The Scholarship

It was just two weeks into my senior year of college, and I had a real problem. If I wanted to stay in school and finish my degree this year, I needed to come up with a $10,000 tuition payment by the end of the month.

I was a good student—very good, in fact. I had been on the Dean's List every semester, I participated in a number of campus organizations, and was one of those students that the college administration likes to "show off" when important alumni and major donors come to campus.

They probably didn't mind that I was also fairly attractive. Some would probably say good looking, in fact. Five feet, three inches tall, 115 pounds with shoulder-length brown hair and large, expressive brown eyes. My breasts, which were 34-C, look more than ample on my small frame.

I had managed to avoid the pitfalls suffered by most college students. I didn't succumb to the first-year drinking and humping that seems to be a rite of passage. It's really a pity because I missed out on most of that in high school, as well. Indeed, my friends would probably call me naïve and inexperienced in the ways of the partying world.

I wasn't a virgin. I had surrendered that my junior year of high school in appreciation for an invitation to the Senior Prom. Tom Wilson was one of the school "jocks," and a real catch—especially for a date to the prom. Unfortunately, his moves were a lot better on the football field, and I ended up with that "is that all there is" feeling common to many high school encounters. One of us came that night, but it sure wasn't me.

I'd had only one serious relationship in college. I fell hard for Phil Smith, a fellow business student who always seemed to end up in my study group. He was cute, had a great sense of humor, and as it turned out, a very nice seven-inch cock. And unlike Tom Wilson, Phil knew how to use it.

We made love for the first time after our third date. We returned to Phil's apartment. He lit some candles, turned on soft music and poured us each a glass of wine. I began to suspect that he might have planned this in advance. Not that I minded.

He was sweet and gentle as he kissed my lips, then moved slowly down to my neck and lingered there for just the right amount of time. My senses began to heighten as he slowly ran his left hand from my neck to my waist, while he continued to kiss me deeply and caress my ear.

Finally, he slipped his hand under my top and fondled my breasts outside my white lace bra. My nipples were responding enthusiastically, and I could feel them grow hard and erect under his touch. So could Phil, as he rolled my right nipple between his thumb and finger.

I heard myself moan, and Phil responded to this encouragement by slipping my bra strap from my shoulder, causing my breast to spill out. He slowly kneaded it, but with more firmness, before releasing my other breast, as well. Phil raised my top over my head and quickly unclasped my now-useless bra. Smiling, he leaned back for a moment to admire me.

"You are absolutely beautiful," he whispered.

His mouth went to my breasts, slowly circling the nipples with the tip of his tongue. He moved lazily from one to the other. With each caress of his tongue, my nipple became wetter and wetter with his saliva and more sensitive to his touch.

Phil was a gentle lover, as he teased my nipples for what seemed like hours before finally taking one between his teeth. The mild pain seemed to shoot directly from my nipple to my pussy, which had by now soaked through my thong underwear and created a wet spot on my blue jeans.

Leaving my breast, Phil unbuttoned my jeans, pulled down the zipper and lifted my bottom as he pulled them off. Next came my panties, which he quickly removed, as well.

As I felt the cool air of the room on my warm, wet pussy, my hand unconsciously reached to cover myself. I couldn't believe how hot and I had grown between my legs. My juices already ran in tiny rivulets from my steaming hole to the crack of my ass. My outer lips were swollen and sensitive, and my clit was already peeking out from its hood.

"Take your clothes off," I ordered, and Phil stripped quickly, practically tripping himself as he tried to get out of his pants. I laughed quietly, but for only a moment. He slowly pulled down his boxers and released this beautiful firm cock that showed exactly how much he wanted me.

Without thinking, I was moving my hand lightly over my pussy, and by the time Phil and that magnificent cock started toward me, I realized that my middle finger was already buried deep inside me. I was literally aching for release from this burning sexual tension that had been building inside me ever since I was old enough to imagine what great fucking must be like.

"Let me help you with that," he said quietly as he removed my hand and replaced it with his tongue. He made a agonizingly slow circle with his tongue along the outside of my swollen pussy lips, then suddenly flattened his tongue and licked me firmly from my ass to my throbbing clit. His tongue repeated that trip several times, each time with a slight increase in pressure.

