by Sandy Lowe
Prishka laughed and stepped out of Tristan’s embrace with a shrug. “I’m teaching a new class next semester, open enrollment ends tomorrow.”
“Will there be opportunities for extra credit?” Tristan glanced at her phone to see three missed calls from Colleen. She smiled. Tonight was off to a great start.
“Perhaps.” Prishka sat in her chair and reorganized the papers on her desk. As Tristan turned to leave, she called out, “Oh, Tristan?”
“Yeah?” Tristan paused with her hand on the doorknob.
“I didn’t really need you to bring in that last page. I just wanted to see if you would. You got an A for the class, by the way. Have a good break.” She smiled and went back to typing as if nothing had transpired between them.
Tristan shook her head with a laugh as she started texting Colleen on her way out: Best. Class. Ever.
Body Shots
Janelle Reston
I selected a women’s college for one reason: I was desperate to get laid.
After all, my high school counselor had practically guaranteed it would happen. Well, okay—those weren’t his exact words. When he asked me to name the colleges I was thinking about and Smith, Mount Holyoke, and Sweet Briar came up on the list, he said, “Don’t you know those are girls’ schools?”
I nodded. Some of my friends thought it was weird, but it wasn’t like I needed boys around. I wasn’t interested in fucking them.
He cleared his throat. “Only lesbians go to girls’ schools, Madison,” he said, then hedged. “Except maybe Sweet Briar. Lots of Southern belles there. I don’t think Southern belles can be lesbians.”
That decided it. I crossed the coed schools from my list and focused on women’s colleges north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
College was going to be great. I’d hook up with my roommate. We’d invite the whole hall over for nightly orgies. Sure, I’d go to classes and do my homework, but the rest of it would be one big blur of lesbian sex.
My counselor, it turned out, was misinformed. Within three hours of arriving on campus, I found out more than half my hallmates had off-campus boyfriends. My roommate plastered her side of the room with pictures of Zac Efron, Chris Evans, and Harry Styles. Obviously, a girl can be queer and still like men, but that was not the case with her.
Fortunately, there was also Frankie.
It was the second week of school and I was in one of the private shower enclosures, singing to myself—a habit I hadn’t managed to break yet even though I was now sharing a bathroom with thirty near strangers. Halfway into the song, I realized my voice wasn’t alone. Someone had joined in with a rich, silky harmony that echoed pleasantly against the tiles.
“Who’s that?” I said, peering out from behind the curtain. A tiny woman in glitter eye shadow and a swirl-patterned minidress was standing at the sinks, a toothbrush hanging from her mouth. Her hair was in a messy knot on top of her head.
“Sorry,” she said, still brushing. Her mouth was foaming with paste, but somehow she managed to look cute anyway. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You didn’t. I just wanted to know—well, you have a nice voice.” She was too adorable to be real. I wondered if she was some kind of siren, seducing unsuspecting first-years with impromptu duets. I wouldn’t have minded. Unless— “You’re not trying to recruit me to an a cappella group, are you?”
She spat into the sink. “Absolutely not. I just sing when I feel like it. Rugby’s my thing.”
That was a jolt. “No offense, but you don’t look like a rugby player.” Even though her arms were as buff as Michelle Obama’s, it was hard to imagine her petite bones were much thicker than a bird’s.
She laughed. “People like me can squeeze through those big piles of players.”
We started hanging out a little, sitting at the same table in the dining hall or doing impromptu duets in the dorm living room. I asked her if she was into girls.
She laughed and set down her French fries. “Are you asking me that because I’m a rugby player?”
“No,” I said. “I’m asking because…I’m asking.” That wasn’t the truth. I was asking because I had a huge-ass crush on her, but I didn’t have the gonads to say so.
“Fair enough. I’ve been intimate with women,” she said, then gave me a sly look, “and I’d like to be intimate with a woman again.”
