the effect of the weed, which always made me crazy for sex, and the feel of Travis pressing against me in the tight boxers, hard already, ready to fuck me whenever I was ready, just biding his time, setting the mood, until he could slide it inside me and we could feast on each other's bodies to the beat of the music he'd picked for us, and the vibe of the lights he'd arranged for us, and fueled by the weed that he'd selected specially for his aphrodisiac qualities.

I turned to face him and we grinded our crotches together, my hands around his neck, and when he reached for the zipper of my track suit I shook my head and pushed him away and grabbed him by the hand and led him to the black leather sofa across the room and then pushed him down on his backside, standing over him, still dancing.

And then I danced for him in a new way. It was something I'd always wanted to try but had never had the nerve for, for some reason. Lap dancing for my man. My hands on his knees as I bent toward him and shook my boobs for him in the shiny track suit jacket, and then turning around and squatting low and shaking my booty in his face in the clingy track suit pants, Travis groaning his appreciation. Then groaning louder when I turned to face him again and sat down on his lap, unzipping the jacket slowly, tooth by tooth, his eyes widening as my breasts spilled into view, and then my belly, and then my shoulders and arms, the jacket spilling to the big, shag rug.

"No touching," I scolded him, when he reached for me, like always, swaying my breasts so close to his face that his breath was hot against them, my nipples engorged, grinding against his cock, my sex electrified by the weed and excitement.

But I touched HIM, that's for sure. I touched him everywhere I could. My hands exploring the beautiful body that I'd sculpted for my own pleasure with the yoga classes I'd taught for him all semester, all those poses designed to sculpt his arms, and chest, and neck, and abdomen, admiring my handicraft.

Travis groaning louder still when I stood back up, and turned my backside toward him, and bent forward a little to slide the tracksuit pants right down my hips, and over my buttocks, and to the rug, and then I sat down on him again, utterly naked, grinding my cheeks against his shaft in tempo with the music, picking up pace now, the lights flashing faster, the weed coursing through my veins.

"No touching," I scolded again, when his hands went straight to my breasts, cupping them from behind, groping them from below with his big hands, and his lips went straight to my neck, grazing them, his tongue tasting my sweat.

But he didn't listen this time. He kept cupping, and groping, and tasting and I kept grinding against him through the boxers, his eyes hot on my cheeks.

"You are so bad, Peggy!"

Groping and grinding. Dancing for him.

"You gonna dance for me at the club like that?"

Circling my ass for him, the fantasy taking hold of my brain.

"You gonna dance for me at the club like that where everyone can see?"

Twerking for him, the adrenaline flowing.

"You gonna fuck me at the club?"

He slid his boxers from his hips, and then I sat down on him again, his shaft pressed tight between my naked cheeks, already glistening, the juices flowing like I couldn't believe.

"You gonna fuck me in the back room, Peggy?"

"You can't say my name here," I reminded him, but I did what he wanted. I stood up, and let him angle his cock, savoring the roundness of my backside, and then I sat back down on him, slow and sure, groaning for him.

"Unnnngh Travis."

In my new favorite pose: reverse cowgirl on a couch. My pussy so wet and primed for him that he met no resistance, sinking deep inside me on the first stroke, all the way to his scrotum, though he was stretching me like always, my walls clinging to him tightly.

Keeping the beat together. The lights flashing with every rise and plunge.

"Unnnngh god that's good pussy . . . . Unnnnnnngh god that's tight pussy."

Glowing inside.

"You like my pussy?" The lights flashing red.

"Awwwwww fuck me."

"You like my ass?" The lights flashing green.

"Awwwww fuck me yes!"

"You like how I fuck you?" The lights flashing blue.

Then Travis took control, just how I wanted. Driving up into me. Shaking me with his thrusts.

"You like that cock?" The beat accelerating.

"Unnnngh god!"

"You like fucking my cock?" The beat accelerating further.

"Unnnnngh god!"

