A 'B' or not a 'B'

I open her panty drawer and poke through it. I'm trying to piss her off. I'm hornier than hell but I'm wary, too, I want to get some idea of what this is all really about before I do what I came for. But it's starting to get a little weird and way too complex — there's something going on here that's not fitting into any data base I have ever known. I'm just about to beg off. I'm thinking of asking her for a date just as an excuse to get out of there, but she butts in. "I have a theory, do you want to hear it? It'll take a little time."

"Sure," I said, walking over and flopping on her bed, stretching out. "Fire away." I fold my hands behind my head and wait, not caring if she notices my hard-on.

She sits down on her computer chair and wheels it closer to the bed and puts her feet up, and totally relaxes, the first time she's relaxed since we got here. "If a really beautiful girl and I are out hitch-hiking, she will get a ride way faster than me ... every time. Right?"

Not going to work. "Be objective, Marta. You're not going to get me to admit you're not beautiful."

"OK, but you take my point."

I shrug, non-commitally.

"That beautiful girl is treated beautifully all the time, so much so that she begins to believe she's beautiful, right? I mean beautiful in all situations. It stand to reason: keep on being told you're beautiful, get all that positive feedback, in all those different situations, all those cars screeching to a halt, and you begin to believe it ... pretty much all of the time."

I shrugged. Nothing terribly original here, I thought she's supposed to be smarter than this — she is almost always first in her class.

"So think about this same thing a different way. What if you've got a deep scar slashing down the side of your face and that scar gives you a perpetual grimace. People will think you're angry, annoyed, mad at the world, right? I mean that's what a grimace means. And you know what? Here's my theory: just like with the beautiful girl, if people perceive you a certain way then, because of the constant feed-back, that's the way you begin to approach the world, that's the way you become. The guy with the scowling scar will eventually begin to scowl. It's like a self-fulfilling prophecy written on his face. He might not be a scowler at all, he might be the happiest guy in the world, but because he looks a certain way that's the way he'll be treated — that's what people expect, so over time, that's what he delivers because perception is reality, Mike and it's a whole lot easier giving people what they want then trying to change their minds."

"And your point is?"

"That's obvious, isn't it? I have a kind of scowl. I was born with it. Everyone thinks I'm a pissed-off librarian-in-the-making, they always have and that's the way they've treated me. And I've kind of become that way, I've kind of fulfilled their expectations of me, of their wishes for me, but it's not me, Mike, not at all. I'm somebody entirely different than that and I want to start becoming the person I really am." She gently kicks me on the thigh. "Here's where you come in. The me I want to be is full of love ... for you, as it turns out and she's full of fun and adventure and a lot of other great things. But I'll never be able to express myself alone. I know that. I'm way to easy to type-cast. That's why I want you. Because I love you, sure, but I also want you for the credibility you will give me. I want to be your partner because that will change everything for me. I will be seen, and more importantly, I will see myself as part of a loving couple getting on with life. The scowl won't be gone but with you on my arm nobody's going to much notice."

I was studying her face while she was talking. Her pinched and pouty mouth does make her look like a pissed-off librarian, it always has. Maybe she isn't, maybe everyone has her wrong but the love part is really well hidden. I don't see that at all. "You love me. You know that?"

She stretched her pout into a smile. "Have since grade 8."

"Kept it a secret."

She nods. "Until now."

"The bottled-up kind of love then." I'm teasing because I don't know how else to handle this.

"The cap had to come off."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

She kicks me again as if trying to wake me up. "Fuck me and fall in love with me." She totally relaxes in the chair, slumping down, crossing her feet. "I saw a quiz last week. It's what got me thinking; it's what started all of this." She folds her hands on her lap. "The question was: When does a relationship become a commitment? Here were the four choices: A. When a couple becomes exclusive; B. When a couple becomes sexually intimate; C. When a couple decides to live together; D. When the couple becomes married? What's your answer?"

"I haven't got one." I was trying to digest the question and the answers. "I've never thought about it."

"Well think." For the first time she's showing a little impatience.

"That's unfair. You've had days to think about it. Anyway, I don't think I would have an answer, I don't know anything about that kind of stuff."

"No?" She can lift her eyebrows well above the top rim of her glasses.

"No."

