Chapter 3

He still didn't understand. There was so much he didn't understand. But they were going to his house, and they would talk, and then, maybe, he'd finally comprehend things.

He lived almost exactly one and a half miles from the university. She did not slow down. If anything, she lengthened her stride as he rode easily along beside and slightly behind her. He pedaled at a constant sixty revolutions per minute, changing gears to maintain that rate, as was his habit. He watched her legs and her hips as her arms pumped effortlessly. This girl could run!

He passed her as they approached his house, and leaned into a fast turn that let him shoot through the open gate into the back yard. He parked his bike in its usual place and turned to mount the back steps as she pounded into the back yard at a sprint. She staggered to a fast walk and went in circles, her lungs heaving as she caught her breath. She looked athletic. Fit. Gorgeous.

"You sure you like sweaty women?" she asked, walking toward him. He noticed she was limping.

"I don't think that's quite how I characterized it," he said. "Are you okay? You're limping."

"I think I strained something during my sprint," she said.

She followed him into the kitchen and he stopped.

"I forgot your bag," he said. "It's still on the bike."

"We can get it later," she said. "What's in it is as bad as what I'm wearing."

"Why did you run so hard?" he asked.

"I told you, it reduces stress," she said.

"I'm sorry if I caused you stress," he said.

She looked at him askance.

"You can stop apologizing. I told you I'm not mad at you."

"Actually, you told me I hadn't done anything wrong. And what girls, by the way?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You said it was okay for me to look at girls, because I'm special. Or something like that."

"Oh." She laughed. "You mean The Girls."

"What girls?" he insisted.

She cupped her breasts, which were now cradled by damp cotton in the form of her sweaty shirt.

"These are The Girls. That's what I call them."

"Oh." It was all he could say. She seemed to understand he was shocked.

"You don't have to call them that, of course. You can call them my breasts, or boobs, or even my tits. But please don't call them knockers or fun bags. I hate those terms."

He swallowed. "Fun bags?" he said, his voice dry. "Surely you jest."

"I jest not, my king," she said. "Some guy actually asked me if he could play with my fun bags one time. I wanted to smack him."

"Why do I get to call them anything at all?" he asked.

"Ahhh, we're going to get right to the talking part," she said.

"Isn't that what we came here for?" He blinked.

"Of course," she said. "But I believe Scotch was mentioned. And as much as you like sweaty girls, I need to take another shower. I assume you have a shower. How about a shirt I could borrow? I really don't want to put this back on." She pinched her damp shirt and pulled it away from her breasts. It was easy for him to imagine them in there, not touching anything at the moment.

"Um ... sure," he said. His life seemed surreal, at the moment. He had always been in charge of it, unremarkable as it had always seemed to be. Now this girl, this temptress ... this woman who was the incarnation of her name, had come into his life and, suddenly, it wasn't ordinary any more. He didn't know quite what it was. But he no longer felt in control.

"I'll just find the bathroom on my own," she said, with that half smile on her face. "You get the Scotch out. You need a drink, and I want one. I like mine with just two ice cubes in it."

With that she walked into the dining room, and then deeper into the house until she disappeared from view.

He took a deep breath. Scotch. Ice cubes. He needed something to keep from dwelling on the fact that Kendra - the real Kendra, and not some fantasy porn actress - was in his house ... in his bathroom ... in his shower ... naked.

He was so rattled, that he forgot completely about the shirt.

He was on his second Scotch. She was right. He did need a drink. Or had. He'd gulped those first couple of ounces, and on an empty stomach to boot. So he was feeling pretty mellow right now. But it was fine. Now he could savor the sips he took.

He was sitting there in his recliner, feeling proud of himself for successfully resisting the urge to try to peek in on her, when she appeared and destroyed all traces of that pride. She had two of his shirts with her, one in each hand. In the right hand was his Rolling Stones shirt, with the huge red tongue logo on it. He'd gotten it at a concert when he was seventeen, but never wore it anywhere these days. He thought of it as his "wild" shirt. In the other hand was one of his white dress shirts.

