My girlfriend in college was a lovely human woman named Gretchen. Petite, pretty, strawberry blonde, smart and kind, I was drawn to her the moment we met at the university literary magazine, where she turned out pages and pages of really sweet, not-that-great poetry, and short stories with uplifting endings. I was a misanthrope back then, going through a sci-fi phase in my own work, and hating “the establishment” very loudly. You know the type, I’m sure. I was tall and skinny – boy, what I’d give for that body back – with a ridiculous earring, tons of opinions, and no experience to back them up.

Gretchen was the epitome of “she has no idea how beautiful she is,” and I was just the wordsmith to explain it to her. We were high on belonging, and each other’s most prolific dealers of the drug. She and I felt like the “it” couple of the student union, the king and queen of the misfit prom.

I’m sure I seemed very edgy to someone like Gretchen, but I had never had a girlfriend before, because college was the first place my brand ever remotely played. And though Gretchen did have a boyfriend in high school, he was very religious, so we were the blind leading the blind in the bedroom. Still, we figured that natural urges, curiosity, and a willing partner were all we needed to catch up to the other kids. 

It was nice to have sex, but it just wasn’t great. It’s hard to explain, other than to say that we understood we weren’t having the same experience others were having. This awkward cacophony of grunts and apologies is the force at the heart of empires, evolution and rock n’ roll? What were we missing?

Our entire friend group coalesced around the magazine. There were always six editors, and each one of us had his or her own little office in one suite of the student union, which was awesome because that meant we had an on-campus base where we could work. There was myself and Gretchen, Jigsha, Delilah and Brad as editors, plus a whole ecosystem of baby editors and alumni of legend. 

And then there was Christa, the editor-in-chief. 

The norm was for the EOC to be a first-among-equals type of leader, but Christa had been touched by a bitch in the cradle. If she’d been born male, we’d have said she was “decisive.” She was probably just the boss we all needed, but that didn’t win her any heartfelt devotion. Everyone was a little afraid of her, and it helped nothing that she was a smoke show.

Italian and brunette, she wore her hair in a shoulder-length bob, with long bangs swept to one side, so that one glass-cutting green eye was often obscured. She paid just a little more attention to her appearance than the others in the group, eschewing their pallid bohemia for manicured nails, makeup and glowing olive skin. She also went to the gym, which is where I spied the rocket she normally hid under sweaters and capris: bubble butt, flared hips, slim waist and tits for days.

If she wasn’t so mean, I might have been obsessed with her. But I got along with her the least. 

When it came to Christa, I just couldn’t do anything right. Some days my problem was taking myself too seriously, and other days my work was just shit. The version of myself that is writing this can admit that she was rarely wrong – I was pretentious AF, and my work was so cringey – but there always seemed to be a little twist of the knife that wasn’t fair, and a little too personal.

“Stop sucking your own dick,” she told me more than once. Or, “You’re just not good enough to whine as much as you do.” 

Also, her take-downs were always public. I had some durable status in that group as a gifted writer and sharp editor, but it wasn’t for lack of Christa trying to tear me down. Gretchen and I had countless discussions about how to get her on my side, or at least off my back, but the bug stayed up her shapely ass.

We all partied pretty hard, often at the two-bedroom apartment Jigsha and Brad shared. On Friday afternoons in the office, Delilah would break out her bottle of Jameson – we were so literary – and three hours later we’d be shouting limericks from Jigsha’s bedroom balcony. Delilah was a gold star lesbian, Jisgha a queer Buddhist who sometimes gave into Delilah’s charms, and Brad was goth and pan.

Christa had a live-in boyfriend named Bill whom she seemed to loathe almost as much as me. The walls weren’t thin enough to block the sound of her shouting at him, and in her defense, he did seem like a bro-douche. He was a finance major, and regarded us as a band of pointless lunatics who would probably beg him for a job when our artistic dreams died.

***

One Friday afternoon late in the spring semester, Gretchen and I walked into the suite to find a strangely hushed vibe. Delilah popped out of her office bursting with news.

“I think Christa and Bill broke up,” she whispered. “In fact, I’m almost positive.”

“What a shame,” I said, deadpan. “For both of them.”

Gretchen stifled a laugh, but shot me a disapproving look. Delilah brushed me off, and turned to Gretchen.

“I think we should take her out,” she said.

“Good thinking,” I interjected. “She’s weak, and probably easier to kill than ever.”

