[MF] One woman I knew in college was a real class-act.

One woman I knew in college was a real class-act. She was 5’9, slender, and dyed-blonde hair. Athletic, but not too much. Smart, but not a poindexter. Her long term boyfriend was athletic, attractive, and smart. He had no, as my Italian grandmother would say, zest.

This is the abridged story of how she gave herself to me. I’ve touched my cock so many times to this story that some of the details have been erased, added, or transformed in the course of my desire. I’m fine with that. I relayed this memory to someone on r/dirtypenpals and it got me so hot and bothered I had to share it here, too.

I met Rachel in a lit discussion section, but saying we “met” doesn’t really make sense. There was no “hi, my name is” or hot classroom argument. I just made eye contact with her by accident, and the smile I got wasn’t the polite, awkward smile, but one of genuine warmth, a little blushing. I knew there was something to be explored there.

No other looks were exchanged, but we (surprise) ended up walking out of the section together. Neither of us said a word until we found ourselves near the main path. It was clear that it could turn into something hot, but also clear that if either of us spoke first we might break any tension. I was about to part ways (I’d see her again next week after all) when a well-built, handsome guy came and put his arm around her and asked my name. She didn’t look thrilled, but didn’t look surprised. I replied, and she gave me her own. This seemed to concern her boyfriend. We went our separate ways.

Fast forward several classes, several tense walks out of class with nothing much said, and she texts me asking to “study” for section. Everyone knows how this goes. It was an invitation, whether she knew it or not.

When I showed up at her apartment, she was dressed far to sexy to not be in some way aligned with what her body was clearly telling her. Tight lucky jeans, a loose white blouse that I could see her sexy black bra though. She looked like the classy trust fund kid that she was. We pulled out our novel, and I immediately opened it to the lust filled section. I began reading out loud. I didn’t stutter and when I was finished, I simply stood up. Nothing was said for a few moments, I just stood before her. She looked up at me. Then, without prompting, she took my hand and gently sucked my fingers. She started with my middle finger, then worked her way to all of them in turn. Gentle sucks, harder nibbles. Eyes up at me, eyes closed. No other touching, until my hand felt like it was on fire. Then my other hand took her hair, and now the one she’d been sucking, and I just pressed her face into me, her sitting on the couch, me standing before her, novels thrown on the side.

Then the keys of the door as her roommate prepared to walk in. I turned around, not hiding anything, having learned at this point that it totally kills the mood. I just smirked. Her roommate looked at her quizzically, said “hmm” and went back to the kitchen. It was one of those long rail-road style flats, with the living room in the front, the kitchen in the back at the end of a long hallway, and bedrooms in between.

Sounds of her roommate cooking something, or just banging pots and pans together made a now or never moment. I looked back at Rachel and could see her biting her bottom lip and looking out the window. I turned her head back toward mine, somehow lifted her by the chin, or just gave her the nudge to stand up. “Follow me,” she whispered. To this day, that whisper is the sexiest sound I may have heard. There was yearning and surrender and the hot fire of an animal in heat. I felt that whisper all around my neck and down my spine.

I followed her to her bedroom. Typical college girl bedroom, except she had original paintings by unknown artists on the walls instead of famous prints. I shut the door spun her around, and pressed her into it, while I just smelled around her neck.

You have to understand about Rachel – she was used to getting hit on by guys who would marry her in a heartbeat. She came from a great family, she was demure, she was smart-but-not-intimidating. Every party we went to (we’d eventually “find” ourselves at them all the time, arriving separately), she’d get hit on. But not just “I want you for the night” hit on, but like adoringly.

But I don’t really do that, I couldn’t say I’m a Casanova, I can’t seek out women like that. So when I hadn’t been putting her on a pedestal, hadn’t ever introduced myself or asked out to dinner as friends, it kind of drove her mad, deep down.

Her neck smelled of sex. The earthy, musky smell that always seems to precede my best fucks. Her legs opened slightly for me, another invitation. My hand grazed her chin. An exquisite fucking chin. All feminine lines and soft angles. My hand cupped her cheek and my thumb brushed over her lips. Her mouth opened in a soundless moan, and her legs spread further. I pushed my thumb in her mouth, pulled down on her jaw, and bit her ear lobe. Then a loud moan, a guttural moan, not a soundless one. Not an invitation, but a surrender. My free hand lifted one wrist above her head and the other followed. I held them there, and explored the rest of her face and neck with my free hand.

