Author's Note: The story you are about to read is fiction. In real life, intelligent people use condoms.
'Across a crowded room.' That's where I first noticed her, and immediately my mind jumped to Rossano Brazzi (his voice dubbed by Giorgio Tozzi) singing those words to Mitzi Gaynor from 'Some Enchanted Evening' in the musical 'South Pacific.' But while the attraction in that movie scene was Nelly Forbush's face, right there in the frat house my eyes dropped a bit lower. And while in the show the song was a precursor of Love, the 'L' word that best describes my emotions that evening was the much simpler, lower case 'lust.'
For what caught my eyes were the most fantastic pair of — my left index finger instinctively moved up and to the right to begin to keyboard the word tits when suddenly my memory kicked in and that same finger dropped down and to the right for the more appropriate description (in her case) of one of the major differences between male and female — noticeable breasts. I'd seen plenty of tits, clothed and unclothed, in my almost twenty years of looking. Clothed of course they were more erotic. Unclothed they were more sensual, and in the rare instance when I was able to nail a nursing mother, tastier. Alas, that didn't happen often enough.
But Carla's — for that was the name I soon learned — breasts were perfectly formed, round as breasts are supposed to be. From ten feet away — how big do you think a room in a frat house really is — I was able to measure them. Smaller than a grapefruit, larger than an orange, or a Goldilocks might have said, 'just right.' Though I don't believe that Goldilocks was into eighteen year old girls, no, make that women. But of course I, your humble correspondent, you may call me Gary, definitely was. And am! And ever will be!
Yet as has often been said, in a reverse context, size doesn't matter. When women speak of cocks, some may care about size, others maybe not. And I guess it must be also true of our gender. Of course a prime rack catches our attention. Tits that stick way the hell out to there are sure to fill a limpid tube of flesh was much blood. But when we get up close and personal, when blouse and bra are on the floor or thrown toward a chair across the room — or even folded nicely, if we've screwed her previously — the official expression is, 'anything more than a handful is wasted.' Or is it mouthful? Whatever.
But even the sweetest pair of breasts is meaningless unless they are packaged to draw attention to their fine quality. In the case of Carla, the packaging consisted of a prim looking white blouse just a single size too small. The fabric was somewhat opaque, letting enough light through to prove that she was in fact wearing a brassiere but hiding enough detail so that one would not think of her as cheap or slutty. The top two buttons were undone, allowing me to fantasize of the two luscious charms underneath yet showing none of the wonders that one more open button would have presented, to me and to all assembled.
The blouse was tucked into the waist of a somewhat tight flowered skirt, light enough to be appropriate for the still warm autumn. Bare legs, with well-turned calves, were supported on simple two inch heels. She certainly had it, but she wasn't flaunting it.
Yet who was she, this mysterious stranger? I had never seen her before, of that I could swear, but there were many of her supposed group that I had never met. The supposed group to which I refer was the mostly lovely and mostly pliant membership of Kappa Whatever, our sister on-campus sorority. My fraternity had since long before my matriculation shared with the Kappas our Saturday night mixers, Holiday parties and copies of old exams from tenured professors too lazy to prepare new questions each year.
And when the stars were in alignment, or some other such lucky phenomenon occurred, it was our delightful pleasure to exchange bodily fluids with whichever Kappa ladies might be so inclined.
Would the lovely creature soon to be known to me as Carla be so inclined? You may be sure that I fervently hoped that such would be the case, yet I knew from her prim couture that it would take more than the tilt of my head for me to be allowed to touch her, to taste her and savor her charms, to enjoy her to the fullest as man always hopes to enjoy woman.
It was not without reason that I could feel the blood rushing from my extremities to my reproductive center. I reached down and adjusted my underwear in an attempt to make my lust a bit less obvious. All the while the blood remaining in my brain began to consider all the combinations and permutations of male and female that might occur if perchance my stars were to be truly in alignment that Saturday evening.