Occasionally, his tongue would ever-so-slightly graze my asshole, shocking me with the intensity of the sensation. Before long, I began to raise my hips and offer my tiny virgin bud to him to make sure he made contact with it during each exquisite lick.

Phil was no longer gentle, and I didn't want him to be. He stiffened his tongue and plunged it into me as deeply as possible, repeating these hard strokes again and again. At the same time, his fingers circled my clit, faster with every thrust of his tongue.

Finally, as I thought I couldn't stand any more stimulation, he inserted his finger and massaged the upper wall of my wet hole. He took my clit in his teeth, and my pussy literally exploded. The violent contractions radiated out to every part of my body. I felt my face and chest flushing.

"Fuck my pussy . . . fuck it . . . fuck . . .," someone screamed. I'm pretty sure it was me. I had experienced by far the most intense orgasm of my life and the first not brought about with my own hand.

When my spasms had nearly subsided, Phil raised himself to kiss me, and I could taste my cum on his lips. As our tongues met, I could feel his stiff cock teasing the outside of my now inflamed pussy. I reached around him with both hands, grabbed his hips and pulled him roughly to me.

His cock entered in a single motion, surprising both of us as I buried him in me. The surprise quickly gave way to an intense hunger. Our bodies, not our minds, were now in control, and they demanded to cum . . . and fast.

As Phil pounded his cock into me again and again, my hips rose to meet him. He made one final thrust and seemed to freeze. The only movement I felt was a huge spasm of his cock, then another and another, as he shot his cum deep inside me, and the sensation of my pussy as I gripped him again and again with my own orgasm.

That night, as we lay sweaty and spent in each other's arms, we pledged our enduring love. Unfortunately, three weeks later I surprised him at his apartment and caught him fucking another girl from our study group.

After that disappointment, I redoubled my commitment to my studies. And as of now, my sex life consists entirely of self-pleasure. Usually done late at night in the dark of my room as my roommate, Marni, gets herself off, too. We both try to be quiet and neither of us has ever acknowledged what's going on. But I know. Marni knows. And we enjoy the unspoken sexuality between us.

Perhaps I had missed out on some fun in college, but I tried to keep my eyes focused on my ultimate goal. Graduating with honors and moving on with my life.

But all my hard work threatened to come to naught if I couldn't come up with the $10,000 tuition payment. And fast.

These things were all running through my head as I hurried across campus to the Business Building during this second Saturday in September. It was Alumni Weekend, and the administration wanted to show me off, along with some of my fellow students, at a reception commemorating the naming of the Business Building in memory of the late George P. Steele, who had recently died and bequeathed $10 million to his alma mater—more than enough to get his name on a building forever.

Hell, he probably could have gotten himself a blow job from the Dean's wife for that much money—if only he were still around to enjoy it.

I had been told that Mr. Steele's widow would be the honored guest today, and of course we were to put our best foot forward. The goal was to make her think that every student on campus was just like these carefully-selected honor students.

I had always loved the Business Building, with its majestic wide staircase leading up to the main entrance. The lawn out front was neatly manicured and sprinkled generously with stately old trees, their lower branches reaching heavily toward the ground. I reached the top of the stairs, pushed the door open and put on my best all American student face.

"Welcome Sarah," Dean Holt greeted me. "I appreciate your taking part of your Saturday to help us show Mrs. Steele how much we appreciate the magnificent bequest from her husband's estate." The Dean had a practiced, almost slick manner that demonstrated his years of experience in schmoozing with donors.

"The reception is about to start, and Mrs. Steel is in the receiving line across the lobby. Please go introduce yourself to her."

As I made my way across the lobby, I began to rehearse what I would say to Mrs. Steele while we engaged in the obligatory small talk of these events. From past experience, I knew that old ladies are generally easy to talk with, and are most grateful that young people are interested in what they have to say.

As I looked to identify Mrs. Steele in the crowd, I stopped in my tracks. The woman at the head of the receiving line, whose name tag indicated that she was indeed Mrs. Steele, was no more than 40 years old. She was quite beautiful in a severe sort of way.

