Psych Credit

"Let's talk about it."

"My underwear?" Even to her, her voice sounds like a child's.

He nods his head, then says, "But in the interest of fair disclosure, I must report that I'll have a hard on when we do, have one now."

She wants to laugh, or blush or flee or do something, something other than what she does, she asks, "You do?" in the same child-like voice that is still obnoxiously reverberating in her own ears.

Then he explains to her that most men, as far as he knew, found women's panties and women's bras really sexy, really stimulating, not on every woman, he looks around the coffee house and in doing so makes his point, but that even the plainest woman can be made more attractive, more interesting to men even if they only hint that they wear sexy panties. Men didn't actually have to see them, just knowing they're there is a turn on.

"And knowing what I'm wearing is a turn off?"

No, he explains, not a turn off per se, but, in truth, he would think of her differently if she was trying to be just a bit provocative, if she thought of herself as being sensual and sexy enough for Victoria's Secret. "I mean, it's all about messages."

"But if I didn't tell you about what I'm wearing, how would you know?"

"It's all about messages, Gail," he repeats what he thinks is an aphorism, then adds, "they're the default brand, send another message and let my imagination do the rest."

When she gets home, she studies herself in the small mirror in the shared bathroom. She looks for something that would send out a message, the message that 'I am an intelligent, sexual, exciting woman and I want you to know that.' But it isn't there, she can't find it so she takes off her sweater and she takes off her pants and though she can't see herself in the small mirror, only her face, she does feel more exposed and she thinks she can detect that in her eyes, and when she lightly touches her nipple through the tight material of her white jog bra she thinks she can see a little spark in her eyes, and then her fingers find her panties and she walks them along the thin cotton, letting them travel to places they had never been before and she watches her eyes, her large innocent eyes for any glimmer of understanding that they are travelling in a forbidden zone, a naughty zone, a desirable zone and she thinks that yes, the exploration is just a little bit exciting and just a little bit illegal and that's when Nancy hammers on the door, "I've got to pee!"

So she quickly pulls on her pants and sweater, unlocks the adjoining door, saying "its all yours," and she retires to her room, but not to her desk, to her bed, a cot really, against the wall, and she takes off her pants, wondering why she had put them on again (but this is new territory for our girl Gail and walking a few steps partially unclothed would have heretofore been unthinkable). She is on her bed now, with her back against the wall and with her knees tight to her chest. She is hugging them, squeezing them, thinking, and then she jumps from the bed, taking off her jog bra in the process and rummages through a drawer before finding it, one that is noticeably smaller, whiter, softer, and flimsier. She puts it on and lets her hands cup the material, then she gets back onto the bed, back into the same position and she holds that position for a few minutes, then she opens her legs, slowly, she has a plan and she wants to tease herself, tantalize herself as if it isn't her eyes that are fixed on her mound, which she has never really notice before but thought rather pretty, but some unseen eyes, desperate for a peek, perhaps Ag's eyes.

Then as her fingers massage the mound through the thin film of the panties they catch on the hint of moisture on the material but in a few minutes they begin to pick up speed slipping along on the slickness and then her panties become somewhat translucent so an area of her thick black bush emerges and even the outlines of her lips, her outer labia, she would later learn.

Hair tuft from the sides of her panties, along her smooth very white thighs so she plucks at some, noticing it for the first time and then she let her fingers trace the wet spot again, trace all around it, making the spot grow. 'Touch, taste, smell,' he had said, so she puts her fingers under her panties and caresses the slippery walls of her cunt, exploring its complexity before bringing her fingers to her nose, from a distance at first and then, as she grow more accustomed to the unfamiliar scent, closer and more closely and then her tongue emerges, hesitantly, for a taste, just a touch, barely a contact. She doesn't like it and dilutes the pungent taste with the saliva in her mouth.

But to business now. She lifts her ass from the bed and slips her panties off, bringing them up to her nose and fingering the wet spot before dropping them to the floor and then she settles back, spreads her legs, looks at the ceiling and lets her fingers do whatever they could to help her get her grade.