"You gonna tell me how much you like it?"

And then I was on my back somehow, the leather cool against my flesh, and he was driving himself into me harder and faster, knocking the breath right out of me.

"Tell me!"

"Unnnngh god that's good cock." My breasts flying.

"Awwwww fuck that's tight pussy." Plugging me tight.

"Unnnnngh god that's big cock."

"Awwwwww fuck that's hot pussy."

Picking up the pace, in time with the music.

I knew I was getting loud and that anyone might hear us: students in the hall, or neighbors through the wall. God knows who they were. But what did it matter? They must be used to it. Girls in Travis's room getting their pussy fucked. Giving him their pussy. Letting him fill it with cock. Telling him how good it was. Louder and louder. I was one of them now. I was Travis's girl.

"You love that cock don't you?"

"Unnnngh Travis! Just fuck me harder!"

And I was glad to be his girl, I reflected, as Travis slipped out of me with a loud wet plop and arranged me on the sofa in a new way, for enhancing his pleasure. I was glad that he picked me as one of his girls. And I was glad that he bent me over the arm of the leather sofa. And I was glad that he was standing behind me now, and groaning, and fucking me senseless with his beautiful cock. Because he was that hot. And he was FANTASTIC at fucking. And there was nothing else I wanted to do right now but fuck and be fucked and he was the best guy to do it with. It was as good as fucking can possibly be. Pure. Raw. Animal fucking in tempo with the beat. The music carrying us. Orchestrating our moves and moods, like we were subject to it, something larger than we were.

The music was choreographed in a way that was perfect for an afternoon of fucking. Up-tempo tracks for ten minutes or more until the both of us were sore and exhausted, accelerating gradually until the pace was frantic. And then slow tempo, chillout phases when both of us could catch our breaths, grinding slowly, never separating for a second unless it was to change the position.

The fast songs were all about thrusting feverishly but the slow songs were about exploring our bodies, our own and each others, our breath lengthening, and our heartbeats, and our pelvises more still, but still moving, in a different way, kissing deeply, our hands sliding across each other's backs, our tongues twining. Massaging him with my sex. His cock swirling inside me, and my pussy flesh swirling around him, in opposite circles.

And at those moments we were more . . . present to each other too. More aware of each other. Of where we were, and who we were. It wasn't just any guy I was fucking. It was Travis. It was Travis Hughes IV. My rich, cocky, handsome frat boy student who'd been pushing my buttons since the first day of the semester, and who had worked me and worked me, biding his time, and then scored me after his frat party at a moment of weakness, and then pushed his advantage and scored me again, and again after that, until I was putty in his hands, and now I was fucking him around the clock like it was my one job on earth, crazy for his body. Crazy for HIM. Eyes locked together as we surveyed each other's faces.

And as the beat accelerated again I was thinking. THIS is the guy. THIS is the one. THIS is the man who is fucking me right now and making me feel this way. THIS is the guy with his cock in my pussy and THIS is the guy who is making my breasts bounce a little harder now, as the tempo quickens further, and THIS is the guy who in five minutes, when the tempo crests, will make me cum on his cock.

THIS is the guy who fucks this way. Travis. He was an arrogant prick to me all semester and he pushed the boundaries in a way that he shouldn't have but I'm glad he did because it was for my own good. He knew. Somehow. He knew that we could fuck this way. He knew that I would love it, and that he would love it, and he put a plan in motion to make it really happen, as crazy as it seemed, as impossible, and I was glad he did because the fucking was that good. It was worth all of it. All of the tension and anxiety and trouble with Matthew and now it was the only thing that could take that away. Nothing else could give me this oblivion and pleasure now except fucking Travis. For as long as I needed and as often as I wanted and whatever way we could think of. That's all that was happening now. I was fucking this guy. Travis.