Her hair was wrapped up in one towel, and another one was wrapped around her body. The towel covering her hair was doing fine, but the one wrapped around her was barely big enough for the challenge. It had been tucked in on one side, but the tuck looked very tenuous and her hip below the tuck was exposed.

"Which of these do you think I should wear?" she asked, her voice calm and as normal as pie.

All he could think of was what it might look like if that towel suddenly fell to the floor.

"Ahhh," he breathed. "Ahhh ... uhhh."

"This one, then," she said, lifting the dress shirt. "I'll go put it on." Her eyes flicked to the glass he'd left on the coffee table in front of the couch for her. The ice cubes were only half as big as they'd been when he first put them in it. She moved to the couch.

"But first..." Her intent was clear as she lifted the glass and took something more than a sip, but something less than a gulp.

"Ahhhhh," she said, smacking her lips. "I love how it burns as it goes down."

She took another swallow.

"It makes a ball of heat grow right ... here."

She pointed one lacquered fingernail at the front of the too-small towel that, somehow, kept clinging to her body, despite Bob's almost frantic hope that it would suddenly drop. The finger pointed to an area below what seemed like an acre of cleavage that was exposed above it, even though only the tops of her breasts were exposed.

"Be right back," she said, setting the glass down. It still had about an inch of amber fluid in it.

He was thinking seriously about having a third when she returned. She had, in fact, put on the shirt. She had even fastened the three bottom buttons. But she appeared to be wearing nothing else. The tail covered her almost modestly in the front, but then rose to expose both hips in a manner Bob could only characterize as salacious. The smooth, unbroken expanse of skin between her breasts was clearly visible between the edges of the shirt. He looked hard, expecting to see the darkness of her nipples through the thin, white fabric, but was disappointed.

She sat on the edge of the couch cushion, her body demure, knees firmly pressed against each other, reached for the glass and up-ended it, swallowing, taking the ice cubes into her mouth. Bob heard them rattle behind her teeth, and then, as she lowered her chin, the ice cubes tinkled back into the glass. She leaned sideways against the backrest of the couch, facing Bob. The tail of the shirt pulled up, but not quite enough to show what Bob desperately wished he could see. It was tantalizing. It was torture.

"I'm going to want another," she said, "but first, I need to ask a favor of you."

"What?" His interrogative was purely a function of habit.

"I don't think whatever I pulled is serious, but I do think it would benefit from a massage. Could you do that for me?"'

"Massage?"

"Yes," she said. "The hot water in the shower loosened it up a little, but I think it needs to be manipulated. I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important. I can't afford for it to tighten up. I could injure it worse tomorrow at practice, and I don't want to have to miss any games because of an injury."

"No," he agreed, again on auto pilot.

She waited another ten seconds, during which he sat, unable to do anything other than think furiously.

"So could you do that for me?"

Her tone of voice and general behavior were so normal that it helped him act normal too. His mind still raced through lurid scenarios in which things happened that his rock hard prick would be very useful for, but the academic part of him took control of his actions, and returned to him the capability of engaging in simple conversation.

"Sure," he said. "Where does it hurt?"

"It's my thigh," she said. "My right one."

"Your thigh," he breathed, as his brain jittered in his skull. "Wonderful."

"I don't think it's wonderful," she complained. "It hurts."

"Of course," he said, apologetically. "Sorry. I have some Badger Butter. I'll get it."

"Badger butter?" She smiled.

"Comes in a little can," he said. "It's great stuff for sore muscles. It will make things feel better. I promise."

"I was hoping you'd promise to make things feel better," she said, her voice husky.

He blinked. She had just teased him. She was teasing him. It was a very laid back kind of teasing, and he attributed it to the easy, informal relationship they had established, tenuous as it was, but that didn't mean he wasn't affected by it, as a male.

"I'll go get it," he said.

"Where is it?" she asked, bending over to pour herself two more fingers of Scotch.

"I keep it in my bathroom," he said.

