Chapter 3
Their friendship progressed quickly and smoothly. At first it was kept in the guise of a business relationship; Hamp would dictate a publicity release, and Wiffie would do her best to take down his words accurately as he spoke in half-sentences and two-or three-word phrases. It wasn't as easy as he had expected, for he was given to throat-clearings, mutterings of "um" and "uh", and sudden changes of mind (" 'Dear Friends in Christ,-uh, make that 'Dear Fellow Disciples', Wiffie..."). But she bore the burden well, and with happiness, for she was working with Hampton Budd, who was more than a B.M.O.C.; he was a good young man, as well. He treated her nicely, usually in his somewhat phonily hearty manner, but with occasional-and, of late, increasing in number-lapses during which he spoke less as a personality and more as a person. At these times he would become quieter, less overtly self-confident, and more concerned with Wiffie's feelings. "Are you tired?" he would ask her after a spell of dictation, and when she would say she wasn't, he would repeat the question several more times, until at last, she would admit that she was. Then he would tell her to put away her dictation and come with him to the campus snack bar, where they could sit for a while over Cokes.
Two weeks went by, and then on Friday evening Hampton appeared at the dormitory and asked the girl on switchboard duty to fetch Wiffie for him. The girl smiled so broadly that it made Hamp blush; she then turned away from him and whispered something into the phone, after fiddling with the various plugs and cords. Several minutes later, Wiffie appeared in the lobby, and the two of them walked over to a worn sofa well away from the switchboard.
"Are you doing anything this weekend, Wiffie?" ("Let me make love to you," he wanted to say.)
"No." Of course she wasn't.
"There's a Youth Fellowship party at the Baptist Church. I thought maybe you'd like to go."
"I only I could take her someplace else!
"It's off-campus," Wiffie replied.
"No sweat. The church has it all set up with the housemothers; the college is even providing a bus." Maybe it'll be dark in the bus. Would she let me kiss her on the way back? Would I have the nerve to try?
Wiffie didn't know quite what to say. It would be her first date. And not just her first date at FBCC but the first of her life. Parsons' daughters did not swing.
"Do you want to go, Wiffie?" His penis was beginning to swell.
"I'd love to." She smiled.
Hamp exhaled heavily and sat with his legs crossed until at last the erection went down.
And on Sunday night, they had their first-and kissless-date.
It was but the first of many dates. Each weekend, some on-campus or approved off-campus activity was scheduled, and before each one, Hamp would ask Wiffie if she would accompany him. Each time, she would answer yes. Soon it became obvious that they were steadies; nothing was official, but the other students began to notice that they always traveled as a couple, and before long Wiffie found herself blessed with a plethora of new friends. "Hi, Wiffie," some young crew-cut from the men's dormitory would say as they passed on the sidewalk; "How goes it?" another would ask with a wink as they ran into each other in the library. It was an exhilarating thing, this realization that she was being recognized by her fellow students; and it made her feel even closer to Hamp. He had not only given her the feeling of being wanted by him, but had given her a sense of belonging on the campus, as well.
It was late in November when the first kiss happened. The two of them had been discussing the revival drive with Mr. Deidrick, Hamp's faculty advisor on the project, when a messenger from the administrative office had come to the door and breathlessly informed them that Mrs. Deidrick, who had been pregnant for approximately nine and a half months, was at long last laboring to divest herself of her firstborn. And so Mr. Deidrick, not thinking about the impropriety of leaving his two charges alone in an otherwise deserted classroom building, hastily excused himself and departed for the hospital.
"It looks like we'll have to carry on by ourselves," Hamp remarked. He eyed Wiffie's sweater-encased breasts.
"I guess so." She looked at Hamp's strong, hair-strewn hands.
"Want to knock off for a while, Wiffie? You work too hard."
"Oh, I don't mind. I...." Wiffie shrugged.
"Don't tell me you want to stay."
"It's just that I hate going back to the dorm right now. Mrs. Ardsley won't let anybody play the piano while she's taking her nap, and I kind of hate the thought of just sitting in my room."
"We could go to the snack bar."
"I know. But don't you ever get tired of going to the same old places."
"I suppose I do."
"We could stay here," Wiffie said.