She smiles and uncrosses her legs to kick me again. "You're wrong."

I don't know how she knows this and I don't care. It's getting a little uncomfortable in here. I hate being confused, I hate back-peddling all the time and I hate feeling stupid. But there is something about her that's getting to me a little bit, and it isn't just the vicious body she wants me to get busy on. How many girls tell you they love you? It's never happened to me before and I wouldn't be shocked if it never happened again. And, I'm thinking, maybe I'm having a hard time with this because I'm one of the people she was talking about when she talked about the scar and the scowl: geeks don't tend to see themselves as love-interests because no one else does either. But enough thinking. "Look, you're 21 years old; you're going to be a nurse in 2 years; you've lived just a fraction of your life; you're going to meet hordes of people; you're going to grow into an entirely different woman while society changes all around you. What makes you think I'm the only one for you? I just don't get that."

She is ready for this, I can tell. This is the softball she's been waiting for. She sits forward a bit as if she is about to say something profound. "I'm not the type to fall in love, Mike — that's the last thing I want to do. But I do want to BE in love ... with you. For me, there's no falling; it's a decision. I've thought it through a thousand times. You're what I want, you're the guy I want to work hard for all my life. I'm not a romantic. Maybe I've become the way I look, a stern pragmatist ... but I just happen to be a stern pragmatist who is brimming over with love ... for you. That's a fact, Mike. Accept it."

"Not falling in love. Deciding on love." I am trying to work through the difference, which I think I got.

"A decision I'm ready, willing and able to make. Ya. I want you."

I eye her cooly, surprised that I'm taking her seriously. "What if I'm not prepared to make that decision?"

She shrugs. "Then I lose because I don't think you'll ever fall in love with me. You have to decide you want to love me."

"So I'm supposed to do that here and now? Is it that easy?"

She leans forward even further, a bit combatively I think. "I know you, Mike, I've watched you for years. Ya, that's all it will take. You won't make that decision unless you're sure it will work. But that decision is obviously entirely up to you. I've made mine. All I'm doing here is trying to convince you that my half of the deal is totally genuine, that I'm totally into it. Obviously, you have to decide for yourself, but I don't want you to have any doubts about me. None."

"You know me?" She keeps saying this.

"Yep." She sits back and looks at me defiantly.

This just occurs to me. "Wanna take a test?"

"Sure." Her eyes flash with confidence.

I wait for a moment to get her undivided attention. "Your quiz. Would I pick A., B., C. or D?"

"Oh, you bastard," she whispers, then she smiles and kicks me yet again. "Crafty, Mike, you've always been crafty."

"You were trying to trick me, weren't you. That's what this is about?"

She flicks her fingers at me dismissively. "Hardly tricking you."

"You had me down as a B, didn't you? You're thinking, one fuck and, bam, I've got the guy for life. He'll never flee: he's too honest, too honourable, too much of a gentleman."

She doesn't say anything. She has the good grace not to deny it. But she does squirm a bit and she rubs her shoe against my leg. And she does smile.

I've been on my side, facing her with my head propped up in my hand. I fall on my back and look at the ceiling glad that she is letting me think. But I can't think, not really. I'm too horny for that, physically, but I'm turned-on, too: my head is swirling at the same speed that my cock is throbbing. I reached out and when I undo the bow on her left shoe her eyes widen and a smile blossoms from her pouty pucker. "Are you prepared to risk it?" I ask.

She knows exactly what I mean. She's looking straight into my eyes. There's a tenseness there but I can see some confidence, too. "Am I prepared to bet my body that you're a B?"

"Ya." I'm playing with the lace, waiting for her answer.

"Ya, I am." The confidence is gone. She looks somehow smaller, more vulnerable.

I undo the lace. "You were really sexy back there, you know. You don't know how close I was to losing it." I can see her chest is heaving but she isn't saying anything. I take off her shoe, dropping it on the floor and I start in on her sock. "Actually, I thought of you once while I was masturbating ..."

Her hands are down by her sides, they appear rigid, the knuckles on her left hand look white. "I think of you all the time ..."