"I'll just come with you," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, we can't do this with me standing up," she said, patiently. "I'll need to lie down. "If the bathroom to which you are referring is the one I just used, I noticed a nice, big bed in the bedroom said bathroom is attached to. I could lie down on that while you make me feel better."

Again, it was the complete normalcy of her speech patterns that kept him from just melting down and reaching to squeeze his boner. He wondered, idly, if it was showing. He hadn't had enough excess brain capacity to confront that issue yet, but when he stood up, it would definitely show. Suddenly, he didn't care. It was her fault it was there. She could just deal with it.

He stood, almost belligerently, but didn't look at her face to see where her eyes were looking. He fairly stalked off toward his bathroom, assuming she would follow.

He went straight to the medicine cabinet and opened it to look for the flat, round tin that had the picture of the badger on the lid, holding out a little pot of gold, or golden honey, or maybe golden Badger Butter. The words "Sore Muscle Rub" appeared below it. He palmed it and left the bathroom, to find her already laid out on his bed. He stopped and stared. She was on her front, with her arms folded under her face, which was turned away from him. Teams of debaters could have argued for days about whether her ass was exposed or not. The backs of her legs looked so long that they gave the impression they'd somehow grown a foot in the last few minutes. Her toes were pointed. Her legs were firmly closed.

"It's the right one," she reminded him.

He moved around to that side of the bed, realizing she had positioned herself in the middle, which meant he'd have to either bend over at an acute angle to reach her, or climb up on the bed too. He knew what his back would feel like if he spent more than a few seconds bent over, but all he could let himself do, initially, was put one knee on the bed, to lessen the angle.

"The back?" he said, his eyes flicking from the creamy skin on the back of her right thigh, to the half of her ass that was exposed.

Her legs suddenly moved, and her pointed toes were suddenly a foot apart.

"The inside," she said.

He looked at her face. Her eyes were closed. Her voice had been matter-of-fact ... simply conveying information he needed.

He swallowed. All he'd have to do is lean over and look up at the juncture of her legs and he would almost certainly be able to see Nirvana.

He controlled himself, but realized his hands were shaking. He twisted the lid off the can.

"This might be cool," he said, dipping two fingers into the paste inside the can.

"Whatever," she said, carelessly.

He steeled himself and reached for an area of skin maybe six inches above her knee. Her rubbed with the first two fingers of each hand, and the opposing thumbs.

"Mmmm," she said. "That's nice, but you need to go higher." She lifted her head and looked up at him. "And don't be afraid to touch me, Bob. I need a firm touch right now."

He dipped another two fingers of Badger rub and spread it along the back of her thigh, almost touching where, on anybody else, there would be a crease formed, where her butt met her legs. All she had there was a dip. He leaned both hands on the back of her thigh and squeezed.

"It's on the inside," she reminded him, and she spread her feet another foot apart.

Now, it was virtually impossible for him not to see her pussy, should he lean forward even another six inches.

He was so distracted by the view that his hands slipped between her legs, still squeezing and molding the skin.

"That's better," she murmured. "A little higher."

If he went higher, he'd be in no man's land. Or what he wanted desperately to hope was no man's land. Somehow, with his hands on her, and her pussy only inches away, what he hoped most was that no other man had touched her in this manner. He knew that was impossible, of course. He knew she'd had boyfriends, gone on dates, engaged in making out and frottage, at a minimum. None of that mattered as his mind tried to manufacture a scenario in which she was still innocent, and he was the first to touch her.

His hands moved an inch farther up.

She let him rub without comment for another half minute, and then lifted her head again.

"You're just not quite getting where I need you to be," she said. "Maybe you could reach it better if I turned over."

The tone of her voice had changed. Her eyes had changed too. There was undeniable innuendo in her comment.

"Don't tease me, Kendra," he said, his voice low. It just came out. Part of him was horrified that he'd said it, because saying it meant he'd assigned meaning to her actions that might be fictional. If so, she might laugh at him, at best, or be offended, at worst.