"Without Mr. Deidrick?" His penis twitched thoughtfully.
"Why not?" she asked. "We won't do anything wrong."
"I guess not." But he wished they would.
They sat for a while, not saying anything; Wiffie doodled on her notepad, and Hamp tugged at a shoelace which he had inadvertently allowed to tie itself into a knot. Finally, he spoke. "You're a nice girl; you know?"
Wiffie said nothing.
"I've known a lot of girls, but I've never met anyone as nice as you. You're so, so...."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know how to say it. You just make me react so strongly."
"What do you mean?" Her voice registered a touch of alarm.
"I mean that you make feel emotionally nice." (Crossed fingers; forehead sweating. "And physically, too," he wanted to add.) A moment later, he moved his chair closer to hers and put his arm across the back of her chair. Instinctively, Wiffie leaned away from the seatback, drawing her shoulders up in a manner which suggested that she didn't know quite what to feel or, more importantly, what to do.
Hamp reached up with his left hand and placed his fingers gently on Wiffie's shoulder. "Relax," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Wiffie started to bite a fingernail, then realized what she was doing and removed the offending digit from her mouth.
"Look, Wiffie...." He put his left foot on the rung of her chair, raising one thigh higher than the other to conceal the erection which was now forming a noticeable lump slightly to the left of his fly. "Wiffie, stop acting so afraid of me."
"I'm sorry." Her eyes moistened. She lowered her face as though about to cry.
He looked at her; looked at the face turned away from him, at the breasts pushing gently against the green wooliness of her sweater, at the softly curved belly and thighs showing themselves beneath the fabric of her pleated skirt. His organ grew harder; his thigh twitched involuntarily.
"Wiffie, may I give you my ring?" There was a tremor in his voice as he popped the question.
"Yes," she answered softly. She looked up and tried to smile as he took off his high school class ring and pressed it into the palm of her hand.
"Wiffie?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to kiss you, Wiffie."
Before she could recover from the surprise of his words, she felt his mouth against hers, his tongue darting into the space between her slightly parted lips, and his hand resting on her shoulders. When he sat back and looked at her as if to gauge her re action, she stared back with glazed eyes and hoped he couldn't hear the sudden thumping of her heart.
"We'd better go now," he told her a moment later, his voice quiet. "It's getting late."
They left the room together; Hampton flipped off the lights as he walked out behind her. He hoped she didn't see the stiff bulge of his erection and the odd limp with which he walked to the hooks in the corridor which held her wool jacket and his long, mercifully crotch-concealing surcoat.
It was a Wednesday afternoon in late December. In three hours, the students of FBCC would depart for their Christmas holiday. Hampton Budd, sitting in the campus library with a copy of The Physiology of Erotic Response on the desk of the small carrel in which he had secreted himself, thought of the journey that lay before him, and of Wiffie, who would be with him for part of the trip.
Both Hamp and Wiffie took the overnight train to reach their home towns; Wiffie was to get off at eight the next morning, and Hamp would reach home at eleven-thirty or so. In any case, the evening hours would not be spent idly, Hampton had decided; he had booked a roomette, and with a little luck he would be able to smuggle Wiffie from the coaches and fondle his beloved in the privacy of their little Pullman paradise.
Wiffie. How unfortunate that she was so shy about surrendering to her natural passions. How sad that such an innately warm and sensual creature should be restrained by the chastity belt of Baptist morality which forced her lips to say no when her cunt, if it had the chance, would cry yes.
He thought of her so often; he daydreamed almost constantly, it seemed, and most of the time the dreams would center on a certain part of her body-her lips, for example; her lips after she had kissed him and been kissed by him until she became afraid that someone would discover them behind the hedge of the chapel compound. Ah, those lips! So soft and warm and wet and responsive, with the little smacking sounds they would make as Hamp and Wiffie kissed, sharing their saliva as though taking Holy Communion from a common cup. Take, eat, drink, suck. This is my blood given unto you ... The whole sacrament condensed into a single, tonguing kiss.