“Very funny,” Deliah said. “No, I think we should take her to a bar, get her drunk. No men. Not even Brad. A good old fashioned men-hating sesh is what we need.”

“I can see I’m not wanted,” Brad called from his office.

“What gave you that impression?” Delilah quipped. This was normal banter, but I did feel badly for Christa, and I listened as Delilah, Gretchen and Jigsha plotted their cathartic evening.

“Is it okay to go?” Gretchen asked me, standing in my doorway. 

“Without a doubt,” I said. “But before you guys get carried away, you better ask Christa. She may not be up for it.”

“I’m down,” said Christa’s voice, surprising me from behind my girlfriend. She sounded more angry than sad, which I thought was a good sign. I was silently relieved that Christa had overheard me trying to respect her feelings, and hoped she hadn’t clocked my earlier snark. I was going for misanthrope, not asshole.

With our evening suddenly free, Brad and I conferred briefly about knocking out some work before bowing to the inevitable, and hitting the College Tap and its weekly poetry slam. As Brad waited for his turn at the mic, we speculated about the impact of Christa’s breakup on the office dynamic.

“It could be a disaster,” Brad said, clinking his pint glass against mine on the bar. “Cheers, mate. It could go both ways, but it’s not likely to be way better, and it might get way worse.”

“Explain,” I replied, before downing half my warm lager.

“So, what we’ve had all this time is Christa plus dick,” Brad said. “And what we are about to get is Christa minus dick. You see what I mean?”

He flipped his jet black hair out of his eyes like he’d just unlocked the universe for me. I still wasn’t getting it.

“But if the relationship was toxic, maybe having to live in that made her mean,” I said. “And now she won’t be so mean.”

“How old are you, Jack, like 40?” Brad said. “Or, maybe, like, 12? Take it from me, a girl like Christa has needs that are not negotiable. Either she gets ‘em met, or we all are gonna need some fireproof clothes.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Thank god the semester’s almost over.”

I believed Brad knew what he was talking about, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. It didn’t make sense to me that sex and sexual fulfillment could have any effect on a person’s behavior one way or the other. Frustration was to me what water is to a fish.

It was still bothering me the next day, when I met a very hung-over Gretchen at our favorite coffee spot. I was hoping to get her take on what Brad had said, but she was anxious and preoccupied.

“We got so drunk last night, and I think I might have said something I shouldn’t have,” Gretchen said. She was almost hyperventilating.

“I’m guessing it’s not that bad,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, so we were getting pretty drunk, and we’re trying to get Christa to tell us what happened, blah, blah, blah. I’m thinking, what’s the big deal? Bill’s been a total dick the whole time, so what’s really changed? Eventually, Christa said she has hated him – like, hated him – for months now, like hated his soul. But that she keeps patching things up because she can’t go without sex.”

I immediately thought of the things Brad had said.

“And she’s like, ‘I think I’m a nymphomaniac. I just can’t get enough.’”

“Holy shit, she said she’s a nymphomaniac?!” I was gobsmacked. Like, not only are nymphomaniacs real, but I know one? Unbelievable. It was like finding out that magic was real and that Brad was a wizard.

“So everybody started talking about their sex lives, and I heard some stuff that was so personal… I never had friends who talk like that before.”

I was still stunned by the nympho thing, I couldn’t even process the idea of deep sex talk. I desperately wanted Gretchen to elaborate. Sadly, she did not.

“I know it’s normal, but it’s not normal for me,” she went on. “Anyway, I started feeling self-conscious because I realized that even though we’ve done it, maybe I’m not as experienced as them. And I was pretty drunk too, so I kind of told them…”

She looked away from me, and her voice dropped.

“.. told them that your penis is really big, and I don’t always know if we’re doing it right. And I’m so sorry, that was so personal and I shouldn’t have said it, but in my mind I guess I figured since it doesn’t make you look bad that it was something okay to share. Anyway, they all laughed and cheered and were like, ‘Go you! Your boyfriend is hung!’ But Christa got kind of quiet and she was staring at me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but she looked sick and she basically didn’t say another word the whole night.”

I let myself laugh a little bit. I wasn’t really upset, but I tried to figure out why it was so upsetting to Gretchen. She went on, starting to hyperventilate again.

“And now I’m worried I put a target on your back, or like they might treat you differently,” she said. “Or us. Oh I don’t know, now I think I probably shouldn’t have said anything to you, and you wouldn’t even notice. Oh, I’ve just totally fucked this up, I’m sorry.”

