After a year of pornographic movie-making at her father's upstate New York studio, Vixen had a fat bank account, a used convertible, bruised thighs, stretched nipples and a sore anus. She was disappointed.
She had thought making porn movies would be exciting. It was not. She had dreamed that some Hollywood agent would see her work and offer her a test. None did. She had met some interesting women and a lot of sad dolts, mostly male. The work had become a bore.
She decided to go to college and dug out her cobbled-up high school transcript, that she had paid for with a blow-job, and had some copies made. She created several letters from fictitious teachers that praised her as a dutiful student and included an unglamorous headshot in each admission request form.
She applied to five small colleges in the Northeast and mid-Atlantic. Three schools granted her admission. She chose Seaside College in New Jersey which was known for its liberal arts program, environmental studies department and its swimming team. She picked Seaside it because it was closest to her home, only five hours away at 75 mph.
The girl packed all her jeans and sweaters, her Nikes and her boots, her dildoes and thongs along with her black lace teddies and drove there in her three-year-old Mustang, wrote a check for the first semester's tuition plus room and board and felt very proud of herself. There were not many 17-year-olds who could do what she had just done she was sure.
She registered for the basic freshman load of sixteen credit hours and headed toward the bookstore with a long list, drawing admiring stares along the way. Vixen jiggled when she walked and did nothing to try to control the wonderful movements enjoyed by various parts of her incredible anatomy.
By the time she emerged a fistfight in the parking lot had decided who would help her with her load of books and see her to her dorm.
Ralph Stimson, six-two and 210, senior captain of the lacrosse team and an economics major, had kicked one eager freshman out of the way and threatened a geek junior with castration before Vixen finished paying the cashier. He met her at the door, grinned, took her heavy bag, and followed her to her bright red car admiring the incredible movement of her firm buttocks and feeling his arousal begin.
"Where are you sleeping?" he asked, sure there was not a better set of boobs on campus nor a wider patch of skin between sweater and low-hanging jeans.
In fact, the way her cotton sweater stood out, three or four inches from her ribs, there was an open passage for exploration the way he saw it. His palms itched and his balls trembled. The trench of her spine was even exciting. And most of it was on view down to her coccyx.
"Ha ha, that an invitation?" Vixen asked. "I'm signed up for the freshman dorm."
"That smelly place. What a shame. I've got big bed at the Delta Beta house. Like to see my room?"
"Maybe later," Vixen said with a grin and a wiggle that stirred his guts.
"Okay, Okay," he said quickly. "I'll pick you up out front at six, show you the local sights, take you to dinner, right? That cafeteria is certain death."
"Get in," she said with a sigh of resignation, well aware of his desires and his swollen groin. "You can help me haul stuff into the dorm."
The young man settled into the leather seat, did up his seat belt and was mashed back to the cushions as Vixen floored it and scorched away from the curb. The 4.6 liter V-8 screamed through second as Vixen negotiated a couple of turns that left Ralph gasping and did a four-wheel slide into a small parking space having used only three of the Ford's six gears. She popped open the trunk, and said, "I'll go check in."
A half hour later, after the boy's fifth trip down to the car and back up three flights of stairs, all of Vixen's boxes, bags, suitcases, computer, printer and books were in her room, and she had met her roommate, a skinny girl from Texas called Cal. They had chatted while Ralph labored. Cal was a swimmer on a scholarship and had a boyfriend making money on the bull riding circuit.
The young Texan popped the caps off bottles of Shiner's Blonde, and the three of them sat on Vixen's bed and drank while Ralph got his breath and collected his wits. He used his elbow to keep his cock down.
When she drained her beer, Vixen stood up, loosened her belt, unsnapped her jeans, displayed her tiny panties and said, "Cal, can you do me a small favor and give us a half-hour or so? We just met."
"Sure," said the girl as she watched her roommate skin out of her faded Levis and flip off her shoes with her toes. Her thong had just about disappeared into her pink flesh, and her thighs were surprisingly muscular.
By the time Cal closed the door behind her, Vixen was out of her short sweater and on Ralph's lap, her mouth mashed to his. "Thanks for the help," she said as she pulled his sweatshirt over his head. She kissed him again as his big hands grasped her here and there, kneading both a breast and her buttocks.