College CoquettebyBedtime Storyteller©
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NO PERMISSION IS GIVEN TO POST OR USE FOR ANY OTHER PURPOSE.
She was silhouetted in the open window, brushing her long blonde hair; her bare breasts thrust forward and up as she reached up to pull the brush down the butterscotch waterfall that cascaded down her back.
This was her nightly ritual, and in a few moments she would pull a night-shirt over her head, carefully pull her hair out from underneath the shirt, and run her hands down her sides, smoothing the cotton over her curves. Then she'd turn out the light, and the show would be over for another night.
It was a show she put on just for him, and she knew he was watching from the car parked below, his cock jutting through his fly, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Who would have guessed that her seemingly ordinary bedtime routine was actually a carefully orchestrated exhibition? Who would have guessed that this Homecoming Queen, this sorority vice president, was at the beck and call of a nerd, a loner, whose nameless face faded into the crowd of college students? It was the biggest secret, and yet so openly flaunted he was amazed that no one had discovered it yet.
And in a few moments, she would be slipping into his car, her warm lips would surround his cock, and she would suck him from behind a golden curtain of hair. He would encourage her with phrases like "oh, yeah, suck me" and "that's it, take it deep, wench, just like I taught you." And before long, he would feel his cum begin to rise, his cock swelling and stretching her lips even more as she strained to keep him in her lovely little mouth. And as his balls tightened and the hot jets of semen coated her throat, he would groan and push her head down, forcing his cock past her tonsils as her eyes watered and she forced herself to relax and accept him.
Oh yes, this was quite the little secret they had. No one would look at her, five feet six of Southern charm, and have any idea that she spent her nights on her knees, sucking the cock of student number 443578, sometimes referred to as "that guy." As in, "you know that guy who works in the computer lab?" or "remember that guy in my Shakespeare class who knew, like, everything?"
He was That Guy. He had no close friends, and paid extra to have a single room in the upper class dorm. Privacy was important to him. He kept to himself, attended class regularly, and turned in his papers on time. He worked twenty hours a week in the computer lab, helping students with printing problems and formatting issues, and now he spent his nights off biding his time until campus stilled and the nightly show began.
So how does That Guy meet and enslave the hottest girl on campus? Quite by accident, really. She arrived at the computer lab on a Tuesday evening and chose a seat near the back of the room, away from other students. She turned her monitor sideways, as though to hide what she was working on, and as she typed, a blush rose in her cheeks. He watched her as he loaded paper in the printer. He'd seen her around, had a few classes with her in the past, and he knew she lived on The Hill, what was known on other college campuses as Sorority Row. The sororities generally had their own computer labs, which begged the question, "What was she doing here?"
When the printer began humming and she dashed to retrieve the output, he couldn't help himself. He slipped the first page off the printer and scanned it, his eye catching on phrases like "slave collar" and "tied, spread-eagled" and "cock thrusting hard, biting her lips to keep from crying out." He could tell she was embarrassed as she clutched the rest of her pages, bouncing on the balls of her Ked-clad feet, wanting to take the page away from him but not quite brave enough. He caught her eye and smiled.
"This your homework?"
"Um, no, well, yeah, kinda." Her voice was soft, and she stared at the page in his hands rather than looking him in the eye.
"An assignment of some sort?" The blush in her cheeks deepened.
"No, not exactly. It's a story. That's all."
"I see. And do you write from experience?" He enjoyed watching her squirm, but this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
"I, uh… No. Could I have that back now, please?"
"You can, on one condition."
"And that would be?"
"That you let me read the rest of it."
"I couldn't do that, I mean…this is kind of personal."
"But you're using school property to write and print what could be considered porn. As an employee of the university, it's my responsibility to report unacceptable use of school property, which includes any viewing, printing, or distribution of pornography. These kinds of reports are taken very, very seriously, and can be grounds for expulsion, you know." He deliberately kept his voice low and firm.
"Are you trying to blackmail me?" she hissed, her eyes finally meeting his. They were pale, watery blue, fringed with pale brown eyelashes.
"Do you want me to report you to the Dean?" he countered.
"Fine. Read it. I don't care." She thrust the rest of the pages at him, spun on her heel, and returned to her seat.