I recognized my cue.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “It might have been a bit of an overshare, but I get why you would go there. I’m not mad. You’re fine, I’m fine, we’re fine, everything’s good.”

As expected, it went on like that for the rest of the weekend. The next day, when I gently suggested that we talk about something else, she agreed to try. But when I put my hand on her thigh and kissed her neck, she recoiled as if she was ill.

“I just can’t, not yet,” she said. 

I confess I was a little angry then. By my reasoning, if Gretchen was mortified at having disclosed our struggles with sex, then improving our sex life was the perfect antidote. She was worried about weirdness from our friends, but as the week commenced, she was the only one acting weird. I couldn’t detect any change in anyone’s behavior except hers, which was suddenly even less affectionate in private, and more timid in mixed company.

Actually, that’s a lie. For the next week, as we finished the last edition of the magazine and ramped up for finals week, Christa wasn’t mean to me at all. Not even one time. Curious as it was, I did not report this observation to my girlfriend, not being a total moron.

The first concrete reference to Gretchen’s overshare didn’t show up until a week later, when we were all at the College Tap celebrating the end of classes and the final publication of our hard work. Each of the six senior editors raised a glass to make a little speech. Christa went first, thanking all of us for our contributions, and announcing that she and the magazine’s faculty advisor had decided that Jigsha would be up next in the editor-in-chief role.

“I’ll be just a regular senior editor next term,” she said, miming the placing of a crown on Jigsha’s head, and handing her an invisible scepter. Jigsha played along, waving imperiously. 

“I plan to enjoy not being in charge,” Christa concluded, taking a seat.

As Christa’s frequent whipping boy, I felt compelled to stand and toast her leadership, thanking her for “pouring so much of yourself into the role. You dared expect more of us. Better you than our poor teachers and parents.”

Everybody laughed, and I heard Delilah say, in a stage whisper, “That’s some big dick energy, Jack.”

As the table erupted in laughter, I glanced at Gretchen, whose blood had fully drained from her face. Then at Christa. She was staring, and when our eyes met, her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked away.

***

The next day, I excused myself from Gretchen’s marathon of hand-wringing worry and returned to my desk to face a final paper that I had been avoiding for weeks. It was a custom of mine to leave one all-nighter’s worth of work for the last possible moment, and then pull the all-nighter. I believed my best work was born this way, but in reality I had just never tried any other method.

With no magazine to work on, the office suite was deserted. I put on my headphones and started tapping out pages about the failures of Reconstruction in the 1870’s, and their far-reaching consequences.

“Jesus, Jack, what are you doing here?”

It was Christa, who had entered unannounced and knocked out one of my earbuds.

“What does it look like? I’m doing an entire semester of work in one night. Happens like twice a year.”

“Smart,” Christa said, flopping down on the black pleather two-seater couch. She was wearing those tiny terry cloth shorts women used to wear. Some of them had “juicy” on the ass, but Christa’s were bright pink and had the name of our university. She also wore a baseball tee that probably had some funny saying on it. I could tell they were words, but her breasts stretched them illegibly, and I dared not stare long enough to decipher them. Her black bra was plain under the white cotton.

“Thanks for saying that stuff about me last night,” Christa said. She was chewing a lock of her hair.

“What stuff?”

She reached a bare, pedicured foot out and nudged my chair.

“You know what stuff,” she said. “I was only hard on you because you’re probably the best one here.”

I turned to her, and saw her as timid and insecure for the first time. Her time in authority had elapsed, and I wasn’t sure how to treat her anymore. But I also had no time or energy for the fight. Or whatever this was supposed to be.

“We’re all here because we love to write,” I said. “But the greatest writers would be nothing without tough editors. It’s a thankless job, and you’re the best we’ve got.”

I didn’t know if I believed it, but the sentiment landed. I watched Christa’s eyes shimmer, and turned back to my work.

“Can I help with your paper?” she said, standing up to peer over my shoulder.

“It’s way beneath you,” I said, feeling her hover, and then feeling her hand on my shoulder. “I don’t need it to be good, I just need it to be done. If I had a first draft to show you, I’d just turn it in and go to bed.”

I felt both her hands start to knead my shoulders and neck.

“You’re so tense,” Christa said. “Holy shit, how do you work like this?”