"It was a power thing." I am taking my time with the sock. "You were really pissed off at someone for something that day and later I imagined you ... sort of in my power." I drop the sock and lean forward and take her big toe in my mouth and I can feel her stiffen when I suck on it and I slide my hand up her leg as far as the jeans will allow. "I've never done anything to a woman before, I've just read about it." I watch her face as I suck her other toes. "I loved looking at you on that couch. It got to be an unbelievable turn-on."

Her arms are stretching as tight as they can, she is pushing her shoulders up to her ears. "I want to see you, Mike. Would you take your clothes off?"

I suck on her toes some more, maybe for a minute, long slurping sucks and I work my tongue between them. I feel more naughty than anything, like I'm doing something to her that has never been done to her before, something a little outrageous. I'm surprised how much I like doing it. "Promise not to move?"

"God, Mike."

"Promise?"

When she nods I lean back and quickly strip then I turn towards her on my side, with my stiff prick in my hand. "What do you think?"

"I think you have six more items to take off me." She wiggles her shoe.

I take her other shoe off quickly but linger with her sock which, when I have it off, I lay on my back and dangle over my nose. "You smell nice, Marta. I remember your skin when I pushed my face into your belly. I remember the smell and the feel of it."

"Come on, Mike."

I turn back to her, dropping the sock. She looks like she's in pain. I lean forward and lightly bite all her toes, licking between them. "Do you like to get licked?"

"God ..." She has her eyes closed, she is somewhere else.

"Do you?" I suck and bite three toes at once.

She is rigid, she's holding her breath, then she sighs and says, "I've never been with a guy, you know that."

"Do I?" Yes, I guess I do, not that I have ever thought about it, or her, for that matter, except for that one time when I was flogging and I wanted to ... I'm not sure what I wanted, maybe just to dominate her, just for a minute. I pull back a little and study her foot, the first foot I have ever really looked at, including my own. She has some nail polish on her toenails but it's more chipped away than anything, but, even so, she has pretty attractive feet. Well, they aren't ugly.

I go back to kissing and sucking her toes and running my hand up the inside of her pant leg to squeeze her calf. "I've always had this thing about sex," I say, "because of my parents. They don't have sex in front of me or anything, obviously, but it's really easy to see they love to touch each other, they're always doing that, not in their private places but ... Anyway, I love the way they treat each other and I've always wanted to be like them someday, to find someone I love to touch. They're so happy with each other. I don't think of it as sex, that's what Biff and Buck were doing back at the house, and there's a lot to be said for that, don't get me wrong, but I really want to be able to touch someone and that someone really has to want to touch me."

"You won't let me." She's in full pout; her eyes are out of focus.

"But do you know what I mean?"

"Intimacy." She says the word like she's talking to an idiot. "Of course I know what you mean. It's what I dream about all the time. Intimacy with you."

"Like this?" I am still licking and biting.

She shifts a bit. I can get my hand a little higher up her pant leg. "Only the way I imagine it, you're in the chair and I'm touching you."

I take her by the leg and as I pull the chair towards the bed I pull myself onto her legs so my head is just past her knees. When I wrap my arms around her and grasp the top of her buns she puts both hands in my hair and starts to massage my scalp. It feels so great I could easily just stay there until she grew tired of it but I'm way too horny for that; I rest for about a minute before I start pulling myself upwards with my face still pressing into the gap between her legs; she's pulling on my jaw and sliding down so my face soon lands in her lap. It's hot and soft and damp there and it smells. I nuzzle hard into her and she helps me, pushing me down while thrusting up and I kiss her jeans and lick them, trying to find some taste. But I can't resist any longer. I rub my prick against her ankle, just a few times and it comes shooting from within me like an erupting volcano, it charges through me in an instant and I pump out a gallon of the stuff as I thrash myself against her boney ankle.

Then it's over. I can feel my prick shrinking in a pool of the cream. I can feel my chest heaving against her boney knees. I can feel her body as rigid as that statue, pressing against me while her hands squeeze my head into her lap.

I don't want her to move, to do anything, to say anything. I want to just lie there for a minute and think about what the pouty pucker is thinking? Is she mad? Is she disgusted? Do I care? Her leg moves slightly and I can feel my half hard-on shift in its sauce. I know she is uncomfortable, she has to be but she holds me there, allowing me to recover. Do I want to run? Do I want to stay? I'm confused. I've never felt this way. But when I nuzzle further into her damp and smelly jeans I know I haven't had enough.

