Supply & Demand

I'm a good girl.

Seriously.

I've been with five guys in my 19 years of life ­­ three of them in committed relationships, the other two more, um, casual, but none of them in any sort of reallly skanky one night stand thing. Like, I said, I'm a good girl.

It's been fun, but I've gotten bored.

It's not an unusual thing for college girls, I've found, but too many don't do anything about it. And a lot of those who do, just turn into those drunk, slutty girls at the frat parties or end up hanging around with the baseball team and becoming the team bimbo or something horrible. Yeah, I guess they have a lot of sex, but they're just being used by some guy(s) who don't really appreciate them, and they're loathed by everyone (those guys and us good girls) behind their backs. Not for me.

My freshman year, I took an economics class where we learned about supply and demand. Too much supply, not worth anything. Too much demand, costs too much.

Here at college, there's a lot of supply ­­ there are actually slightly more girls in my graduating class than there are guys. Then, of course, there are the younger girls ­­ those little whores (I was never one ­­ I swear!). Supply is too great, and frankly, the boys here don't appreciate us. They get us cheap and frankly treat us that way.

Now, on the other hand, there are male demographics who don't have access to such a large supply of fresh, college pussy (sorry to be crude, but seriously, that's the way you talk about it!), and frankly they can't really get it. If they can get it, by buying a hooker, for example, it's probably not as good as what your average frat boy fucks his way through on a Friday night and wakes up too drunk to remember on Saturday morning.

About three months ago, after my last boyfriend broke up with me (he said he didn't have time this semester, but a certain blonde freshman girl seems to fit into his schedule) I signed up for a certain online adult community. The kind of place where you post pictures, write a bit about yourself and chat. I had never really looked at porn, and wasn't that interested, but I wanted to explore the sexual world beyond the gates of this stupid little college.

I wanted to see what else is out there beyond just having a perfectly nice whitebread boy with an impressive enough sized cock climb on top of me and pump away for 15 or 20 minutes and maybe give me an orgasm.

What I've learned from this community of online pervs, is there are a lot of you guys who have no access to girls like me, and you're willing/able/interested in me way more than the typical accounting major who ­­ if I'm really lucky ­­ is thoughtful enough to lick my pussy for a little while before climbing on for a ride.

In fact, I've found that one thing that really, really turns me on, isn't even what a guy will do for me, but just being wanted ­­ really, really badly.

I've fingered myself to bigger, harder orgasms watching some of you boys jerk off for me on webcam than any college boy has ever achieved with his penis in me. And the crazy part is that the weirder, older, darker and stranger looking the penis jerking off on the camera for me, the harder I orgasmed.

I'm from a sheltered world ­­ I grew up fairly wealthy and dated boys my own skin color and demographic. The idea that someone very different than me, who could never realistically hope to have me wants me so badly... is very hot.

So, I thought I'd take matters into my own hands to solve this economics problem ­­ I'm not appreciated here and it feels like it. You, the sex­obsessed boys, er, men, of the Internet, want this fresh pussy but can't access it. The intersection of supply and demand, is where your cock penetrates my pussy.

So I did it. I put my silly economics thesis of matching pussy with dick that needs it most into action. And now, here I am, a few hours later, writing up my findings. If only this could be my thesis paper.

I don't live in the dorms anymore ­­ just one roommate in an apartment. Her name is Soon, and she's Korean. She's super cute, super nice and would not approve of this. She's scandalized that I've slept with more than two guys. But, lucky for me, she's not back yet from Christmas break, so I have ample time/space to explore my "economics theory" here in the, ahem, college-­owned apartment (shhh! I'm pretty sure I might have broken a school rule or two!).

Organizing this thing wasn't complicated. I just posted an ad on the website, looking for a no­strings attached meeting. My simple requirement was that it had to be someone out of my normal element ­­ someone who does not have a chance with a girl like me, someone who will really appreciate me. The more he appreciates me, the harder I orgasm.

As you can imagine, a posting on an adult website about "19yo white female seeks underappreciated guy" practically crashed my email account with responses. I had ugly guys, black guys, lots and lots of Hispanic guys, Chinese guys, tons and tons of fat guys and plenty of self­professed "studs".