She started rubbing harder, leaning into the work, and I felt the stiff lace of her bra brush against the back of my head. I said nothing, just kept typing, and then it happened again, a juicy scrape just behind my left ear.

“Hold on a sec,” Christa said, disengaging and moving toward the door. “Do you mind eucalyptus?”

I found it a strange question, so I answered honestly, that I had no objection to eucalyptus. A moment later, I realized I was heading into dangerous waters. Christa went next door to her office for a few minutes, and returned with a fragrant oil. 

And no bra.

She was still in the tee, and I still couldn’t read the distorted words, but there was a soft jiggle to her chest, and the unmistakable impression of hard, dark nipples under thin, white cotton. I looked away, back to my screen, and pretended nothing was amiss. Christa moved back in behind me, laying her oiled hands back on my shoulders – this time snaking them under my shirt – with a heavy sigh.

“Tell me to get lost if you want,” she said, “but I just can’t resist tight shoulder muscles.” 

She bored in on one particular knot, that was always just out of reach whenever I tried to give myself this relief. Her thumb pressed down hard, a moan escaped me, and my head fell back, falling gently against her pillowy tits.

“Ooh, careful there,” Christa giggled, as a spark of pain and then relief shot through my shoulders and neck. “Oh, that one went squish. I love when that happens.”

We stayed in that uneasy formation for several minutes, me pretending to work, wondering what the heck was going on, and Christa putting her hands on my body, bringing me pleasure and relief. The eucalyptus scent was calming, and made it seem almost clinical. But this was not my girlfriend, and not my therapist. This was a beautiful woman about whom I had strong feelings. We were way out on a very shaky limb.

“Can I ask you a question?” she finally said.

“Sure.” Dumbass.

“I know you love Gretchen…” 

I internally flinched because I wasn’t sure, at that exact moment, how I felt about my girlfriend. We hadn’t really spoken about our future, and I know she wanted the conversation. As recently as a couple weeks before, I’d have welcomed it too. But her anxieties had exhausted me.

I’m certain my flinch wasn’t visible, but Christa had her hands on my body, and she seemed instantly emboldened by the spike in tension.

“,... but you should know what it feels like to be with someone who craves you. Like, physically craves you.”

“And that’s you?”

She laughed nervously.

“You wish,” she said under her breath. But her hands dug deep into my shoulders. I felt her breasts frame the back of my head. One hand snaked from my shoulder to my neck and into my hair. Seconds ticked by. Minutes possibly. I typed the same sentence about the Grant administration over and over.

“Honestly, I can’t stop thinking about you…” she finally said. “Have you ever thought about me?”

I had no safe answer, and she took my moment of hesitation and kneaded it in her exploring fingers.

“You know, if you and Gretchen hadn’t gotten together, I was gonna shoot my shot.”

“What about Bill? Weren’t you living together then?”

“Me and Bill have broken up like five times. That’s never been going anywhere.”

“I thought you didn’t even like me.”

She slapped me in the back of the head, and said, “Well you must be an idiot.”

Oh, right. 

“I was so mad at myself for letting her get to you first,” Christa went on. “She’s so perfect. I figured that’d be it, and I’d never get a chance. Like I figured you guys’d totally get married. And then the other night she told us you were having problems…”

“Problems?”

“Fucking,” she said. “Gretchen said you’ve been having trouble fucking, because somebody is packing too much heat.”

I didn’t say anything. I was embarrassed. For myself, and for Gretchen. I knew my erstwhile girlfriend was hoping the comment would be dismissed as idle chatter – girls’ locker room talk – but Christa had clearly taken it to heart. The offending member was aching for release in my lap, something I realized Christa had noticed. Her fingers strayed from my neck and shoulders to my chest, and her breasts renewed their supple pressure. I could make out a stiff nipple against the nape of my neck, and her voice was quiet and raspy.

“You need to be able to fuck your girlfriend,” she said. “Like, totally fuck her, and have her totally fuck you. I felt so bad for you the other night.”

“For me or for Gretchen?”

She was silent for a long moment, and her hands never stopped, reaching ever lower on my chest. I held my breath and felt my heart pounding. Suddenly the massage stopped, and Christa’s leg swung over me. She settled into my lap, straddling me with her tiny shorts pressing down on my swollen cock. She let out a sigh as she pulled my face to her tits, and then whispered in my ear.

“For you,” she said. “But I’m going to feel so bad for Gretchen when she finds out I’ve taken you.”

