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“Ohesotte nani?” I asked on the way to the bathroom, examining my navel. Beth, reading on the floor, ignored the question.

From the door of the bathroom, I looked down at her for probably twenty seconds before I said, quietly with a hint of humor, something completely out of character for me: “Spread your legs.” This she reacted to, but only barely. She lifted and spread her knees so I could peer down her skirt. She continued to read.

Beth and I had taken to [tag]teasing[/tag] each other and, behind her book, I could see a slight mischievous grin. Turnabout being fair play, I turned my back and closed myself into the bathroom. We were going to be late for an important Japanese quiz, but I didn’t much care. I counted to two hundred after I had flushed, then made my exit.

She was still reading.

Still lying with her legs apart, she waited about five heartbeats before looking at me. My belt was still unfastened, and she, with the book held nonchalantly in one hand, said “Do you want some help with that?”

“Spread your legs wider,” I suggested; it was not an order.

Still holding on to the book, she pulled her skirt up enough to allow her to comply. Her mischievous grin was not so slight anymore. “I’d very much like help with this,” I said. She arched an eyebrow. “Please,” I finished.

She rose to her knees and ran her hands up my thighs to my belt. She ignored the belt and opened the buttons on my jeans. I tried to take a scolding tone, but my smile leaked through: “You’re going to make us late for our quiz.” Her only response was a “hmm” and her fingers slowly rubbing me through my underwear.

While continuing to softly stroke me, she maneuvered me into a chair. One hand slid over the top of my underwear and grasped me firmly, her hand cool against me. She began to work me very, very slowly while looking straight into my eyes with the look that she knew drove me crazy.

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All I wanted was a nice, safe, monogamous relationship.

Of course in high school I was a simple guy, a bit different from the rest of the people where I grew up. I had a direction and a purpose; where most kids were interested in going to parties and getting drunk (and maybe a peek if they were lucky), I wanted to study and make something of myself.

You know the kind. Poor white trash trying to make something of himself; the kid in the corner with the glasses held together by tape, calculator in hand. If this were an earlier age, he’d be trying to read the little black numbers off the slipstick; maybe in the future it’s a laptop with holograms projecting out of it’s surface.

Except that I never wore glasses. My parents told me that in order to get along in this life you need to dress well and look good, and who gives a damn about your brains. So I’m just shy of 6 feet tall and fairly well built; I even play waterpolo when sufficiently drunk enough not to care. But my desire was to be a professional, perhaps a systems analyst, with a nice wife and a couple of kids. The dog in the front yard and the Volvo in the garage is optional, of course.

When I was admitted into Pacific Tech, I was elated. All the hard study and good grades allowed me into one of the toughest schools in the state. Yes, the place had a 6 to 1 ratio male to female, but I was only there to study. As soon as I figured out what I wanted to do with my life, and as soon as I graduated to a successful job I would go about finding that nice woman who I could marry and live happily ever after with. My life was progressing quite nicely, thank you, and on the path I foreordained for myself.

One of the first things that happens at PacTech (as we all knew the place) was “Freshman Camp”, a place where all the students went to learn about the honor code and meet the various fraternities. It’s generally a three-day affair which takes place in a small cove just south of Avon on Santa Catalina Island.

We all gathered in the middle of the student houses for the bus ride out. The freshman class, about 200 students, brought their gear out and waited. Looking around I found more than a sufficient supply of calculators hanging from nerdy guy’s belts to satisfy the computational requirement of any one of NASA’s space probes. I was glad for my parent’s advice to keep care of myself and my appearance; I certainly stood out from the crowd!

The busses arrived, and the great mass proceeded to stuff themselves in. Not in any particular hurry I moved to the back of the second bus, and made myself comfortable. As the bus packed, a rather pretty girl picked me out, and worked her way to the back to join me.

She wore a rather tight leather miniskirt, a tank top, and a black leather jacket; the exception to the rule of t-shirts and messed up hair. From this vantage I saw a rather shapely ass and thighs dressed in black fish-net stockings, and something inside of me awoke for the first time.

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Well, this is my first attempt revealing experiences that I have never shared with another person (other then when it happened, of course).

You say, “what prompts you to write about this stuff?” Well, the answer is simple. I have read x-rated stories on BBS’, read those HOT stories in the adult magazines, and have lived with the fact that none of that exciting type of stuff has ever happened to me.

In the hope that others will share what they believe to be their benign stories, let me share one of mine…

The year was 1979, I was a college student in Chicago at an extremely competitive school, one where books and studying were the norm. Relationships were for after college.

Anyway, it had been a long, hard semester. I had gotten pneumonia and had had a very tough time completing all my courses on time and successfully. I am sure I would have failed at least one course if not for my friend Melinda. She took notes in class for me and made an effort to get me up to speed enough to complete my final exams.