He followed and sat beside her, neatly stacking the pages she had given him. "I'll have to read this after my shift, which ends at 8. You can pick these up tomorrow night at 9. I'm in room 024-E, which is in the basement of Camden Hall."
"You're not going to show it to anyone, are you?" She was horrified at the thought.
"Of course not. But I will read it, critique it, and provide you my feedback tomorrow night. You might want to bring a notebook and a pen. I'm sure you'll want to take notes."
"But it's not for class. I don't need your feedback."
"Oh, but I think you do, and I think you want my feedback. Otherwise, you wouldn't have printed it when I was standing there by the printer."
"But I, I don't even know your name," she stammered.
"That's alright, Brooke. I know yours, and that's enough for now. I'll see you tomorrow night, 9 o'clock sharp. Don't be late." He stood up, papers in hand, and returned to his desk, where he slid the pages inside his backpack. He was dying to read them, but there was no way he'd give her the satisfaction of doing so now. He'd much rather she lay awake tonight in her bed on The Hill, wondering if he was reading, and if so, what he was thinking.
The timid knock came at one minute before 9. At least she was punctual. He opened the door, amused by her reaction to his attire. He was only wearing black silk boxers. His chest was hard and hairless. Underneath his somewhat ordinary clothes was a body finely sculpted by hours on his Bow-Flex. Another well-kept secret.
"Good evening, Brooke."
His eyes traveled her body, assessing the young woman who stood before him in the dimly lit hallway. She was wearing what appeared to be grey yoga pants and a pink tank top, her breasts molded and accentuated by the stretchy material, and her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. From her shoulder dangled a small purple duffle bag monogrammed with her initials. She was the epitome of sorority girl, right down to her flowered flip-flops.
"Hi. I just finished with my Pilates class, and I've got a test tomorrow, so if you don't mind, I'd like my story so I can get home to study." The words tumbled out of her in a rush. She was obviously nervous and wanted to appear in a hurry. He wasn't concerned. Before long, she'd forget about everything else except him.
"Please come in, Brooke. I've been expecting you." He stepped aside to allow her to enter his room, and quietly shut the door behind her as she surveyed his den. It was not what anyone would expect to find in the basement of a college dorm.
He had painted the walls a deep wine red and removed all the standard-issue dorm furniture. In its place, he had a long low futon that doubled as a bed, covered with deep purple satin and a paisley velvet blanket, and topped with velvet and satin pillows. A heavy wood coffee table held several chunky candles and a large armoire was open to reveal a flat screen TV and other media equipment. In a corner, a closed laptop rested on an old library table, and books were stacked underneath. The only chair in the room was a big, overstuffed leather chair, the kind you'd expect to find in the study of an Old World Manor house. An old Oriental rug in shades of navy, wine, and cream covered the tile floor. In a few places, heavy satin draperies stretched from ceiling to floor, where they created rich puddles of shimmering fabric. The room was more than just a place to sleep and study. It was his sanctuary.
And it was also where he had worked with two other "students." There was only one other university student living in the basement, and he was deaf. Directly above this room was a storage room. It was highly unlikely that anyone would hear what happened down here. He had lived here for three semesters so far and had never aroused the slightest suspicion. A fire exit afforded his students privacy coming and going, and because he preferred to entertain in the evenings, there were few, if any, witnesses.
She turned around, her duffle bag still hanging from her shoulder. "Can we please just hurry this up? I've really got to study."
She had to study, alright. She was going to be a student of the ancient arts, and he would be her Tutor.
And that was how he ended up here, sitting in a car outside a three story Georgian-style sorority house, watching her undress and brush her hair through her bedroom window. Over the past three months, she had progressed from a self-assured, slightly snotty, southern sorority princess to a well-mannered, obedient, eager-to-please wench. She had been easier to teach than he thought, which was a pleasant surprise. But then again, the story she had been writing when they first met had been a clear indication of her hidden desires. It had been full of stereotypical Master/slave garbage, but it clearly got her hot and gave him some insight into what it might take to convince her that she could learn to please a man.