Breakups are really hard, you know? Especially when you’ve come a long way with a person, and they’re sweet and beautiful, and there’s no particular reason why you can’t be happy together forever, except for that one reason that one or both of you can’t even talk about. Gretchen was really self-conscious about her limited experience, which had always been fine with me because it was one of my fears too. We both knew that sex was supposed to be so much more than the fumbling and wincing that we were doing in the dark.

As Christa pulled off her t-shirt, and guided my lips to her taut nipple, I hoped someone would do the same kind of thing for Gretchen, but I also knew that person would never be me. Our partnership had effectively ended minutes before, the moment Christa had found me working alone. It never stood a chance. I didn’t really even put up a fight, if I’m being honest.

I could say it was just the penetration of sex that Christa did differently than Gretchen, but that would be to ignore a whole lot, including the way the kiss felt. She pulled my mouth from her nipple to her lips, and sucked my tongue past her teeth. Drops of my soul left my body and entered hers, and she dragged her mouth to my left ear, whispering to me.

“Just relax, I’ll do everything. Anything you want. You don’t need to move a muscle.” Then she reached down to past the crotch of her shorts, to my screaming bulge. “Well, maybe just one.”

Christa shifted backward in my lap, and her hands found my belt buckle, which she hastily undid before pulling the entire belt off of me with a flourish and a laugh. My dick was straining against my boxers and shorts, laid out down my right pant leg. She massaged it through the fabric, grabbing my shaft through my shorts. Then she found my zipper and eased it down, reaching into my underwear to touch my cock for the first time. Time seemed to slow down.

“Oh my god, it’s just what I was hoping,” Christa said, tracing a vein gently with her fingers. She cradled it against her soft belly skin, and the head nuzzled the underside of her left breast. “A cock like yours is totally wasted on a fucking stuck-up priss.”

“Hey,” I said, brushing a strand of hair behind Christa’s ear. “If we’re going to do this, I need you to lay off Gretchen. It’s not a turn-on for me. This is gonna hurt her enough.”

Christa looked up at me, chastened but still stroking my dick. A panicked thought that I had ruined the mood gained traction in my mind.

“You’ve won,” I assured. “You’re so fucking sexy, you’ve torn me away from a good woman.”

Kneeling between my legs, her eyes flashed defiantly, and she tightened her grip on my shaft before licking me from root to tip.

“The rest is just nonsense, baby,” I said, and reached down to cup her left breast and pinch her nipple.

Christa let out a soft moan and smiled, and grabbed the back of my neck, pulling me forward and down into a deep kiss, all without letting go of my member,

“You called me baby,” she said. “I’m gonna make you cum for that.”

She dragged her body – such a diabolical combination of toned and soft – down my torso until my cock came to rest between her tits. She looked me straight in the eyes as she spit in her hand and started stroking me, her breasts providing the soft contrast to her vigorous ministrations. After spitting a few more times on my shaft, she went to full tit-fucking, her supple double-D’s enveloping me as she laid out what was going to happen next.

“I’m gonna take as much of your cock down my throat as I can, and then I’m gonna suck you until you explode in my mouth,” she said. “And I’m gonna swallow.”

By her expression and tone of voice, she might have been laying out the agenda for an editorial meeting. 

“Then I’m gonna to get you out of the rest of your clothes and over to the couch, cause we’re gonna need some room.” she went on. “I can’t decide whether I want you to go down on me, or if I just want you to stuff your cock in me. I’m so wet already, but I have a feeling you’re really gonna like my pussy, so… I guess we’ll see.”

With that Christa released my cock from its tit prison. She wrapped her fingers around my shaft and her lips around my cock head, cupped my balls and started bobbing her way downward. Her mouth was completely full, and I could feel the faint scrape of her teeth, but she was determined. Her eyes began to water with her lips two thirds of the way down my shaft, and she gave one more short bob before withdrawing me fully with a gasp.

“Oh fuck!” she said, breathlessly. “That’s really a lot of dick! One more try.”

And she was back at it. This time I could feel the head of my penis navigate the warm, delicate tunnel of Christa’s esophagus, and her tongue cradling the underside of my shaft. A tear streaked down her pretty face as she undulated there, all but two of my eight-plus pulsing inches past her pink lips.