She stood alone, surveying the motley crew of college students crowded into a single dorm room. She smiled as her eyes flicked from person to person, from group to group. Some of those present would eventually be drifting off to one room or another, for the purpose of succumbing to pleasures of the flesh. I wanted to rush across that crowded room, to make sure that the lovely did not fall into the clutches of one of my fraternity brothers who might succeed in convincing her to share those pleasures with him.
But somehow my eyes convinced my brain that it was too early in the evening, that I still had time to make my move. And so my shoes were as if nailed to the floor as my eyes continued to undress her. I studied the exposed skin just above her highest closed button. It looked pale; I concluded that she was not one of those who sunbathed in a bikini, though such a garment would have been perfect on her. The skin made her look virginal.
I started at the thought. Having already convinced myself that her body would be mine before I slept, the thought that she might still have her maidenhead in place distressed me. I saw across the room a mere piece of ass, a moist vessel that I hoped, that I planned to use for my sexual relief. What I did not want was a girl-woman who cared so much for me that she would give me her ultimate gift. I wanted a girl-woman who knew the feel on penis inside her vagina, who wanted only pleasure, and maybe a chance to compare my equipment and skills with others she had known. I definitely did not want anyone to love me.
But such is the mindset of the erect penis that I could not, would not let my hypothetical, groundless fear of a social unlikely fact, a college-aged virgin, deter me from my hoped for goal, pleasure from release in her loins.
I tore my eyes from her tantalizing bare skin and dropped them to the covered perfect breasts which had initially drawn my attention. Let me here make a confession. Nothing turns me on like the sight of a nipple pushing out the fabric of blouse and bra to confirm that its owner truly is a woman. And dear Carla, though I still didn't yet know her name, was doing just that. To my somewhat experienced eyes, those nipples were saying to all who looked, 'I am woman, I know it and I'm proud of it.'
She must have known, from perhaps two years before puberty, that she had that special look, that every boy and man who looked at her would be lusting, drooling, panting over her. She must have known from the first moment that she noticed her flat chest becoming not so flat, that she would be a heart breaker. And instinctively, I too knew as I stared at her body that whether or not I succeeded in getting into her pants that night, she would somehow break my heart.
Not that it in the least dissuaded me from hitting on her. To the contrary, those nipples had me imagining myself bringing her to an orgasm as I nursed on them.
She began to turn slowly. To the casual observer, she was merely trying to see who might be behind her. But to my ego-centric mind, she was doing a slow pirouette for me, showing off her firm hips, just wide enough for easy impregnation — bite your tongue, Gary — and her chewable ass. Was she telling me that it was a fuckable ass, I wondered, not bothering to realize that she didn't even know that I existed.
I strained to see a panty line, but saw nothing. Was that because her skirt was loose enough to hide it, or should I fantasize that beneath her skirt there was nothing except woman? As she completed her circle, our eyes passed each other but hers neither slowed nor stopped. It was as though I didn't exist, but was it John Paul Jones who said, 'I have not yet begun to fight?'
She tossed her full head of hair, as though to keep it out of her eyes. Natural blonde, I was sure, yet not so sure. With her legs spread before me, welcoming me, would I see the same color, or something darker? Or did she shave down there, eliminating the evidence, as it were?
Her tongue flicked over her lips, not seductively but merely to dampen them. Her lipstick was a pale pink, quite demure. I imagined my cock inside her mouth, my cum exploding from the dual purpose slit in the crown of my, I must admit, average six inches of manhood. Before wondering if she would swallow, I wondered instead if her lipstick would come off on my hard shaft.
What more could I want? What more could any man want? Nothing, I thought. Nothing, that is, except to see if I could make these dreams come true, if I could make her body mine, if I could use her the way every man on the face of the earth wanted to use her.
It was time. I took a deep breath and began to cross the room. Halfway across, she saw me coming and gave me a polite smile.
"Hi, I'm Gary. Can I get you a cola?"
"I'm Carla. Does this fraternity have any beer?"
.... There is more of this story ...