By the end of the semester I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. I looked forward to nothing more than packing up my belongings and heading home for some rest and relaxation… and no libraries.

It was around 8:30pm the night before I was set to head home. I was packing up my belongings and blasting the radio… the most appropriate method of psychological release at the moment. Suddenly at more door appeared Melinda and several other friends and acquaintances, including Tami. Tami lived in the room next to Melinda. With all the time I spent studying and cramming with Melinda it was always a pleasure to admire Tami. She was extremely cute, a year younger and a great conversationalist. Whenever we took a break from studying it was always a joy to sit and talk about everything and nothing with Tami. I had always been interested in her, but never had the opportunity as our relationship was definitely aiming in the platonic direction.

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Jerry Gilman yawned and wiped his face with a towel. He stared blearily at his watch. Slowly, his eyes focused on the face. 2:30 A.M. He carefully put down the soldering iron and stared at the device on his bench.

The Amplifier didn’t look like much. A tangle of wiring and integrated circuits. In the center was one of the new room-temperature superconducting chips. He’d had to scrounge it from the University’s Supplies Department…well, he thought…steal it, really.

The idea had come to him one day as he worked on his PhD thesis. He was working on a double doctorate, Cognitive Science and Electronics. His thesis had to do with ‘coupling’ to brain signals. Originally, he’d expected the work to lead to better EEG machines.

But a breakthrough had happened. Jerry had realized that there were two sides to communicating with the brain. And the new superconductors…He had been working like a fiend for two months. He hadn’t mentioned it to his thesis advisors–the implications were too huge. So he’d had to pretend to be working on his original thesis. This amounted to two full-time jobs, and the effort was beginning to tell on him.

He shut everything down and went to his apartment to crash. He slept for 48 hours straight, then returned to the lab.

In the light of day, the Amplifier looked even less imposing. His calculations and tests said it should work. But would it?

He placed the Amp into a small plastic box and put the unit in his pocket. In the other pocket went the heavy battery pack which would power it. Grunting, he made a note to work on minimizing the power requirements. A fine wire ran under his shirt, up his neck, and to a small adhesive patch on his temple. He covered the patch with a cap.

Inspecting himself in the mirror, he decided the set-up was unobtrusive enough. Only the thin wire was visible. He strolled outside onto the campus. It was a sunny, bright day, and the green quadrangle was filled with students. Jerry switched on the Amplifier. He staggered, almost fell to his knees. A wave of thoughts and emotions surged through his mind. Frantically, he fumbled for the gain control. At last, he had adjusted the Amp so that he could deal with the input. (click to read entire story…)

“Hi Craig.” she said as we passed in the hallway, “remember me?” It isn’t that I didn’t recognize her, it’s just that I didn’t expect to ever run into her again. Hilary had graduated from the university some four or five years earlier, and it is pretty unusual for former students to return to visit beyond a year or two after graduation.

“Well hello Hilary, what are you doing here?” I replied, a little surprised, since I didn’t remember her being overly friendly with me, especially since I was merely on the staff at this university, and not one of the faculty.

Hilary explained that she had been invited back to give a guest lecture to the current students on the life of a working actress on the road with bus and truck musicals.

These are revivals of old standard musicals, usual a performing vehicle for some fading variety star of twenty years ago, like Robert Goulet or Debbie Reynolds. They go from city to city playing anywhere from one day to a couple of weeks. It can mean being on the road for months at a time. The name comes from the fact that the scenery travels in a truck, and the performers in a bus. The hours are long and the work grueling, and the hotel rooms are all the same. However, the pay can be excellent, and competition for the roles is tough. If you can last it out on the road for any length of time, you are good, and you are tough.

And Hilary was tough. When she was a theatre student, she was not one your stars-in-the-eyes innocent acting students. Quite the contrary, as the daughter of professional performers, she knew what it took to succeed, and because of that she worked hard at her craft. After four years of intense study, she had developed into a talented singer, actress and dancer.

Her biggest drawback as a performer was that she was small. Petite is perhaps a better word. Standing barely five feet tall, Hilary was not the standard show girl type. All the more need for talent and sheer will to get ahead in the business.

Her small stature was never a drawback in my book. Being on the short side of average height myself, I always had a preference for small women. And Hilary fit my ideal almost to a ‘T’. At five foot, she may have weighted ninety five pounds or so, but her small body was exquisitely shaped and well packed to boot, her shape reminded me of Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing. When she was still a student I can remember watching her rehearse, and being fascinated with her small taut round thighs and her pert tits, that jiggled so nicely when she danced. My pulse would quicken rise whenever she was dancing on stage and an actor would lift her so that her costume would rise to reveal her high round butt encased in lycra and lace. She was the kind of vision that would occupy both my sleeping and waking dreams. I spent much of my time back stage watching her great little ass.

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