Her hand is on my back now, rubbing it gently, reassuringly. I can feel her relaxing, she seems softer now, more comfortable. "I had no idea I could ever love you this much, Mike. I had no idea I had this much love in me."

I adore the weakening feeling after a great orgasm. "Do you love me enough to get me onto that bed and yourself in beside me without altering this mood?" I mumble the words into the damp fragrance of her jeans.

She hesitates for a moment before moving with surprising dexterity. She is a strong girl who is little challenged by dragging a wimp like me, dolly-like, onto his back. She is just tucking in beside me when I remember the deposit I've left on her leg. I make to get up but she pins me down. "I want to clean you," I protest.

"I may never clean that off, Mike. God, that was just so unbelievable." The puckering pout looking down on me doesn't, for the first time, look so pursed in displeasure. Her mouth now looks ready to be kissed. I pull her down as I move away and she is suddenly on her back looking up at me, wide-eyed and breathless. "I thought you might leave," she says, stroking my face.

I bend down and lick her lips then I lick all around them before gently placing mine on hers and she nibbles at me, moaning all the time. I let her do this for awhile then I pull away and look down on her. "So you think I'm a B, eh? One fuck and I'm here for life?"

"You're a B," she says, with utter confidence.

"So what does that splash on your leg mean?"

She smiles her pout away. "That's just foreplay, Mike. Alas, it doesn't count."

"And slap and tickle?"

"Mere exploration, checking out the goods. No fuck — it doesn't count, either."

"Licking, sucking, probing?" I put my hand under her shirt and feel the softness of her belly.

"Inspection only: prudent: caveat emptor."

"Oral, anal?"

"You'd be just kicking the tires, Mike."

"Masturbation, bondage?"

"A test drive, little more."

"Swinging?"

"Merely sharing."

"Sadomasochism?"

"Inevitable, Mike ... if you are to say 'no' to me."

But I don't feel like saying no to her. Not yet. The way I figure it, one more orgasm would cool me off, another would make me cold and if I can hang around for a third I'd be so sexually sober I could easily strut on out of her life forever. I reach over and pull her head towards me then I lie there and take it, take the tongue lashing that brings me perilously close to my next big hurdle.

She is panting when she rolls away. She falls on her back and looks at the ceiling. "God, Mike, this is way better than I ever imagined. Way, way better. I expected more fumbling, not just you, me, too, more awkwardness, more hesitation, more difficulty ... connecting. I didn't expect your noises, I hoped for them, but I couldn't imagine what they would sound like." She looks over at me and her pucker grows into another smile. "We can do this, Mike. We're good at it." Then she arches up. "I've got to get out of these."

I watch her unbutton and unzip her jeans. "Don't take your panties off."

She doesn't, she just kicks away her jeans and sits up, quickly undoing and throwing away her bra. She turns to face me and holds her breasts in her hands. "You like these, Mike, at least you've always really liked them when I'm ... conjuring you. You've made it so I don't mind lugging them around any more."

They are big and soft and white and comfortable-looking. But, somehow, they don't suit her. They are too generous, too sexy, too feminine for the girl I've watched growing up. She has really big dark circles and really long, really stiff-looking nipples. "What would I do with them ... when you were conjuring me?" She is sitting with her legs crossed so I can easy see the huge wet spot between her legs. She doesn't care. I reach out and gently touch the wetness.

She flinches then smiles. "What do you do with them? Suck, bite, squeeze them, put your cock between them, rub them against you ... but mainly you just wanted them to be there for you when we were alone, like without the bra. You never let me wear a bra in our house." She drops her breasts and caresses the back of my hand as I run my fingers around her wetness.

"And you were OK with that?" I have a long way to go before I can understand this girl. But I'm trying and that really surprises me.

"OK with it? Sure, I was OK with it. Are you kidding?"

"Do you have bras where you can see your nipples poking out?" I don't like that the pink bra hid them.

She leans back on her arms, entirely comfortable with me looking at her breasts and playing with her wet spot. "A bag of them, Mike but I don't like wearing them because people stare so much." I can feel her pressing a little against my fingers. "But I won't care about that if I can pull this off. I won't care about that if I'm with you. I'll probably love it. I'll be proud of it, proud of them."