She gave a little bounce and, in a completely athletic way, managed to do a 180 degree turn while her body was only an inch off the bed. The shirt moved with her, but the tail wasn't up to the transition. When she bounced back down, her loins were no longer covered at all.

"Who said I'm teasing?" she asked, her voice husky.

To give what seemed to be a rhetorical question more meaning, her fingers flicked at the three buttons she'd fastened, and the shirt fell open to expose all but her shoulders and upper arms. Other than that shirt, she was completely, gloriously, impossibly naked.

His eyes seemed to jitter in his head as they bounced all over her body. He didn't know where to look and, as a result, couldn't actually concentrate on any one thing. Information zinged around in his head, like far off noises he could barely hear. Those zings told him her breasts were much larger than he'd thought, full, heavy orbs, with nipples that, if they had been eyes, would be wall eyed, as each looked off in different directions. That wasn't because her breasts sagged to the sides though. They rose proud and firm from her chest. Another zing told him there was no hair of any kind between her legs. Now tightly closed lips were clearly visible, pale in a way that made it seem impossible they were part of he same skin her much darker legs were associated with. Her waist was thicker than he'd imagined, but still gave her an hour glass shape.

"So ... we were going to talk. And since you don't seem to be ready to massage my thigh, maybe this is a good time. Shall we talk?" She rolled onto her side so she could stretch and reach for her glass. He hadn't even realized she'd brought it with her, and placed it on the night stand. She took an actual sip, just enough to taste and swallow.

"I have no fucking idea," sighed Bob, completely at a loss.

"Well, perhaps you should get a fucking idea," she said, calmly. "I don't know what else I could do, short of begging you to take me to bed and fuck me until I squeal like a little piggy."

He blinked. Kendra ... his Kendra ... sweet, innocent, wholesome Kendra ... was lying almost naked on his bed, and had just said something about him fucking her.

It was impossible.

"Your problem is that you're a nice guy," she said. "In fact, you're the poster child for nice guys everywhere. It's part of what makes you so attractive to me."

"I'm ... attractive to you?" He blinked. It was actually the other way around, wasn't it?

"You asked me about my boyfriend and I told you I wasn't interested in boys," she reminded him. "That's because I have a little letch for older men, Bob. I like a man who is smart, witty, calm, respectful, talented, patient, who knows how to treat a woman, and will take the time to do that. I like a man who is willing to think about his lover's pleasure as much as he thinks about his own. In my experience, it takes an older man to be all those things."

"That's not me," whispered Bob. "I'm not respectful. You don't know the things I've thought about you."

"Did I forget to mention that I like this older man to have a completely nasty, dirty, perverted mind?" She grinned.

"This isn't happening," he sighed. "This is crazy. This even exceeds my fantasies about you!"

"I'd like to hear about those fantasies," she purred. "And this is real. I've had my eye on you for a long time. I think you're the kind of man I need right now. Girls have needs too, you know. You need to get laid, Bob. You're all worked up over me and you need to release all that tension. And I need to get laid too. You have no idea how long it's been since I had a man between my legs. And that works out perfectly."

"But I'm nothing special. You could have any man you want," he said.

"I'm glad you feel that way, because you're the man I want, and since you just said I can have the man I want, that means I get you," she said, patiently.

"I still don't believe it," he said, almost stubbornly. "Things like this don't happen to me."

"Life changes constantly," she said. "For example, before today I only thought about what it might be like to get a massage from you. Today I decided I needed one. And you're not finished, by the way. I need a much more thorough massage than you've given me thus far."

He looked at her pussy.

"You want me to ... touch you?"

"For such a brilliant man, you can be incredibly slow," she sighed. "I've seen you undress me with your eyes dozens of times. And not just before I started working for you. So what's the problem? I decided you deserved to see what you've been dreaming about all this time. Are you disappointed or something?"

"No!" he almost barked.

"Then why the ... reluctance?"

Her question seemed genuine, and that made it easier to give her a genuine answer.