That first night in his room, he had approached her from behind, pressed her up against the wall, her hands braced near her head, cheek to the wall. His breath on her neck had caused her to shiver, her goosebumps magnified by his whisper in her ear. "I know what you want. I know what turns you on. And I'm prepared to give you what you want, provided you are willing to give me what I want."
"What do you want?" she had asked, trembling with a combination of fear and desire.
"You. Body and soul."
"Are you going to...to...rape me?" She could barely choke out the words.
"Of course not, Brooke. Why would I rape you when you will willingly give yourself to me?"
"But I don't even know you." Her eyes were closed now, and she was fighting to stay calm.
"You will get to know me. In time. And you will choose to be with me, when you see what I have to offer you."
"You're… You're not my type."
"Your type, sweet babbling Brooke? I most certainly am your type. Until now, the boys you've dated have been anything but your type." He ran his tongue along the edge of her ear while his pelvis pressed her more firmly into the wall.
Without warning, he spun her around to face him, lacing his fingers with hers, her hands still up by her ears. Her blue eyes were pools of liquid blue, the tears welling up and threatening to spill over as she bit her lower lip.
"Your story was quite entertaining. It lacked clear direction, the plot was thin, and it certainly included more than its fair share of trite phrases and gratuitous sex. But there was one part I rather enjoyed. Do you know what part that was?"
"No…" Her voice was barely a whisper, more like an exhalation, tickling his lips, her breathing labored.
"The Master chains his slave to the wall, naked, and makes her beg to be touched. And for every touch, she must first endure his whip. Did you enjoy writing that part as much as I enjoyed reading it?"
Her response was silence, punctuated by her heaving breasts.
"Are you wet, Brooke? Are your juices running like a little stream, soaking your panties with the evidence of your arousal?"
Still she was silent.
"Do I need to check, or will you tell me yourself?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Yes, what?" He countered.
"Yes, I'm wet." Her voice was still a whisper.
"I can't hear you, Brooke."
"Yes, I'm wet," she stated, louder this time.
"Look me in the eyes and tell me why you're wet, Brooke."
She forced her eyes to meet his. "I'm wet because … because … that part of the story turns me on."
"And are you attracted to me, Brooke?"
"That's good to hear." His hands loosened and he allowed her to drop her hands to her sides as he stepped back. "Now, have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the futon. "I have a few questions to ask you."
She perched on the edge of the futon, still poised to run, given the opportunity. He opened a small cabinet she hadn't noticed before and brought over two wine glasses and a bottle of wine.
"Shiraz?" He poured two glasses and passed her one before sinking back into the leather chair.
"I've never had it," she said, gingerly accepting the glass he offered.
"It's quite nice. An Australian Shiraz, of which I've grown particularly fond. Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll not bite." He swirled the garnet liquid in the glass and inhaled its bouquet before taking a sip.
"So, Brooke, tell me…Do you enjoy being fucked in the ass by a total stranger, or is that still just a fantasy?"
She nearly choked on the wine she was swallowing. He enjoyed throwing her off guard.
"Ok, so perhaps it's a little early for that question. Let's start with something a little simpler. How many partners have you been with?"
"Why?" It was apparent she was struggling with the idea of giving him an answer.
"Because I need to know."
"Three?" He raised an eyebrow. Was she lying? Hmm…perhaps. Three seemed a little low for someone of her social status.
"What, you think that's too many?"
"No, I wonder if you're being completely honest with me. Name them. Tell me about them."
She sighed and fidgeted with her pant leg for a moment. "My first was Tommy. He was my boyfriend all through high school. Freshman and sophomore year, I was dating Drew. And this summer, I met a boy on a cruise. Chad. But we were never really dating." She took a long drink of wine.
"And since then, there's been no one?"
"I'm not a slut and I don't sleep around, if that's what you're implying," she said with disdain.
"I wasn't implying anything. I just find it hard to believe that you haven't had sex in…let's see…four months?"
"Like I said, I'm not a slut. I don't sleep with just anyone." She studied her fingernails, probably making a mental note to schedule a manicure.
"I'm sure that's true. So do you usually climax during intercourse?"
"And that's your business because…?" She had turned her attention from her nails to the fringe on the paisley throw beside her, combing out the tangles.
"Just answer the question, please."
"I don't know, I guess so."
"You don't know?" This was rather amusing.