That sly look haunted me. Had she been flirting with me? Was she implying that it was me she wanted to be intimate with? I thought about it a lot the next few days. I also thought about her fingers, her voice, her pert little ass. I thought about what her body might feel like over or under mine, how her lips would feel on my throat, how her tongue would feel between my legs. I wore out the batteries in my vibrator.
That weekend, she invited me to a post-game rugby party.
“Aren’t those just for the players?” I said.
“Nah,” she said. “We can bring as many guests as we want.”
As many guests as we want probably meant this was not a date, but I dressed my casual best anyway, choosing a sexy-cute fitted shirt and shorts. Underneath I wore my favorite bra and thong panties—a black silky set with tiny brass accents on the hips and cleavage. I didn’t set my hopes on revealing them to Frankie, but they made me feel more confident in my skin.
Frankie knocked on my door at nine p.m. She was wearing a faded, sleeveless black minidress that would have made her look like Audrey Hepburn if it hadn’t been made of vinyl. It clung to her every curve: shapely hips and ass, muscular thighs, and breasts that looked just the right size to fit completely in my hands. There was a long zipper that went up the front, with a pull-tab shaped like an arrow. It pointed straight up to her cleavage. I tried not to stare.
I assumed there’d be a whole group of us walking over, but it was just us. Maybe this was a date. We walked close to each other as we crossed the campus, our hands sometimes brushing as we moved along. I became aware of my thong shifting against my labia and asshole with each step. By the time we got to our destination, my panties were thoroughly wet.
The party was in the common room of one of the older dorms. It had a wooden floor and a ceiling that must have been twenty feet high, with tall leaded-glass windows that looked like they belonged in a church. When she walked in, a loud cheer of “Frankie!” went up and echoed against the stone ceiling.
I followed Frankie like a smitten puppy to a cluster of couches and sat down next to her, trying to follow the lively conversation about scrums, blood bins, grubber kicks, and face balls. Frankie served as my translator, leaning in to whisper explanations of what was being said without interrupting the flow of conversation. Her voice sounded lush and intimate, like she was reading love poems to me rather than explaining sports terms. At one point she came so close I thought I felt her lips brush against my ear. My nipples went hard from arousal. I almost moaned.
Once I was familiar with the jargon, Frankie turned away from me to join back in with the main conversation. But she stayed sitting just as close, setting her hand on my thigh as if she was trying to keep our connection. It wasn’t in an indecent spot, exactly—maybe about a third of the way up from my knee, just below the hem of my shorts. But every once in a while she’d absentmindedly brush her fingertips back and forth along my skin—tiny movements, really, not more than a few millimeters. Still, each one felt monumental to me. I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like if she touched my clit that way. Or better yet, what it would be like for me to touch her clit that way. Would she moan? Would she grind into my hand and cry out my name? Or was she a quiet lover whose arousal was told in quiet, gasping breaths?
I imagined myself between her legs, tongue lapping at her labia, her fingers in my hair. Her hands would coax me gently, guiding me to the places where my attention gave her the most pleasure, showing me how to bring her to higher and higher levels of ecstasy. What would she want me to do to her? Nibble at her clit? Curl my tongue into her cunt and lick at her sensitive walls? Move down fa
rther to bathe her delicate pucker in my saliva and her desire? I wanted to do all of it, and more.
Frankie’s voice brought me back to the moment: both of us fully clothed, on a couch in a common room, surrounded by people. “Body shots!” she shouted. “That’s a great idea!”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I assumed it had to do with rugby. All I knew was that I was sitting in a room full of other women, so drenched in arousal that my thong couldn’t hold it all. It had flooded the fabric, spreading to the insides of my thighs and down my ass crack.
Frankie turned to me. “You game, Madison?”
“Sure, when I get back,” I said, no idea what I was agreeing to. “I just need to run to the bathroom.”
I did so, cleaning myself up as best I could. If I’d had any sense, I would have jerked off while I was in there to defuse the building tension in my body. But I didn’t want to. I was enjoying this state of high arousal and the way it made my skin buzz.