"Girls ... women ... particularly good looking women ... well ... they have just never been really interested in me," he said. "I've been teased plenty of times, but nobody really wanted me. It's easier to just believe it's all an act, so they can laugh about it later."

"I'm not laughing, Bob," she said. "And while I might tease lots of other men, I'm not teasing you."

"I want to believe that," he admitted, uncomfortably, but it was clear he was still resisting that.

"Well, then, how about we work on your belief system by discussing that silver tongue of yours."

"What?" The change of subject messed with his already frenetic mind.

"Your shirt, the other one, reminded me of it. The tongue on that shirt is red, but it's doing what I want your educated tongue to do."

He blinked as she laid back and pulled her heels up to place them beside her hips. It was the kind of thing only a very flexible girl could do, and he was reminded she was a cheerleader, and probably trained to be able to do this very thing. Then he couldn't think of anything else because she let her knees sag outwards.

Where, before, he had been treated with a view of tightly closed, pale pussy lips, now those lips pulled apart, exposing pink inner lips that were flushed looking, and glistened. A string of something sticky bridged the gap and alerted Bob's mind to the fact that she was aroused.

"I want your educated tongue right here," she said, her voice throaty.

She showed him by sliding the same finger tip she'd lifted his chin with, and sealed his lips with, using it now to rub gently right where Bob knew her clitoris was.

"Come eat my pussy, Bob," she whimpered.

It was as if he were in a dream.

He was on his knees, on his very own bed, staring at what she was offering him. He hadn't touched her yet, since the "massage." He had moved slowly into position as she used two fingers on one hand to spread those puffy lips at the top, exposing an almost shockingly large clit. The fingers of her other hand pinched one of those big, hard nipples.

"Lick My Pretty, Bob," she panted. "Lick it until I cum. I need to cum, Bob."

The dream lengthened as, in slow motion, he leaned forward. She didn't smell like peaches now. Her scent was of turned on woman.

He delayed no longer, lest she snap her knees together and laugh at him. If she was playing some sadistic game, he was at least going to have the memory of her taste in his mouth before she executed her ambush. He flicked her bud with the tip of his tongue and she groaned, bucking her hips upward and mashing her pussy into his face.

His hands went to her thighs, which were already flat on the bedspread, and pressed to keep them there.

Then he sucked her pussy like it was an open spigot, and he was a man dying of thirst.

She was very vocal about how much she appreciated his efforts. A less experienced man might have worried, after the first ten minutes of her squirming and moaning, without any evidence that his endeavors had produced the desired orgasm. But those demanding women in Bob's past had taught him that women take longer to reach the pinnacle of sexual satisfaction than men do, so he was patient.

Then, she started chanting.

"Yes! Yes! Yes, Bob, ohhhh, yes!" and he knew she was almost there.

His lips clamped around that big, meaty clit and he sucked, biting it gently while holding her thighs down firmly.

She went off like a bomb and did, in fact, squeal like a little piggy.

He kept going, exploring every millimeter of her sex with his tongue and lips. Her knees overcame the pressure, surprising him with her strength, and she wrapped her legs around his neck.

He continued until she jerked and whined again. Luscious taste filled his mouth as he lapped up her juices.

He hadn't even dreamed of timing her, but it was fully twenty minutes before she released her grip on his head and pushed him away.

"Time for the rest of that massage," she panted.

He misunderstood, and moved up to effortlessly slide his middle finger into her honey pot, pushing deep to locate her cervix and rim it with his fingertip. She groaned, and then laughed as he dropped his lips to suckle at one nipple that was no longer the same color as the rest of her breast. Now it was rosy and even thicker than usual.

"Not that kind of massage, you lovely man. Please tell me you have a condom," she panted.

"You're joking," he said, only breathing deeply. He was hard as stone in his trousers, but all traces of panic and hysteria had left his body as the dream became real to him. "I don't do this."

"I don't either," she gasped. "But I need you in me."

"I thought you needed this," he teased, and lurched back down between her legs to lick her with his flattened tongue, ending with another quick suck on her distended clit.