She chose that moment to massage my balls with her other hand, and that nearly sent me over the edge. Christa must have known I was close, because her eyes flashed in momentary panic, and she carefully drew me out of her mouth, coughing as her throat released me. She wasted no time, or any of her viscous saliva that coated me, and sucked furiously on my glans while jacking away with her French-manicured fist.

The load that erupted from me was like a slithering demon beast released from heaven, and I never saw a single drop of it. Christa kept licking and sucking on me for several long moments, until finally slumping back against my desk, her green eyes closed and face flushed. One of her hands feverishly worked her pussy through her bright pink shorts, and the other grasped her breast, pinching the nipple from brown to almost red.

“That was incredible,” I sighed, and she smiled without opening her eyes. “Let me help you cum.”

I slid out of my chair and pushed it aside, shedding my t-shirt and leaving my trousers and underwear at my knees. Christa propped one dainty bare foot on my chest, and used it as leverage to lift her ass. She paused her self-ministration just long enough to shimmy her shorts and lacy black thong down to her thighs, where I could reach them and slide them off, tossing them aside.

The heady scent of her arousal filled the small office, overpowering the normal mix of stress and neglect that usually pervaded. She spread her knees, revealing a shaved pussy, glistening and pink. I moved closer, and by way of invitation, Christa pressed her fingers into her sopping cunt, and withdrew them. She put them to my lips and I sucked, tasting her for the first time. Earthy and complex, her pussy tasted like a strong tea from a country I’ve never been to.

With that flavor on my tongue, I kissed her lips, and her neck, collarbone, left breast and nipple, and on and on, down and down.

I’d never seen a fully shaved vagina before, and it had never been a specific fantasy, but I was mesmerized by hers. Perhaps because there was no hair to disperse or mask the moisture, her pussy was a cascade, and I wanted to drown myself in it. 

“Don’t tease me,” she said. “At least not this time.” And she grabbed me by the hair and pulled my face into her slit. I could feel her throbbing clit even before I touched it with my tongue, but when I did, I found out that Christa was a screamer.

Most of her screams were not words but howls, with echoes I was certain could be heard anywhere in the empty student union. I had never made Gretchen cum before; I’d only watched her make herself cum. As Christa’s orgasm vibrated all around me, I felt a familiar stirring and tingling, and knew I was hard as concrete again.

She still hadn’t recovered her words when I realized I actually knew what to do. I leaned down and helped her trembling body to its knees, and guided her to the couch, face-first. She knelt on the carpeted office floor, round ass in the air, torso piled on the seat of the sofa, as I moved in behind her. My cock found her slick undercarriage, and then the notch of her vagina.

“Oh. My. God. Jack,” she said, suddenly lucid. “Yes. Yes. Yes, baby.” And she lifted her right knee onto the couch, opening herself impossibly wide for me.

The sound Christa made when I pushed into her, slowly but relentlessly, seemed an awful lot like pain, but her gushing pussy was all the reassurance I needed, if any at all. I was not in my right mind at that moment. Or perhaps I was in the exact right might, but not one that I had ever been in before. Nothing could have stopped me fucking her just then. And I did.

It probably only lasted about 10 minutes, but I felt her shatter beneath me at least twice. I gripped her meaty, feminine hips – so ‘other’ to my unpracticed hands – and worked her over and through with my cock. The muscles of her vaginal walls strummed the contours of my dick like an electric guitar, and came out amplified in her screams of pleasure. After the initial thrusts, the notes of pain were all silent.

I was surprised when my second orgasm rose within me, but Christa was waiting for it. She must have felt the signs deep in her, because she eased herself off my cock, and knelt in front of me, breathing hard, and wordlessly offered me her tits. I took myself in hand, and in three long strokes, let go a rope of cum, and then another and another. Each one painted her jiggling breasts with a pearly streak on olive skin.

Christa beamed in triumph. She collapsed back on the pleather couch still cradling her tits and their warm load. I sat on the floor, and finally took off my pants the rest of the way. She stared at me, and serenely scooped fingers of cum to her lips, like they were just runny egg whites.

“I wonder if I could live on cum alone,” she said with a mischievous smirk. “Should we try?”

We both laughed, smiled and shook our heads in disbelief at what had just taken place.

After a few moments, Christa found where I’d thrown her shorts and underwear, and used the shorts to wipe up the residue of semen left on her breasts, pausing for a moment to tease one of her nipples to stiffness. Then she stood up, crossed back over to my desk, slid open the center drawer, dropped the panties in, and slid it closed again.

PART 2 here