The studs are the ones I ruled out first ­­ they want to fuck me and throw me away like a used condom. Also, yeah, probably not actually studs. Then the black guys... just being honest, that whole idea is kind of scary ­­ I've never been with a black guy, or any non-­white guy. I won't lie, from what I've seen online, the idea of a black lover is pretty exotic and exciting, but, um, a little bigger of a step than I want to take for my first Internet­-enabled no­-strings sex, if you know what I mean. So, not going to happen.

This time. *wink*

And I don't care about fat or ugly ­­ my accounting major "friend" is no prize ­­ but I wouldn't look for one specifically.

It kind of came down to a random pick. I went with a guy named Gerry. In his picture he seemed a little chubby, nicely trimmed beard, soft eyes. He looked old enough to be my dad.

It just makes me tingle typing that.

From the summer I turned fourteen, I've had older guys checking me out. I remember friend's fathers who had always been so cool and silly and fun whenever we had pool parties at their houses for the last ten years suddenly turned into drooling idiots that summer when I emerged in my new bikini. And every summer, as I filled my bikinis a little better and better (or over­filled last year's bikini) ­­ my breasts swelling and standing up so proudly and pertly, my hips getting more round while my tummy stayed slim and my legs got longer and toned ­­ they just got worse.

There's a point where getting leered at gets weird, and any kind of sexiness from it is erased, but since I started exploring the world of sex beyond my college world, something in my head has gotten turned around. I don't think the way guys ­­ especially older guys ­­ leer is any different, but how sexy it seems has been growing. I've been feeling less weird about it, and more... curious.

Gerry was perfect. Not too old, not too weird, not too fat. It took me about five minutes to make the details with him. I didn't want to seem too eager, and he awkwardly asked in an email if I was expecting him to bring cash.

"No, not a whore," I wrote back. "I just want to be someone's special treat."

"I don't have anyone else ­­ this would be very special," he replied almost instantly.

I showered and spent a really long time shaving and plucking down there. I've always tried to keep myself smooth and soft. I'm told not every guy likes that but I haven't really met any who have ever complained. A few minutes early, I heard him knock ­­ I slipped out of the bathroom, turned the deadbolt and scurried back in, calling to him to let himself in.

As I heard him come in, I pulled on my thong ­­ it felt so smooth and cool on my bare, newly hairless skin and I adjusted it in the back. I wanted this to be simple. I didn't want it to be trashy, and greet him dressed like a pornstar, but I also didn't really want to waste a lot of time with lots of unbuttoning and unzipping and pulling tight things off or carefully setting aside belts and bracelets. I wanted to look like a pretty nineteen­-yea-r­old, home alone on a Saturday night feeling kind of horny and sexy. So I just slipped on a tanktop and nothing else.

I nervously undid my hair and put it up again, and took one last look in the mirror ­­ I'm 5'2, 115 pounds and my skin is porcelain. Seriously. It's pale white, and is almost always unblemished and smooth. I'm mostly Irish and that's where it shows. I don't tan and I do bruise easily, but ­­ especially when I shave carefully between my legs ­­ mostly am just very white and smooth and soft. I'm not a waif thin, but I am fairly tiny. My boobs are large B­-cups and my panties, depending on the brand, are small or maybe medium.

I have dark brown hair and very dark brown eyes that contrast with my pale skin. I like to smile and I tried a sultry look in the mirror. He'll like me, I thought. I'm a little girl, not so much pretty or "hot" as cute and sexy. Or so they tell me.

I took a deep breath and before I had a chance for second thoughts flung the bathroom door open.

Bursting out into the living room, I instantly felt silly. I had lit some candles and turned down the lights, but he had turned a couple on ­­ of course he did. It was weird and dim and he didn't know who he was meeting. But now here I am, wearing a white tanktop ­­ stretchy, silky and smooth, but really meant to be worn under something because, oh my God, it is so thin and every little contour of my nipples is practically bursting through for him to see! ­­ and my thong ­­ a tiny cotton thing, pure ivory white, with a thick waistband that has the name of that lingerie store in the mall, and a tiny cloth triangle at the back. I chose it because it seemed simple and cute ­­ kind of conservative, or at least not overly raunchy.

Okay, it's a thong, but, I mean, I toyed with getting one of those dental floss ones, or crotchless panties or something nasty like that! Now, however, my "conservative" thong seemed woefully skimpy.

My instinct was to freeze in my tracks, squeeze my thighs together and cover myself as I flee (walking backwards so he doesn't see how this thong has only about half an inch more cloth than a "raunchy" one, and really makes me just as nearly naked!) I didn't though.

