Nikki

Nikki is a short, freckled redhead with a shy smile and an easy strut. I'll admit, her complexion isn't perfect, but it is a reflection of her personality. A white canvas ready to be molded into the perfect desire, speckled with just the right amount of imperfection to make it seem real.

Her petite breasts are nonetheless impressive in the outfits she wears. I find myself blinking, expecting an optical illusion at any moment, and yet the feeling fades, and I'm still staring.

She isn't perfect, I'll grant you, but who is? I mean, other than The Stars and all, who looks their best all the time? Besides, I found her stories.

Yes, that's right, I found little innocent Nikki's stories, all of a baker's dozen, lined up right there in front of me online. How did I know? Well, the location was accurate. I mean, there aren't that many of us from Ann Arbor, Michigan, despite the supposed kinkiness of our town. What really got me, though, were the tattoos. Nikki has two of them, one on her left shoulder, and one on her right. The one on her left is a Darwin fish. You know, those kind that have a Jesus fish with legs growing out?

Her second tattoo is an elaborate dragon, small yet detailed. It covers a good part of her shoulder, and yes, her profile picture reveals both. I'd have never spotted it, except we coincidentally took a class together this summer. It is a blow-off class for her. Creative writing, an easy "A" for any undergrad, but an "adult education" class for me, I suppose. It is after work, easy to get to, and my job is boring me to pieces, so I figured what the hell.

Well, here we are, second to last class of the semester. It's August, days before my birthday, and there is Nikki sitting beside me hunched over her notepad as usual. Before last night, I'd have thought nothing of it. She's doodling, or writing a note to one of her girlfriends, or perhaps making a list of booze for tonight before her real semester starts.

And yet, as I tune in, I notice she's not making a list, nor drawing. Her writing is careful, precise, and measured. And it is writing, after all. She looks up, spots my gaze, and smiles just a twinge. I smile back, hoping I haven't turned too red, and resume listening to the professor drone about plotlines and Deus Ex Machina.

The truth is, I'm nervous hell. You see, today is the day we exchange stories with one other person in the class, and proofread, give suggestions, and so forth.

I wrote a special story just for Nikki.

Before I go any further, I should tell you more about what I found on Nikki's profile. Nikki's not a slut, by any means. I can tell by the way she writes that she's little experience with men...though the same might not be said of her sexuality in general. You see, Nikki loves to write about touching herself. There's one of her on the bus, another at the pool with several men looking on, pretending not to notice. In all of her stories, I've noticed, there is a common theme. Subtlety.

I suppose my story won't be so subtle. At least, not once she gets through the entire thing. But until then, I'll be wondering about her reaction. Will she turn over the pages and walk away? I suppose it is a possibility, but the Nikki in those stories would be unable to resist the urge to do what my story tells her to. It's not as though I'm describing her verbatim, but I think she'll get the hint.

Here it is, time to trade. All right, I'm game. I smile at my editing partner (we are both loners in this class) and hand her the pages. She smiles at me, her lips seemingly tinged with the slightest bit of red, darker than their normal pink. No, I'm imagining things as I pass the point of no return, my story entering her hands as she brings out her red pen, and I my own.

Her writing is good, that I cannot deny. Her story is simple, yet elegant. It's a love triangle, but the characters are well developed, and as I skip ahead (unable to help my compulsive nature), I note that it ends differently. No one finds happiness, instead each walks away with a lesson for the future. Interesting.

I glance over at Nikki, trying my best not to look nervous...or to touch the hardness pushing against my dress pants. She's only through the first page...nothing special there, just character development. I sigh (hopefully not too loud), and continue to read through her story from the beginning.

I'm becoming so engrossed that I almost don't notice the gasp from my left. I attribute it to a heavy breath, nothing more. Frowning, I look over. Nikki is beat red, looking straight down at the page, ignoring me. Her pen has dropped to the floor, forgotten. I can see her curling the pages unconsciously, despite herself attempting to hide the words from anyone that might walk by and see.