How did we know all this? She didn't, after all, invite us in and she certainly wouldn't tell us about it, not straight-laced Gail Smithers, but she did tell Bill, she told him every step of her journey, not using our words, the words we've used, but employing her own excellent vocabulary, her unsurpassed observatory skills and her dispassionate researcher voice, which caused Bill to comment, "You make it sound so clinical." But wasn't that the point? Well, no, not if the journey is one of discovery and, to make his point, Bill tells his story.

Now as I've said, Gail Smithers is an excellent student with a major in mathematic, but, in truth, she isn't terribly imaginative and so, perhaps understandably, she thinks Tom's words a tad excessive: blowing, eating, probing, licking, slurping, sucking and in no more than a minute, two at the outside? "See what I mean?" he says, showing a little pride, "See the difference? I think adverb, you think noun." But she doesn't see the difference, she thinks she has said the same thing, more or less, with different words.

But later that evening when she enters her monastic cell, now a little less monastic, the scope of her challenge has come more clearly into focus. The problem, or more accurately the challenge, is for her to become considerably more emotionally involved in her subject, to go much deeper, to become more imaginative and creative. She needs to break out of the straight jacket that has shut her down from youth, so she turns around and leaves.

But she's back now, sitting on her computer chair, but swiveled around, swiveled around to face Ags. "You've got to promise me, Ags, you've got to swear on whatever you need to swear on, that you won't tell anyone, you won't tell a soul."

Ags nods, but that isn't good enough for Gail and her insistent eyes encourage Ags to say, "I promise, Gail, honest, I won't."

"OK, I trust you. Flemming from Psych?" Ags knows she refers to the Psych 345 professor, "He made us promise not to tell anyone about our research topic, right?" Ags nods. "Mine is sex."

"Sex! shit!" Ags explodes, "You got sex? I got Mars," she blurts out the words, then realizing she, too, has broken the professor's taboo, clamps a hand over her mouth.

'Mars?' thinks Gail, now that's an interesting subject, "I won't tell."

But Ags isn't ready to move on from the injustice, "Jesus Christ, how did you get sex? Sex, for chrissake and I got fucking Mars. It's just not fucking fair."

Gail lets Ags vent for a few minutes but, no, she wont tell her the name of her partner, and then Ags laughs at the irony and injustice and Gail gets to her point. "I need a tutor." And she explains why, her abysmal lack of knowledge, her indifference, the fast-approaching timeline, the need to participate, to pull her share of the load (that gets Ags' eyebrows up but Gail doesn't notice) .... So Gail needs help and when she asks for Ag's, she makes it sound like she is seeking help in a biology experiment. But never mind how she asks, Ags is in.

So lets linger in the cell and watch, but let's stick mainly with the action, the words, after all, only inspire them, but we'll need some words, like these:

"So the point is for you to help me actually enjoy my sexuality, that's what I'm missing. I mean I know how to drag a finger on me, it's just that that doesn't do much for me. I don't actually get it." Then she added the caveat that took the glow right off Ag's cheeks. "I want you to show me, not touch me, I want to be able to do this myself."

So Ags sighs and adjusts her strategy, drastically adjusts her strategy and they both stripped down to their bra and panties and sit on the bed.

Now I want to be clear about something, our Gail, as I have said, is an interesting woman who really thinks she might like to be an interesting, sexual woman, and not just for marks, either, for her own fulfillment, too, it's just that she has never gotten around to getting it together. But this Psych Credit demanded her attention to the subject and if nothing else, Gail is a very good student and you don't get to be a very good student unless you not only work hard, but work hard with enthusiasm, so, it's fair to say that, sitting on the bed, Gail is eager and excited, but eager and excited like a student taking her first tennis lesson, and Ags tells her so.

They are at opposite ends of the bed now, Gail against the wall and Ags propped up on pillows but both with their legs open and their hands between them. Gail follows every one of Ag's movements, the delicate caressing of the thighs and the panty covered pussy, the other fingers sometimes at the breast, pinching and massaging, sometimes on the stomach, caressing, teasing, sometimes with their twins, rubbing, prodding, sometimes in the mouth, sucking, exploring. And it's working, you can see it in the wet spot that is growing perceptibly on the panties, but on Ag's panties, only on Ag's panties.