I was fucking Travis now on the big, shag rug because that's where he wanted to fuck me. He was finished fucking me on my back on the sofa, and on my knees on the sofa, and then over the arm of the sofa, and now he was fucking me on the big, shag rug. That's where I was now. On my back on the rug. Naked. Being fucked by Travis.

And the music was getting faster and I was fucking him faster and it was still Travis. It was Travis that I was fucking, faster and harder, and it was Travis's cock that I was cumming on, and it was opening me deeper, and the music was still getting faster and so was the fucking. And so was the cumming. The cumming was getting faster. And it was still Travis. Looking at me. Fucking me with his cock.

And then the music slowed down again and it was Travis who was turning me over, who was flipping me onto my knees, again, on the big shag rug and feeding his cock to me, using me with it until I was using it back, over and over. His thrusts were in time with the beat and the strobe lights were in time with the beat and every time he fed me his cock, slow and hot, filling me with meat, it was a new color, a new flash of light, all through the room, and all through my body, his cock like some hot, hard, electric wand of light all through my insides, up my spine to my cortex and down again to my hot tail, working for him, just how he liked it.
And I wasn't thinking anything except: ungh . . . boom . . . flash . . . Travis . . ungh . . . boom . . . flash . . . cock. Over and over and I didn't want it to ever stop. And it was Travis's cock. And I was cumming on Travis. Because that's who was fucking me like this. Who was turning me over. Opening me further.

And it was Travis's thumb that was pulsing me to the music. That was slipping against my anus as his cock kept feeding me all that energy, all that light and heat, making my backside shake. Because it was all too much, the voltage coursing through me, and I needed to . . . release it somehow, to let it flow right through me. And it was Travis's thumb that was pulsing against my anus, in time with the music, and every beat of it against my tight, red drum was making the room change color: red, and blue, and green, an infinity of hues and patterns.

And I knew that he had planned it because his thumb was slippery with lube (he must have stashed it nearby again) and I knew that maybe he'd been planning this since the beginning of the semester, since that first day in class when he eyed me in my teaching clothes and made a note to check out my yoga class the next day. And I was glad he came to yoga, and I was glad that he liked what he saw, my backside when he walked me home from class that time and held the door open for me to walk through it in front of him,, my tail swaying for him, subtly, with a mind of its own, and I was glad that he worked me however it took until I gave it to him, what he'd pictured in his mind.

Because that's how good it felt, being fucked this way by a guy like Travis. By a stud like Travis. Being penetrated by his cock and thumb. The music was at a lull, and I was gasping, and he was feeding me his thumb, easing it deeper, millimeter by ecstatic millimeter, stretching me in new ways. And then it was in me as deep as it could be, to the joint of his hand, and he was turning it like a key, unstopping my resistance.

And I was thinking: THIS is fucking. This is FINALLY fucking. This is what fucking REALLY feels like. This fucking with Travis. This cock in my pussy and this big thumb sliding to the root inside me now and making me spasm with pleasure, slippery with lube. Because Travis wanted this, and he planned for it, and now he is making it happen. And I am glad he did, because he knew that I would love it, and I do, and I want it to keep happening. This real kind of fucking that fills me like this. With the cock and the thumb and the sheer, unadulterated balls of a stud like Travis who knows what he wants, and what I want, deep down, and has the will to take it.

Fucking and fucking, the mantra pouring out of me, high and nasal, my voice unrecognizable:

"Unnnnnnnngh Travis . . . . unnnnngh fuck me . . . . unnnnngh Travis . . . unnnnnnngh fuck me!"

In time with the beat. Louder than the music. Not caring who heard us. Who heard me fucking Travis. Squeezing him with my deep core as my buttocks tensed and relaxed and tensed and relaxed, his thumb planted at my center, moving with me.

"Awwwww fuck me you little slut."

"Unnngh Travis."

"Awwww fuck me that's hot."

"Unngh Travis."

"AWWWW fuck me you are SO hot when you fuck my cock with your sexy little ass."

"Unnnngh Travis."