"You got an A on that little pop quiz," she breathed. "Now it's time for the final exam."

"I'm sorry. I don't have a condom. But I haven't had sex in over ten years. If I had a disease it would have killed me by now."

She gave another barking laugh.

"That's the least of my concerns. The reason I'm so horny right now is because I'm ovulating."

Aren't you on the pill?" He leaned back, astonished. Before this, the idea that she was sexually active wasn't something he could have contemplated easily. But she was sexually active. That much was crystal clear. The taste in his mouth was proof!

"I don't do this either, Bob," she moaned. "Not for the last two years, anyway. I didn't plan for this to happen quite as soon as it did."

"You planned this?" He was agog.

"Ever since I saw you looking at me with those puppy dog eyes at our first home game," she said. "I remembered you from last year. And you were at the next game, too. You were always right there, eating me up with those big, brown eyes. I asked one of the girls who you were. Then I learned whatever I could about you. When you put up those posters I was frantic to get there before anyone else did."

"Well fuck me to tears," sighed Bob, using a phrase he hadn't uttered since he was a teenager.

"I plan to," she purred. "This is your final exam, Bob. I'm going to let you in me without a condom. But I'm only doing that because I believe you have the kind of control only an older man has. I'm going to let you fuck me, but when you cum you have to pull out. I'll suck you then, and drink it down my throat, but you can't get any sperm in my pussy. Can you do that?"

What happened in Bob's brain at that moment was fantastically complicated, and would have put the most powerful super computer to shame. To his credit, his basic intent was honorable. The deficit was that he knew he might not have that kind of control if he got lost in the heat of the moment. And putting his penis in this woman's vagina was going to create that kind of heat. He hadn't felt this kind of lust since ... maybe ever. To his credit, he intended to be careful. To his deficit, he couldn't possibly turn her down, even if it meant he violated her "contract."

"Yes," he rasped, already reaching for his belt.

"Ohhhh, I hoped you'd say that," she said, already panting again.

She had been in control before this, in almost every aspect of their relationship. He hadn't thought of it like that until now. She had teased him intentionally, had let him look on purpose, knowing she was inflaming him. She had wanted to inflame him.

Now, though, with him above and her underneath, he was in control. And some lingering feeling that he might wake up and find that all this was a vivid dream, created an urgency in him that eschewed the normal foreplay he might have engaged in.

Rather, he got his cock out of his pants and, without even removing them, pressed forward to enter her in one not quite vicious plunge.

She groaned, and then gasped, "Wait! Your zipper!"

Understanding made him feel an instant of shame, and he got off of her to stand beside the bed, where he dropped his pants hurriedly. He kicked off his shoes and managed to pull one foot free of his pants before he couldn't wait any longer and simply kicked the other foot until his pants flew. He fairly leapt onto the bed again to resume his dominant position. This time her hand came to direct him, and her groan was longer and happier when he pushed in deep. Already his balls clenched, and he knew that he would need very little friction to get off.

To his credit, he fought it, digging in and moving his loins to massage her clit, while the tip of his cock massaged her cervix.

She loved it, and her legs went around his waist, crushing him, holding him in her.

Instinct made him want to pull out, but her legs wouldn't let him. He reached to goose her rectum with a fingertip, and with a squawk her legs flew apart. He captured one and put it on his shoulder. Then he grasped the other, and as he placed that one, he leaned forward to fold her in half. Her cheerleader flexibility let her fold up like a piece of paper and, suddenly, her nose touched his nose.

Their first kiss was sloppy, more of an effort to eat each other's lips off, rather than kiss. She grunted as he slammed forward and then jerked under him as her internal muscles began to ripple, tensing and relaxing.

"Ohhhhh yesssss," she wheezed, unable to draw a deep breath. "Make me cum like this."

It was while she groaned, whimpered and cried through that orgasm that Bob knew he was lost.

Still, he worked her pussy until he knew her orgasm was complete. Then, with his forehead pressed against hers, he confessed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she panted. "That was wonderful."