When I got back, the party had transformed to a much more raucous affair. Frankie was lying supine on a table, a glass of tequila on her pelvis and a lime wedge perched pulp side out between her teeth. An upperclasswoman stood over her, sprinkling salt from a shaker between Frankie’s breasts. An electric energy sparked between them. The rest of the partygoers were watching and shouting encouragement.
Call me naïve, but I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t party in high school, and this was one of my first parties at college. So I’d never seen anyone do body shots. I froze in my tracks, taking in the scene. It looked so private it was almost unbearable to watch, but I couldn’t have turned away even if I’d wanted to. Frankie was a magnet to my eyes. She looked giddy and ready to be devoured.
“Do it, Shawnda!” someone hollered to the upperclasswoman. And with that, Shawnda bent low over Frankie, tonguing her salted cleavage. Frankie squirmed and gasped. She let out a delighted giggle. Her face and collarbone went pink with what I assumed to be arousal.
My clit throbbed.
Shawnda then worked down Frankie’s zipper to slurp the tequila out of the shot glass perched just above Frankie’s snatch. When Shawnda had about half the tequila out of the glass, she pushed her tongue in to lap up the rest. Frankie’s nipples went hard, visible like pebbles through the vinyl of her dress.
My trip to the restroom had been pointless. I gushed again. I shifted my legs and the thong moved over my labia in a frictionless glide. It felt amazing, so I kept shifting my legs—back and forth, back and forth—as Shawnda licked every last drop of tequila from the symbolic orifice.
If I thought the tequila drinking was hot, I had another think coming. Shawnda crawled up Frankie’s body and tongued at the lime wedge held in Frankie’s lips, sweet tight circles and then tiny nips. I figured the next thing to happen would be Frankie spitting out the lime wedge for a real kiss that would turn into hard-core lesbian porn right before our eyes.
Or maybe that’s what I was hoping for.
But it ended. Shawnda yanked out the lime wedge with her teeth and stood up with raised fists like she’d just made a touchdown—or whatever it is they call it in rugby. Frankie jumped up to receive the applause of a cheering throng, and the two women gave each other high fives and smacked each other on the ass like football buddies.
“I’m so turned on right now!” Frankie shouted. “And I know whose hot body I want to lick!”
“Frankie’s choice! Frankie’s choice!” the throng began to shout in unison.
Her eyes scanned the crowd. As soon as she met my eyes, she pointed at me and licked her lips. “You’re the one.”
My breath caught in my throat. Frankie made a little come-hither motion with her index finger, though she might as well have been reeling me in on a fishing line, as incapable as I was of resisting her wishes. I walked toward her and lay down on the table, my breasts heaving in anticipation.
She bent over and whispered in the same intimate tone she’d used earlier, “You done body shots before?”
I shook my head.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I want to.” There was a pang of desperation in my voice. Good. I needed her to know what she was doing to me.
She smiled. “There are two ways to do the tequila. I can put it in a shot glass and set it on your pelvis or stomach and then drink out of it. Or you can pull up your shirt and I can drink it out of your belly button.”
If words alone were capable of making me come, those words certainly would have done it. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it up to reveal my belly and the low-cut waist of my shorts.
“Beautiful,” she said. “Now the salt can go anywhere. Do you have a preference?”
I couldn’t think of anywhere that I didn’t want her tongue. I shook my head.
“I’m going to have my way with you now, Madison.” And then she added, her voice a bit lower, “I’ve wanted to have my way with you for a while now.”
She popped the lime wedge into my mouth and I lay there, willing myself not to moan as she started her work. The tops of my breasts barely peeked out of my shirt, but she licked every bit she could manage, sprinkled me with salt, and then licked me again. I’d been to second base before, but this was something altogether different, and hotter, with so many eyes on me and the cool tickle of salt contrasting with the warm tickle of her tongue.
I swallowed a whimper.
She licked up higher, up along my collarbone and neck, sprinkling trails of salt as she went. “Want to lick your thighs next,” she murmured into my ear.
I groaned around the lime, nodding eagerly.