My hand made its way down her body, from her lips to her jaw to her neck, almost in a grip, but no pressure, across her collarbone and down the outside of her breast. Slowly. At the rate of one body part per three breaths, always moving on the exhale, to feel her sharp intake as my hand claimed a new part of her body.

My thumb brushed over her nipple through her blouse, through her bra, and she quivered. I felt more weight from her wrists in my hand, and I grasped them more tightly. I didn’t squeeze her breasts yet, I just cupped them, letting my hand feel there entire shape. That part is key to amazing sex – really feel the other person, as if you were a sculptor studying something you were about to shape from clay.

And now she was ready for the rest of me. Up until this point, everything had been the promise of lust, but there was some kind of passion there, too, a soulful one, even if it was rooted in sex. Now that her body was willing, I needed the rest of her. I kissed her, gently, somehow, despite holding her up by her wrists, pressed against her own door in surrender, to the sound of pots and pans from her roommate, I gently kissed her and let myself be kissed back. It was not a romantic kiss. But it did have soul.

Her kiss exploded into something more and I released her wrists. She brought her hands to my face, as if trying to consume even more of me, running fingers through my hair, then gripping pushing me away and pulling me back all at once.

And I consumed her, too. I pressed my tongue into her mouth. No tricks, no clever cosmo girl “how should our tongues move,” just exploring. Then I pulled my face from hers by her own hair, and pulled back just a bit further until she was facing the ceiling, neck exposed. I kissed her jaw, bit her jaw, kissed her neck, sucked, until I could draw her from the memory of my mouth alone. Her hand worked over my body the way a woman’s do when she is truly in thrall. Not straight to the cock, but to the shoulders, the arms, the hands, the back, like she was trying to get a grasp on any part of me, but unable to find a firm handle. Everything that makes me a man. Never had I felt quite so masculine as in that moment.

And then, a break. I pushed her back, and looked her up and down. Really looked at her, letting her see my own desire written on my face plainly. One button with one hand. Tension building up again. One button with another hand. More tension. And so on until the blouse is undone and her bra is plainly visible, like a last layer of defense, a final stand we both know will fail.

I pulled her blouse down part way, so that it left her shoulders and arms exposed, yet trapped, her toned stomach bare, I held her that way, by her blouse, and yanked one side, until she spun 180 degrees, facing away from me now, toward the door. I pulled the rest of the blouse off, and she put a hand on the door to steady herself.

One hand holds her arm there, the other runs down her stomach to her crotch, stopping just above. Her free hand rests on mine. Not directing me, but not willing to be left behind yet. I breath in her year, whispering part of her body I’ve already touched, bridging those touches around to this now, this present, this moment where my hand is inching to her jeans and unbuttoning. The buttons come away more easily than usual, as if they, too, know the surrender, having been on her body this long, having felt her legs the way I am about to. She pushes back against me, I have no way of knowing but I am sure she is biting her lip as she holds her breath and pushes and squirms and follows my hand with hers as I make my claim on her wet mound. An exhale, a moan, and an exclamation all in one.

I pull my hand back out and rub that sweet first scent of a fuck that’s on my fingers over her stomach, her breasts, her pubic bone, her neck, let her taste herself from my fingers. She sucks, eagerly, holding my hand in her mouth now.

I lean back and we’re standing up, my fingers exploring her mouth, still letting her taste the sweet fury of her own desire. My other hand freed from leaning on the door, I let it, too, feel her body, her stomach, her breasts. A harder squeeze this time, a moan on my fingers. A light pinch on the nipples, a bite on my fingers. This hand now finds its way down her pants and I give a stroke, a rub, a grab, an exploration, as my fingers stay in her mouth, as she squirms and moans and softly mumbles things I can’t hear, but understand intuitively. Her breathing quickens over my fingers until I have to remove them, holding her tightly against my body, half bent over, feeling her surrender to my hands, shaped and moulded by our mutual desire, by the strength of our coming fuck.

TBC

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/9je3i2/mf_one_woman_i_knew_in_college_was_a_real_classact

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