They are naked now and following the same routine and Ags is always talking, encouraging, instructing and now she is teaching Gail to use the brain, to send the mind into the dirtiest reaches of the imagination, to explore ideas, not for their value but to make the pussy hotter, the fingers wetter, and then the dirty talk, the dirty, filthy talk, the audible taboo, but it can release, Ags explains, as it seems to be releasing for her.

Now Ags expertly shows her partner how to dip her fingers into her cunt, how to spring the ass forward in a bucking motion to fuck the fingers, to fuck and fuck and fuck ... but Ags isn't talking now, she is bucking, mesmerized by the spectacular tits that bounces so cheerfully, so enticingly, so invitingly, so unbelievable erotically within a few feet of her mouth, her lips, her tongue and then it hit her and though she wants to, oh God how she wants to, she doesn't have the strength, even if she had permission, which she doesn't, to take those unbelievably fabulous tits in her mouth.

So it had been a relative failure Gail explains to Tom, herself, with her pasty white skin, boney shoulders, flat, narrow, white stomach that look like the baffles of an accordion when she bends forward, or sideways for that matter, 'I am surprisingly flexible,' and her hair, tuffs of the stuff, between her legs and under her arms, black and long and darker then the dark brown hair on her head. And Ags, Ags with her big pendulous udders that swing almost onto her rounded belly, as her fleshy brown legs stretched wider and wider as her fingers went deeper and deeper into her cunt until she screamed.

Let's look at Tom now, he isn't moving, hadn't moved in maybe ten minutes, maybe 15, isn't breathing either or doesn't appear to be but his mouth is slightly open, slack-jawed I call it, and his eyes are strangely dull: vacant, bovine, and he appears slightly hunched and when Gail finished her report he appears lost, distant, in another world, oblivious of her, and she finds herself tapping on the table to get his attention.

So, as required, as they had agreed, she had done her homework and has now given her report. Good, progress, she is holding up her end of the bargain, this is becoming a viable partnership. "So what's next?" she asks in a voice hinting at enthusiasm, but why not? She's hot in educational pursuit, and Gail is an avid student.

"Fantasies and fetishes," he says, not certain why that subject sprang to mind.

Now most men are competitive by nature, and not always, but often more competitive than women, so when Bill showed up at the coffee shop two nights later he had worked hard on his homework, which, he admitted, had heretofore been less prepared and, ah, less interesting than his partner's, and in his competitiveness, he was an athlete after all, he had no intension of being out-storied by a skinny, little ..., and there she is, skinny, yes, a little, but not really, more thin, even svelte, a model's figure he decides, and that really is a radiant smile and, those eyes, she really does have magnificently innocent eyes, clear and intelligent, and that rack, God she's built, they're beauties, especially the way they curve to the side, the way they're so rounded, and firm, they're in better focus now, yes, beauties, marvelous, and they don't seem to jiggle much when she walks and the nipples show, not a lot but enough, they kind of ....

"Tom?"

He lifts his eyes to the voice and blushes then struggles to get up but aware of his hard-on, changes his mind and waves to her to sit across from him.

They no longer fish for a useful segue into the proceeding. They know their assignment, they trust each other to do their homework and the purpose of the twice-weekly meetings is to report, a kind of kiss and tell, if you will.

Fantasies and fetishes tonight. Now Bill has put a lot of thought into this, he has planned it out well, he has no intention of being the dullard in an assignment he now sees more as a competition. Yes, she seems to be doing more research then he is, and more interesting research, (it really was most inventive of her to bring in a tutor, and didn't Ags sound like a good one?), but he is inventive, too, and he'd show her. Beat this, he thinks as he leans forward on the table.

Now, Tom had already alluded to a slight panty fetish, really a mild fixation, so he thought he'd open by developing that theme, a kind of soupcon before the main course. He now explains how, with panties, he likes to see 'the whimsy of the weave wash over the shame-hairs and collect in the mystical reaches 'neath the mons.'

Now I've failed to mention that because this is a kind of research project both have notebooks and Gail Smithers is furiously scribbling in hers. When she looks up she is smiling politely but did he notice a slight smirk? Dump the poetry, he thinks, as he pushes on about how he especially likes nylon and the deeper colours for he feels they hold the heat better, 'the mystical essence of the sex', feeble and he knows it, and vows not to try for another, and he likes how nylon holds the scent, too, but he didn't elaborate, and ended with his belief that darker panties shows the 'growing joy' with more evidence.