A cool, quite voice in my head told me to relax.

"You're going to blow his mind," it said. "Enjoy his lust."

And, as I got my first look at Gerry, he really couldn't have leered any harder at me ­­ the man practically licked his lips as I popped into view! But I had this planned ­­ I knew it would be awkward, and so I had decided to just go full­-on out there to greet him. Just jump into the deep end, I told myself a few minutes ago as I was waiting.

And so, with my mind a terrified blank, I did just that ­­ prancing into the room, chest thrust forward, my titties on full display and nothing but the tiniest of panties covering me as I cheerfully greeted him.

"Hiiii, honey!" I coughed out. "I'm Marissa!"

I had seen his picture online, but wasn't quite prepared.

First of all, the picture had clearly been taken about 15 years ago and before he had much of a beard. He was actually about 5'8 (he had said 6'1 in his email!) and about 275 pounds (he had said 200 pounds!) and he had a pretty full, silvery beard. Damn.

Ten minutes ago I thought I'd hooked myself a dignified older man ­­ not exactly perfect, but virile and experienced. This guy kind of looked like Santa. Pervert Santa.

Oops.

Honestly, he looked like someone my dad bowled with. Too late for that, I screamed in my head, barrelling along with my pre­planned routine, because what else could I do?

"So, what do you think?" I said, posing in front of him, my left foot turned out slightly and my arms flung out ­­ no covering up. He smiled at me and gazed at my body with his small grey eyes. He wore glasses. Not trendy glasses, but old square wire frames ­­ like my 8th grade science teacher used to wear. I had my smile frozen on my face and I suddenly realized I was quivering ­­ it wasn't cold, I was just scared as shit.

"What the fuck are you doing?!?" I screamed in my head.

That cool voice replied, "He looks nicer than that guy who rubbed his erection on you last time you were dancing at SigPi."

That was true.

Gerry was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good looking man. Or even an attractive man. But he looked like a nice man. And he forced himself to look me in the face.

"Oh my," he said. "You're quite beautiful. I didn't expect you to be... so..." he sort of trailed off as his eyes lecherously slid back down my body away from my face. I held my pose awkwardly.

"...um... welcoming," he finished.

Not the most romantic thing, I thought, but who's here for romance?

"Thanks," I said slyly, putting my hands on my hips, "But I meant, what do you think of my place? Cute, right?"

I like to tease boys. Gerry blushed and looked around for a fraction of a second and then back to me, or rather, my chest ­­ or was it down lower, somewhere between my thighs that he was so fixated on?

"Oh, it's great," he said, rather flatly.

"Awww, Gerry, you're sweet," I bubbled, using a line I had been prepared to use, pretty much if he said anything except that he was going to tie me up and murder me. "Can I have a hug?"

I launched myself in his direction, again, relying on that rote pre­-written script of how to greet him. I was there, and grabbed him, spreading my arms wide and pulling him close ­­ not too close, but our bodies touched. He smelled like Old Spice. My grandfather wore Old Spice, so, not the sexiest thing, but not any worse than all that Axe bullshit boys wear these days. I didn't pull him too close, but he pulled me in.

His hands were on my hips ­­ I know I flinched, my tank-top had pulled up and made a gap between the waistband of my thong and its bottom hem, and I felt his hands, warm and rough, clutch me. One quickly slid around my back and up, under my tank-top and he pulled me tight into him. My breasts were squeezed into his chest ­­ I know that's what he wanted. Boys think we don't know when they go for a close hug what they're doing... we do.

Gerry held me for about a second too long and then relaxed and I pulled back. I was still in front of him, his hands still on me, his face inches from mine. But I felt relieved ­­ it had just been a hug and when I had pulled away, he had let go. I instinctually felt comfortable in his presence. He wasn't going to hurt me. His breath did smell like garlic though.

"Better than cheap beer and stale cigarettes," the cool voice in my head whispered. I kind of squinted at him, as if I was sizing him up and then smiled.

"I think we're going to have fun!" I cooed. He nodded his head hurriedly.

"Oh yeah," he said, grinning broadly at me. I leaned in and kissed him on the lips ­­ just a quick peck. His smile broadened and he looked genuinely happy. I felt myself melting ­­ I don't know when the last time I kissed a guy and he looked that happy was. Happy like he had just won the lottery. Happy like I had made his day... his week... his month... his year!

"Probably ninth grade," the voice said, not incorrectly.