"And your tight little pussy."

"Unnngh Travis."

"Oh Fuck me you little fuck doll."

"Unnngh Travis."

"Oh fuck me you little slut."

"Unngh god."

I didn't mind the words, at the moment, because the fucking felt too good, and because in my mind it was true. I WAS his little fuck doll. And I WAS his little slut. And I could tell because I was cumming and cumming and cumming on his cock, and on his big thumb, my rose contracting around it, and I knew it was Travis because I kept saying it again and again.

"Ungggh Travis . . . Unnngh Travis."

And then I was on my belly on the floor and I felt his balls pulsing, and I felt the bassline through the floor, and I felt his cock withdrawing from my pussy and then sliding between my checks, wet and throbbing, and then I could feel him cumming. I still remember how . . . elated I felt. That he was cumming on my backside. That it pleased him that much, what I'd been doing with it for him. The shape of it, and the size, and the way it jiggled when I moved it. The way I still was moving it as he kept cumming and cumming, up the crevice between my cheeks, and into the small of my back, and up the lower vertebra of my spine

And I was glad that he was cumming. That I had made him cum. In the space between my cheeks, and pooling in my sacrum, because it meant that he liked the fucking. That he loved it and he would back for more. For more and more of whatever he wanted. For whatever he had planned for us. For whatever he was bold and determined enough to make happen for both of us. His crown was tight against my anus now, and it was slippery with cum, and I was pulsing against it, feeling wet and open and ready for whatever he wanted.

PART THIRTEEN

Afterward we lay on the rug for maybe ten minutes, catching our breaths, the music droning through the speakers, slower now.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked me.

"Doing what?"

He shot me a look. I laughed, my boobs jiggling.

"I don't know," I shrugged. "Because the sex is good. And because I enjoy your company. And because it's a good . . . distraction. You know from everything that's happening with my marriage."

He nodded.

"But why do you think we're always . . . escalating things?"

"What do you mean?"

He shot me another look. I laughed. Of course I knew what he meant.

"I don't know . . . . it's like an addiction!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think it's called a flame addiction."

"What's that?"

"It's an idea from the neuroscience of infidelity. It means that . . . people having an affair behave exactly like people who are addicted to a drug like heroin. Except for the people in the affair they are addicted to the orgasm hormones (oxytocin and dopamine especially) and they keep coming back for more and more, and taking bigger and bigger risks to increase the dose."

"Is that why you were saying my name so loud?" he teased. "For a bigger dose?"

I nodded, gazing at him, so beautiful on his back naked, his skin brown against the plush white rug, the tone shifting as the lights kept flashing.

"Did you like it?" I asked.

He nodded back.

"How come?"

"Promise not to judge me? Or get freaked out?"

"Yes."

"Because for that one moment: you're mine. It's me that's fucking you, and who's making you cum, and you know it, and I know it, because otherwise you wouldn't keep saying my name."

I reflected for a minute, watching him closely.

"Is that why you put your thumb in my ass. To make me say your name?"

"Yeah. Did you like it?"

I didn't even think about it before I answered.

"Yeah," I told him, meeting his eyes, "I LOVED it."

"You ever done that before?"

I shook my head.

I could sense how pleased he felt. How excited. I didn't mind. He . . . deserved it. The sense of achievement.

I cuddled up to him on my side, my head on his chest. Stroking his abdomen. Watching his cock soften, still long and plump. I could feel his semen running down my back to the floor.

"So I guess it's out of our control then?" he said. "Is that what you're saying? Philosophically speaking. That there's no such thing as free will?"

"I don't know Travis. I'm too high to be having this conversation."

"Maybe you're just high enough."

"Maybe," I laughed. "But I'm definitely too hungry."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'll order a pizza," he said, reaching for his phone on the coffee table. "What do you want on it?"

I thought about it for a second, closing my eyes.

"Meat," I told him. "I want lots of meat."