Well, she hasn't thrown it away. That's a good sign. And she hasn't dashed out of the room, or brought it to the professor, pointing at me in distain. No, she's enjoying it. I turn back to her story, marking edits where I can, making comments. I'm trying not to watch her, but it's so difficult.

Nikki shifts in her seat a bit, strands of her crimson hair sticking to her forehead as she curls the paper in front of her even harder. She still has two hands on the paper, though I can see her left inching downward. When I turn back after several minutes, it's on her thigh, and now sneaking a touch between her legs as she shifts her eyes, making sure no one notices.

I suppose she's not concerned with me at this point, for our gazes meet and her eyes widen ever so imperceptibly. She's seen me see her, and her face is red enough for both of us, matching her hair perfectly.

It takes another impulse for me to act, and yet act I do. I look at her, directly now, no mistaking my body language. She responds, looking into my eyes as I gesture to the door.

She nods.

I get up, my hands nearly shaking despite my (hopefully) cool demeanor, not daring to look behind me to see if she's followed. My footsteps leave echoes in the poorly lit summer hallways, the darkness closing in over the night classes around campus.

Finally, I can't take it anymore. I turn around.

There she is, following me. This time, she doesn't turn away, only quickens her pace as I push the doors open, feeling the crisp, humid air hit me as I continue a little farther.

I stop, turning to look at her as she catches up, her skimpy shirt revealing the tattoos that gave her away last night.

I'd expected to have to say something to her, but she speaks first.

"How did you know?" she asks.

I look down at her, lips and cheeks and hair all the same color. "You write well," I respond.

It seems I've confirmed her suspicions. She nods.

"It was the tattoos," I say. "That's what made me sure."

She nods again, speechless.

I'm not about to wait for her to tell me what she wants. I know what it is. I grab her, then, and not gently. I reach around to the small of her back, pushing her into the alley, one of Ann Arbor's many. She gasps, but complies as I spin her around once we are relatively out of sight, and I kiss her lips. They are soft, yet firm, almost as though she's been preparing them for this.

She kisses me back, hesitant at first, then with increasing force. Our bodies push against one another, ignoring the graffiti of the alley, or the occasional passerby. Instead, I can feel our sweat against one another, can feel her freckled skin glisten in the moonlight as her moans beg for more.

Now is the time, though, for her stories to become reality. I've envisioned this all night last night, unable to sleep, unable to think about anything else. So, when I lean in close to her and whisper "touch yourself for me," she doesn't hesitate, nor object.

Her hand reaches downward, underneath her jeans as our lips touch, and her kisses instantly turn more urgent, as I can feel her fingers finally giving herself the pleasure that her body had been begging for.

Her breath is hard as she arches her back, her body pushing harder against me as I can feel her hand underneath her jeans against my hardness, driving me to even greater depths of need.

Tonight, though, is about her. Tonight is about me watching Nikki fuck herself like she's never done before, and I can tell she is as she removes her finger from herself and licks it clean, offering it to me to finish off before she puts it back.

Her smell is incredible, her aroma so erotic that I can feel my pants wet with my own arousal.

"Come for me," I whisper in her ear, pushing against her as I feel her finger circling over her clit. Her eyes are closed, and yet her body is open for me, even clothed, begging for release even as she uses herself against me.

"Oh, god," she's breathing, and again, over and over. She can't stop now, I can feel it as she begins to quake, shaking underneath me, her skin sticking to mine with sweat.

When she comes, she screams, despite herself. She lets out wave after wave of ecstasy from her lips as I reach down myself, unzipping to allow my cock to push against her and rubbing myself. I must be moaning just as loud, because she covers my lips with hers, hoping to quiet both of us as I release against her, drops of come dripping down her jeans as she sequels with pleasure.

She smiles her shy smile once again as we are done, kissing softly. We walk back arm in arm, sitting down at our places, hoping no one will notice our sweat, our stains, and the smell of our arousal. As I look over at the woman before me, I try my best to hide my returned arousal...