Dave stroked Vixen's smooth back, his highly pleased ram still a half-foot or so in her throbbing vagina and his left hand filled with her full breast. He could not believe how smooth and silky her warm skin was or how tirelessly she had fucked him for the last hour. The small girl's strength and the depth of her combustible libido constantly amazed him.

It had been nearly three months since the troubles in New York City, and now things were getting back to normal in the girl's mind and body. Vixen spasmed again and squeezed him hard, pulling him deeper and then relaxing, shuddering as she sighed in satisfaction.

The sweating young woman groaned and turned her head to kiss Dave once more and wiggle free of his incredible ability to keep humping no matter how many times he had ejaculated. The fraternity president was not impressively well hung, but he was very durable, nearly tireless, and his handling of her breasts and nipples had been wonderful.

He was a stud among studs, so Vixen decided after four or five trysts with him. "You've got to go," she said, squirming around in his arms, an action exciting him to startling rigidity again, "and I've got to study."

"Ungahh," Dave moaned, his brain turned to mush, his lust still rampant, his stupid cock still hard. Since his days as a high school sophomore, he had been proud of his ability to seduce and gratify females; he had enjoyed dozens, from randy cheerleaders to academic prizewinners, but he had never attempted to satisfy anyone as ravenously hungry for fornication as Vixen.

Now she was kicking him off the side of the bed and then pulling him to his feet and pushing him toward the door as he collected his clothes and begged for more, stumbling and pleading, bouncing on one foot, inflamed by her bare body.

"Another day," she said, shoving him outside with one shoe on, "and not tomorrow. Maybe Monday. I'm way behind."

He bent and kissed her forehead and barely got his fingers away from the doorjamb when she slammed it closed and flipped the new lock he had bought. Dave pulled his polo shirt over his tousled head and stumbled up the brick steps, his cock hanging limply. He looked at his watch, a shoe still in his hand. "Almost five," he said to himself. "We've been at it since three-thirty. It's impossible." His sated prick felt as if it had been basted and roasted.

Vixen, not bothering to dress, her throbbing vagina still oozing and her nipples still hard, set up her easel and got out her acrylics and a paper cup of water. She looked at what she had done, a canvas of cobalt sky and sienna hillsides and squirted a glob of burnt umber on her pallet, the discarded top from a container of cole slaw.

Cocking her head and smiling as she thought about the boy's heavily ridged cock and her vulva's exercises on it, she dabbed heavily, painting a tree in the foreground with rapid stokes from bottom to top, dragging out the limbs to the edge and leaving deep and heavy steaks on the trunk that would take some time to dry. The best thing about acrylics, she had decided, was that they were so easy to paint over. In fact the 16x20-inch canvas board she was working on was three paintings deep already. Her right arm nudged her jutting breast and she lifted it toward her mouth with her free hand and bent to lick its aching tit. Dave had been a bit rough at times.

She had been on the witness list for the trial but all of the conspirators had copped pleas and paid hefty fines or gone to jail, and she was never called. Her Friday assignations with the dean were back on schedule, and imaginatively pleasant, and she had been surprised to receive a bequest from the estate of Taylor Wilkins, a very old gold coin mounted on a gold necklace. It evidently was one of the treasures dredged up by salvagers at the Titanic site according to the booklet that came with it, and her late lover had set it aside with a card for her. She also received a check for $2,500 labeled "for services rendered."

Now it was back to the routines of college life and, of course, Dave and the dean, both of whom she was enjoying her at least weekly. If Dave had had his way, it would have been hourly. Vixen was finding him habit-forming and that bothered her somewhat. She smiled to herself and licked her lips, savoring the taste of him as she switched to a smaller brush.

The only class she was having trouble with was the script-writing seminar for a visiting professor with experience on Broadway and an acid tongue. He demanded realistic dialogue, and none of the members of her class had pleased him yet. She had read Tennessee Williams and Eugene O'Neil and Saroyan and written several scenes that were returned with caustic comments on them.

She slashed some smaller limbs on her tree, exhausted her supply of paint and rinsed out her brushes.

Vixen then sat cross-legged at her laptop and opened a new document.

She typed, "Shit."

And then she leaned back and smiled. I'll do a love scene, she decided, Dave and me, more or less, a wrestling match. She decided not to format in dialogue style.

She typed, "said Gloria. 'All you want to do is fuck, fuck, fuck.'"

"'Um, ' said the boy, licking her throat and trying to pull her shoes off her feet."

"'Stop it, you freak, ' Gloria said, kicking at him." Vixen smiled and kept typing, her mind well ahead of her fingers.

Five single-spaced pages later, Gloria was forcing the boy out the door, laughing as he begged for more and hopped on one foot, just as Dave had done. Vixen scanned through what she had, found it surprisingly stimulating, ran a spell check, saved to a disc and set that aside to print at the library. She went back to her painting, squeezing out a little black and some white so she could work on shadows.

On Tuesday, the balding professor collected the scripts, made a pile on his desk, picked up the one on the top and chose two readers. Each student had turned in three copies of his or her work. The chosen students sat facing the class and the teacher smiled and pointed, looking at his copy. "This is Gloria," he said pointing at the dark-haired girl, "and this is David. They are having a discussion, a private one. Read, please."

"Shit," read the girl, "All you want to do is fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Um," said the male reader.

"Stop it, you freak," the girl read loudly.

"Good," said the teacher, and they read on through the pages of Vixen's steamy dialogue. When they were done, the members of the class applauded, and the students resumed their seats, both a bit red in the face.

"Comments?" asked the teacher.

"I thought he gave up too easily," said one of the male students.

"She was a real bitch," said one of the females. "A tease."

The professor held up his hand. "So you believed it? It seemed real to you?"

There was a lot of nodding. The teacher produced a fat red marker, wrote a huge A on Vixen's script and tossed one copy back to her. "Well done," he said with smile. Vixen blushed, something she had not done for several years.

The teacher took the next script, picked two more readers and on they went.

After Vixen got her lunch, a grilled cheese and a Coke, she looked for a place to sit in the noisy cafeteria and a member of her script-writing class waved at her and said, loudly, "Over here." She went wiggling through the chairs and sat.

"Thanks," she said. "Crowded today."

"Boy, that was some thing you wrote," the boy said with a grin. "You know Chuck and Jim?"