"Now," I said, out loud. "What do you think of me?"

I pulled away from his grasp and executed a twirl. He grunted.

I was seeking his approval, and he gave it. Maybe not as articulately as I hoped, but he grunted again and nodded eagerly as I looked over my shoulder at him. He was just drinking me in.

"Out of my league, that's for sure," he babbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

I wiggled my hips side to side and felt my ass jiggle. I don't have a perfect ass ­­ or at least not a perfect captain­-of-­the­-tennis-­team ass. It's round. I've been told it's a nice ass for a white girl, if you know what that means ­­ it's not a little ass, but it's not a fat ass. It looks like a heart, and when I lean back against a boy, trying to get his attention, it's the first thing that rubs on him. I've always been paranoid it's a big ass, but boys tell me it's fun to slap.

I slapped it playfully.

"Uh-­huh," Gerry groaned, adjusting himself in his pockets. I felt a little bolder.

"Which is sexier?" I asked. "If I shake it like this?"

I wiggled my hips side to side again.

"Or like this," I said, bouncing on my toes, up and down. He adjusted himself less subtly.

Okay, he's no dreamboat, I thought, but I could walk away right now and mission accomplished. I've given him jerk-off material for a lifetime. He'll go back to whatever lonely life he has, and he'll remember this. He'll remember me. He'll remember my cute, round, slappable white girl ass, in my little ivory­-white thong I bought at the mall!

I could tell Gerry was trying hard to be polite ­­ true, he was leering at me, but, c'mon, here is this college girl nearly naked twirling in front of him and he was not being grabby at all. That was my biggest fear ­­ that he'd be some guy who burst in and just started grabbing me and doing whatever he wanted. He was taking his time, not moving too fast. Maybe not the biggest stud out there, but not dangerous.

So, I moved in close again and I took his pudgy hand in mine and put it on my stomach, right at my panty line. That'll get him going. His hand was shaking as he caressed me ­­ softly ­­ and edged around the waistband of my panties. I love that ­­ he was so nervous! When was the last time a boy was nervous about touching me?!?

I mean, I really love it. Like, it makes me wet. I can feel it making me wet again, right now at the very idea that I'm so exotic and special that the guy is afraid to touch.

But then he was off to the races.

Yup, not a dream, he probably thought - go! His paws were suddenly all over me. At first lightly, and then more insistently. He poked and prodded and squeezed my ass and then they wound back around my waist, and suddenly, over my tank­top he was caressing my breasts. He cupped them, then squeezed them. In no time he was manhandling me.

I started giggling, I couldn't help it. I didn't feel threatened, I felt silly. It was like I was this toy, and he was trying to play with every part of me before I transformed back into a real girl who would run away screaming from this old man.

Gerry kissed my neck, kind of tenderly. God, I love that when a boy kisses me, but I had a hard time taking him seriously. I had to force myself to sigh.

"You're stunningly beautiful, like a gorgeous princess!" he whispered.

Oof. What a bad line. I pretended to like it, and rubbed his back lightly. One time, in a silly moment I kissed a frat bro at a party and he pulled me into a closet and starting trying to give me a hickey while telling me he liked my tits and would let me have sex with him if I promised not to tell his girlfriend. That was a really bad line (I let him feel me up but declined the offer). Gerry was at least trying.

But he was still kind of gross ­­ he was barely taller than me, he had bristly beard hairs that scratch my neck ­­ my very sensitive, pure white Irish skin. And he was not smooth or gentle... but he was trying so hard. His fingers were pudgy and felt rough ­­ he wasn't a banker or an insurance salesman, he clearly worked with his hands. Not the kind of guy a college girl like me usually hops into bed with. By every standard I've ever fantasized about, his touch was kind of, well, awful. Clumsy, fat, old, and he has hair on his knuckles. But in a new way that I had never felt with a guy, his tenderness was erotic.

Gerry was breathing so hard I was actually worried he might have a heart attack. He still hadn't touched under anything ­­ he was definitely trying to be a gentleman. I got drunk and dozed off on my friend's futon freshman year and it took about three minutes for my friend and his roommate to get their hands down my pants. College boys are animals ­­ and they both still tease me because I hadn't shaved that day and had been stubbly between my legs. Ugh. But this guy, my Gerry ­­ I had thrown my nearly naked self at him, and he wasn't even pushing it. He was sweet. He was feeling lucky.