Frankie walked over to the far end of the table, positioning herself between my feet. She started at my ankle, with little nips and kisses up my calf that became more open-mouthed and wet as she approached my knee. The spectators went wild as she licked just above it on the inside of my thigh. They hooted and hollered and shouted her name. But none of their exuberance could match how I felt, seeing and feeling this gorgeous woman in such an intimate pose with me. She was close enough to my cunt that she could probably smell my arousal. I gushed a bit more at the thought.
And then she was at my belly, pushing up the hem of my shirt, her hands ghosting over my skin. Someone handed her the bottle. She tipped it gently. A slow, thin stream trickled over my belly and into my navel. I had masturbated in the shower before, aroused by the rush of water against my skin. This was something like that, only more refined and delicate—the difference between using a vibrator to buzz the whole of your snatch or focusing its attention on the hardening nub of your clitoris.
The tequila filled my navel and spread across my belly. I sucked in my stomach to keep it from dripping down my sides. She looked up at my face and licked her lips. “Now’s where I get to pretend I’m eating you out,” she said, and dove tongue-first into the pool.
I bit hard into the lime. Juice squirted onto my cheeks. I closed my eyes and tensed my muscles, knowing that if I relaxed for just a moment I would lose all control.
Frankie continued laving me, her tongue everywhere on my belly, then dragging along my sides to chase droplets of tequila that had escaped. Cheers bounced off the stone walls and ceiling. Their vibrations felt like an impending orgasm. I squeezed my thighs together instinctively as Frankie licked the last drop of tequila from my skin.
But Frankie wasn’t done with me yet. She crawled the rest of the way up my body and lowered herself on top of me, slotting her thigh between my legs as she sucked the juice from the lime. It took all my willpower not to hump against her, as hungry as I was to feel her heat between my legs.
Though my clit didn’t get to touch her, my mouth did: she pulled the lime wedge from between my teeth, spat it to the floor, and began to kiss me in earnest—lips against lips, tongue against teeth, soft desperate moans mixing in the connected caves of our mouths.
At some point I became conscious of my name being chanted. Fr
ankie became conscious of it too. She pulled away, just enough so I could see her face as she spoke to me. “The way body shots usually go, it would usually be your turn to drink next.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want a drink. I want to go somewhere and fuck you.”
“Good,” she said, and kissed me again. “I want that too.”
She stood up and took me with her, wrapping an arm around my waist as she announced over the boisterous crowd, “Madison is forfeiting her turn!” There was no shortage of catcalls as she pulled me by the hand out of the room.
We didn’t make it back to our dorm. We ran down the hall to the nearest bathroom and made a beeline for the showers. I guess that’s romantic in a way, making love for the first time in a place so similar to the one where we met.
We kicked off our shoes and tore at each other’s clothes as soon as we got into the shower stall. She undid my shorts and slipped her fingers under my thong before I even had her dress half-unzipped. “Goddamn, you’re wet.” She bit my ear.
“I’m so close to coming already, I swear.” I yanked down on the front of her bra, freeing a pert, round breast. Her nipple was hard as a rock. I sucked on it and she let out an airy moan.
She rubbed a finger lightly around my clit—not touching it, just teasing. “If I make you come now, do you think you can come again tonight?”
“I could come all night,” I panted. “I’m so hot for you.”
She kissed me fiercely then, all tongue and teeth, plunging into my mouth as she plunged her fingers into my hungry cunt. I grunted and spread, grinding into her hand as I grabbed at her zipper. “Need to touch you. Need to feel how wet you are.”
And what a gorgeous sight when her dress fell open and she let it slide to the floor. I ran my hands over her bare stomach and her delectable ass, pushed down her red panties to expose her soft bush. The hairs near her slit were drenched with her arousal, and when I ran my finger over the wetness, she shuddered. I used my toes to pull her panties down the rest of the way to her ankles, and oh was that a delight, feeling the way her fingers shifted in my cunt, stroking across my G-spot as my leg rose and fell.