And then he left the subject, she didn't seem to be very interested in it anyway, but how could she be? How could she understand his panty fetish, really more an interest? What woman could? I mean if women could have a panty fetish wouldn't it mean that they'd be getting off all day, just walking around, or even sitting, and in a few generations wouldn't the fetish be bred out of them, I mean, if not, nothing would get done, the housework, the office work. And how long has nylon been around, anyway? Well, doesn't that prove my point?

When he looks at her, he hesitates a little before beginning because he notices, perhaps for the first time, that really, she's kind of cute, in an academic sort of way, would probably be quite striking in dark rimmed glasses and a white lab coat, opened and framing her ..., but he can see a hint of impatience in her eyes now so he presses on. But, anyway, he wants to, he has looked forward to this, he wants to show her that he, too, is adventuresome, he too has interesting areas in his psych. Yes, the image of you at one end of the cot and Ags at the other (and, really, he didn't think of Ags as over-weight, more curvaceous, look at those thighs, open and soft, and such beautiful tits with the very kind of areoles he liked, big and dark and slippery looking, so the tongue) ... her eyes are more insistent now, so he begins the script he had rehearsed to his mirror.

"You have three brothers, I know, so you may well have shared this feeling, this fantasy. I have a sister. She's a year younger than me, very pretty, with lovely breasts and smooth, beautifully smooth thighs and an ass, God it's fantastic and round and she's an athlete like me, so she's strong, and muscular and her ass cheeks? Well sometimes at night, sometimes when I'm in my bed and I have my hand on my ...," Is the smile fading, her encouraging smile, so recently on her lips, is it fading? And is that doubt now? And now a scowl? A scowl of distaste? Yes, clearly, and she's fidgeting, she doesn't seem to be listening, listening to his well crafted story about the sister he didn't have. He is mumbling now, doesn't hear his own words and she isn't listening anyway, and he knows it so he wraps it up, wraps it up quickly and, he thinks, not very well, "and those are some of my thoughts."

She smiles now, probably relieved that he has finished, and she is stuffing her notebook in her purse. Is she a bit annoyed? He can't be sure.

"And yours?" he asks, in a voice that sounds to him a bit weak, a bit defensive.

"Mine?"

"Your fantasies and fetishes," he says, hopefully.

"Oh, mine. It's not nearly so interesting," she says, as if she had been listening and not tuning him out, and then she follows the script Ags had prepared for her after she had admitted to Ags that she couldn't think of a single fetish of her own. "Mine's pretty common, I think, you've probably heard it many times before." And then she hesitated, as Ags had directed, waiting him out.

"What is it?" There's that voice again, that same damn voice, but he shakes it off because she is about to speak, she is about to speak about herself, about her fantasies, her fetishes. He is glad the room is so quiet and wonders why he's moved forward, wonders why his elbow are in the middle of the table.

"I've always wanted to share my boyfriend with my three roommates." Dumb, she thinks, but, there, she has said it and then she finishes the script, "But, that's all I've got, Tom, weak, isn't it, haven't done it yet, can't report on it, and look, I've gotta rush, see you Tuesday," and she grabs her purse but Tom doesn't seem to notice, he seems to be staring, staring at her even though she is no longer there.

Ags is already waiting for her, smiling as usual. Gail joins her, accepts the glass of wine and clinks her glass with the offered toast, 'to friendship'.

Conversation is never strained between the two and they cover a lot of ground very quickly, even why Ags had asked her out to dinner, this seems a pretty expensive place.

"Because I want to suggest something to you," she says, "and I wanted a place where we were seated and comfortable so we could discuss it." And a place less easy to flee from, she thinks. And then she makes her pitch. She herself is lonely, man-less, bored. Gail needs help, urgently needs help, doesn't the student want marks (the student reference is clever, don't you think?). And then she delivers her well considered close,

"You are 22 years old and haven't yet had an orgasm. Don't you want one?"

Of course she did.

"Then give yourself to me for a night and I will make absolutely certain you get one. That's a promise."