Her wavy, brown hair just touched the shoulders of her fashionably tailored suit jacket. The matching skirt, which hit just above the knee, was black with charcoal pinstripes. Her jacket was buttoned just high enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, and I caught a glimpse of a lacy orange camisole peeking out from beneath.

But the thing that caught and held my attention were her boots. They were fashioned from shiny black leather and reached up each shapely leg nearly to her knee. "Odd footwear for alumni weekend," I thought, but I was transfixed by the sight of those boots nonetheless.

I knew right then that I needed to revise the conversational script that I had worked on in my head. I could tell by looking at Mrs. Steele that she was unlikely to be interested in gardening and grandchildren. As I struggled to come up with another approach, a thought hit me!

It was brilliant and dangerous at the same time. It could solve my tuition problem, or possibly get me kicked out of school. However it turned out, I was desperate for money and I had to give it a try.

As I had stood for quite some time, intently examining Mrs. Steele and thinking things over, I hadn't realized that the crowd of well-wishers surrounding her had begun to disperse. I dropped by gaze once more to the boots she wore, and my eyes lingered there once more. I didn't understand why, but my senses heightened and I felt a strange sense of anticipation.

As my eyes wandered once more from Mrs. Steel's boots to her face, I realized I'd been staring too long. Her eyes locked mine and by the time I could make myself look away, I knew that my face must be crimson.

Flushed with embarrassment and some other vague emotions I couldn't quite identify, I made my way toward Mrs. Steele. By the time I reached her, she was alone. She extended her hand. "Miranda Steele," she said in a voice that let me know right away she was accustomed to giving orders. Her smile was not so much warm as it was intriguing.

"Hello, Mrs. Steele, my name is Sarah. I'm a senior in the College of Business, and I just want to let you know how much we appreciate the wonderful bequest from your late husband." There. That ought to make the Dean happy.

"Why thank you, dear," she cooed. "Sarah is it?"

"That's right," I responded as her eyes looked me up and down slowly.

At that moment, I was glad that I had brought out my favorite dress for the occasion. It was really a modest little sun dress with thin straps that lay on my shoulders, which still had some color left from my time outdoors during summer vacation. It showed just enough cleavage to make it interesting, and I could tug it down a bit if I wanted to show a little more.

It hit me just below the knee, and revealed that I wore no stockings. But it was the color I liked best . . . a bright yellow that flattered my brown hair and eyes. My open-toed shoes revealed that I had taken time to do my toenails right before the reception.

A look in Mrs. Steele's eyes told me that she liked what she saw. "Tell me something, Sarah, she said softly, "what is it you like about my boots?" Again I burned red with embarrassment. "I saw you looking at them."

Not really knowing why her boots captivated me so, I timidly offered, "I just think they are very distinctive. They convey the sense that you are a very strong woman." "I am," she declared, and to my relief, our conversation moved on.

"Tell me a little about yourself, Sarah," she encouraged.

"Well, ma'am, I'm just starting my senior year here at the university. Majoring in Business. I'm on the Dean's list." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dean Holt making his way toward us. I knew I had to work fast because I didn't want him to overhear this particular exchange. I hurried on with the part that the Dean wasn't going to like.

"Mrs. Steele," I said breathlessly, "do you ever give scholarships to students with great financial need?" There, it was on the table, and the Dean was getting closer.

Her eyes narrowed a bit and looked me over again. "As a matter of fact, I do . . . on occasion. What student did you have in mind?"

She knew what student I meant, but she was obviously going to make me discard the last bit of my pride and ask her directly.

"For me, I responded. I have a $10,000 tuition payment due in two weeks. If I can't pay it, I'll have to drop out of school and work for a year. I'm really hoping to avoid that." I finished my last sentence just as the Dean joined us.

"Looks as if you two are having quite a visit," he smiled. But it was clear that he was not amused. He was curious about what I'd been talking about so intently with this important guest. "Anything I can help with?"

Before I could answer, Mrs. Steele dismissed him as only the wife of a $10 million donor could. "It's nothing to concern yourself with, Dean Holt. Sarah and I were talking about a research project she is working on. It's really quite interesting.