"I do. Sometimes. Not always." She was showing signs of embarrassment.
"What about during oral sex?"
"I don't care for it."
"And why is that?"
"It doesn't do anything for me." He found this hard to believe, but if it were true, she'd learn otherwise soon enough.
"Do you enjoy rough sex?"
"I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind. Just answer the question."
"What do you mean by rough?"
"A little pushing, biting, scratching, a little light slap now and then, that sort of thing."
"What about anal sex?"
"Never done it, not interested." Again, hard to believe, but that would change.
"Are you an exhibitionist? Do you enjoy showing off your body, particularly in public?"
"No. Absolutely not." He nearly laughed out loud, given the attire she had arrived in. Her nipples were clearly erect and poking through the cotton tank and her yoga pants hugged her hips like a second skin.
"Any other fetishes?"
"Toe sucking, feet, infantilism, scat play or water sports, cross-dressing, that sort of thing."
"Are you bi? Attracted to other women even if you've never acted on it?"
She shook her head and stared at the floor.
"Why do I suspect you aren't being completely honest with me, Brooke?"
"I'm not a lesbian," she said defensively.
"I never asked if you were a lesbian. I asked if you were attracted to other women, even just once. That doesn't make you a lesbian. It doesn't even make you bi."
She sighed. "I guess was attracted to a woman, once. The summer before I came to college. I never really met her. Never knew her name. She used to come into the bar where I worked as a waitress. She tipped well, and she was… Well, there was just something about her. I guess I sort of had a crush on her. But that's it. I never did anything, never would even dream of doing anything with a woman."
"So let's get back to your story. I'd like you to read it to me."
"You want me to what?" Her voice was low and disbelieving as she stared at him, her arms folded across her chest.
"I'd like you to read your story to me."
"I don't think so."
"Are you embarrassed?"
"You've already read it, so why should I read it to you?"
"Because I'd like you to."
"And I'd like to get home to study for my test."
"Then I suggest you read it."
She sighed dramatically. "Fine. Hand it over."
He listened, his eyes closed, as she read the story. At first, she read in near-monotone, but as the story progressed, she grew more animated. It was almost as if she forgot he was there, and got caught up in it. When she finished, he was standing over her, and slipped the papers from her hand.
"That was quite lovely, Brooke. Thank you." He took her hand and helped her up, which put her face just inches below his. She had to look up to see him.
"I should go now."
"Yes, you should," he said softly, as his lips covered hers. A heartbeat's hesitation and she was returning the kiss, her tongue dancing with his, her arm wrapped around his waist. And at that moment, he knew he had her.
But he didn't bed her then. Not yet. He wanted to make sure she was past the point of refusal before he bedded her. So over the next few weeks, he had her write down other fantasies, which she would bring to his room and read to him. And each night, he would kiss her, just once, before telling her the next assignment and sending her back to The Hill. Her fantasies were all along the same lines, being controlled by her partner, being made to do things she didn't want to do.
Undressing in front of the window while he watched from his car was one of those things. She claimed to be very modest and didn't even let her roommate see her naked. However, once he convinced her that just her silhouette was visible, she was willing to try it. Just once, she said. But that "just once" had apparently turned her on so badly that she came to his room unannounced later that evening, and when he opened the door she kissed him fiercely, groping him through his robe before dropping to her knees and sucking him like a lollipop. While her technique could use some refining, her enthusiasm was remarkable, and it took a great amount of self-control to keep himself from climaxing. But to climax would be to turn over control, and that would defeat the purpose. So he disengaged his cock from her eager mouth and sent her home with the promise of Saturday evening.
When Saturday evening arrived, he asked her if she would be willing to commit herself to him for the semester. No more, no less. But by doing so, she would be required to do as he asked, even if it made her uncomfortable or embarrassed. And if she did, she would be rewarded as he saw fit. She did commit, and as a reward he took her to bed that night, where he tested her for the first time. She endured her first spanking, which excited her more than he had anticipated. He sprayed his creamy white cum all over her rosy cheeks that night. The following morning, he ate her for an hour until she thought she might pass out from the intensity of her climaxes. She was so sweet, so succulent… There was nothing quite like fresh, juicy pussy for breakfast.