"As a matter of fact, I'd like to borrow your conference room for a few moments so we can finish our discussion in private." I don't think my mouth actually dropped open as she spoke, but it felt as if it was about to.

"Of course, Miranda," Dean Holt cooed, "Please make yourself at home."

I was grateful that Mrs. Steele had covered for me with the Dean, but I had the sense she had her own reasons. And they didn't necessarily include protecting me.

Dean Holt led us across the crowded lobby, down the hallway to his office. He unlocked the door to the conference room, turned on the lights and eyed us quizzically. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Mrs. Steele assured him we were fine indeed, and she closed the door behind him. That was all well and good. But then she locked it, too.

"Sit down, Sarah," she ordered before I could react. "Let's talk about the scholarship application."

"All right, Mrs. Steele, is there some paperwork I need to fill out?"

"Not exactly," she replied, "and please call me Miranda." This time her smile was not so intriguing as it was cold.

"To begin, I'll need to ask you a few questions. Some of them may seem a little . . . how shall I say . . . unusual. But I'm asking them to gauge your honesty and how you handle stressful situations."

"All right, Mrs. Steele," I replied nervously.

"Miranda," she corrected.

"Miranda," I replied, trying (in vain) to sound confident.

"Now Sarah, have you ever done anything of a sexual nature in order to get something you really wanted?"

"What?" I demanded, as I felt myself blush from the top of my breasts to the top of my forehead.

"You heard me," she shot back. "And remember, I value honesty above all else. If you lie to me, fail to answer a question, or refuse to complete any other part of the application process, my scholarship offer will be withdrawn."

"Let's begin again, shall we, Sarah? Now, have you ever done anything of a sexual nature in order to get something you wanted?"

"Yes. One time," I offered hesitantly. "When I was 18 years old, the summer after I graduated from high school, I was working as a waitress, trying to save enough money to buy a car to drive to school in the fall.."

"Go on, Sarah."

"The owner of the restaurant, Mr. Sparks, was really nice to me. But occasionally I'd see him looking at me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. I chalked it up to my imagination.

"At the end of the summer, I realized that I was about $500 short of what I needed to buy this sharp red convertible I had my eye on. I was whining about it to one of the other waitresses on my last day of work. Mr. Sparks overheard and asked me to stop by his office before I left for the day. "

"And?"

"When I stopped by his office Mr. Sparks said he knew how I could earn that $500 I needed, if I was interested. Of course, I said yes."

"And what did he want you to do, Sarah?"

"It took him awhile to explain. He beat around the bush quite a bit, but when he finally got up the nerve, he told me he wanted to look at my tits while he jerked off. It was disgusting."

"But did you let him?"

"Yes," I said almost inaudibly, as I looked down. My eyes locked again on Miranda's black leather boots. I felt an unfamiliar tingling in the pit of my stomach.

"Please tell me about it."

"There really isn't much to tell. I took off my blouse and bra. He took out his cock and stroked himself."

"Did he cum, Sarah?"

"Of course," I shot back. Her next question took me by surprise.

"Where did he cum?"

I took a deep breath. "All over my tits," I answered, my eyes looking down at the boots again. This time, however, I noticed that Miranda's legs were slightly apart. I could see the tops of her stockings and the white skin of her legs just above.

"And how did that make you feel, Sarah?"

"Disgusted. Dirty."

"Like a little whore?"

"Yes."

"And how did you feel between your legs?"

My face burned again with embarrassment. "Wet." I confessed.

"Wet like you are right now?"

I just nodded my head. As I got up the courage to look at Miranda again, I saw that her legs were parted further and she had unbuttoned her blazer, revealing her lacy orange camisole. It was sheer enough that I was pretty sure I could see the darkening of her areola beneath.

I was certain I could see her nipples, as they were poking their way through the lace.

"You've done very well so far, Sarah," Miranda said, her voice breathy now. "Just a few more items and the application process will be complete.

"Now, Sarah, I want you to raise your dress, pull your panties aside—don't take them off—and show me exactly how wet you are right now."

"Why don't you show me how wet you are!" I shot back in frustration and shame.

"I'm conducting the interview, Sarah," she answered, her voice surprisingly calm. "Show me your wet cunt."