And then he would think of her breasts-breasts he had never seen, but which he had felt once, through her bra, when she had allowed him to let his hand slip up under her sweater. Tender breasts. He thought of what they must look like, and visualized rich mounds of white-skinned flesh capped by stiff, pink-red nipples. ". . .Late in the excitement phase, the breasts often increased in size, reflecting the emotional and physiological desire created by the outside stimuli," he had read somewhere; and he envisioned her glorious hillocks increasing by a cup-size, growing outward like his expanding penis, swelling in testimony to the sexuality which lay within.
And her genitals. Oh, Christ! he wanted to say, not caring if he took the Lord's name in vain (for his Christian faith had weakened as his sexual daydreams had increased in frequency and intensity). His right hand slid off the book on the desk as he grew excited in the privacy of his carrel, and he let his fingers rest on the bulge in his trousers, after a while permitting them to knead his swelling cock through the cloth, till soon it was firm, hard, standing as erect as it could within its prison of jockey shorts and chino trousers, trying to burst through the material and into his gently squeezing hand.
Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus God! He wanted her now; wanted her so very badly; and as he felt the pressure building in his penis, he pulled his zipper open in one fast motion, then pushed aside the fly of his undershorts, letting his prick pop forth to assume a tower-like stance of desire.
His hands momentarily returned to the book on the desk, flipping to page 238 and the color illustration of the female vaginal opening. Grasping the volume in both hands, he placed it in his lap, and then-holding the book so it just tickled the hair on his balls-he wrapped the dribbling organ in his handkerchief-lined hand and stared at the illustration as he squeezed and rubbed, over and over, till at last there was a stiffening in the base of his spine and a sensation of joyous burning in his cock, and finally, with his body going rigid, a sudden squirting forth of creamy liquid. Oh, Wiffie! he wanted to cry.
Afterward, with a decided sense of shame, he closed the book, put it back on the table and wiped his cock clean with a dry portion of the handkerchief. He put the now-flaccid organ back in his trousers and looked to make certain that no remnants of the ejaculation had landed on the front of his pants.
Tonight, he told himself. Tonight he would hold Wiffie in his arms. He would make love to her if she would let him; he would cuddle her if she would not. One way or another, he would give her some physical evidence of his love. He was more than willing to give; would she be willing to receive?
They were in his roomette. He was kissing her. He was kissing her mouth, her shoulders, her breasts, and even the white, closely-shaven skin under her arms. His hands moved lightly under the open front of her dress.
She seemed to be enjoying it.
"You're beautiful," he said, and she did not reply. He nibbled at her breast, noting the way the networks of tiny blue veins spread out from her nipples like a finely-wrought spider web.
Wiffie squirmed happily. So did he.
His hand slid down to her hip, and for a moment he let it rest on the sharp hipbone which he could feel through the fabric of her slip. He pressed on it, but got no response. He moved his hand to her calf, where he proceeded to stroke her lightly.
"Your leg feels so soft," he told her, and indeed it did, except for a delightful prickliness where the light, whisker-like hairs had grown out far to give a delicious tickling sensation to the palm of his hand.
Then he touched her knee. Such a lovely knee, really; not large and rough and hairy like his own. And then.. .her thigh. It had a different texture, he noted-not prickly, like the calf, but softly fuzzy.
Higher up, now he moved his fingers in little circles over the delicious flesh. Wiffie pressed her legs together around his hand. My God, she's really responding! he thought.
He tried to move his fingers a little further up, but he couldn't because her legs had the hand in such a tight grip, and he didn't want to just pull it out and offend her, or maybe even cause her tc want to give up the game.. .
He put his mouth against hers. Her lips were so soft, so yielding, so loose and slickly wet on the in-sides toward the gums ... An image of her labia came to his mind as he pressed forward with his tongue and felt her mouth open wider. His tongue went in, sliding past her teeth, searching for the roof of her mouth. He found it-God, this was great-and lost it again, his tongue pushed aside and back by hers as she fought back, caressing, lashing, entering his mouth, going around and around and in and out, trying to push her tongue in as far as she could make it go, scraping over his molars, almost making him gag as she searched for the back of his throat. Jesus, it was so great and wild and wonderful!
He tried again to move his hand higher on her thigh, and she opened her legs for him. He let his fingers slide around to the back of her leg, where he pushed them gently up underneath the elastic of her panties, up and over a smooth, soft, firm and lovely buttock. Then he let them slip down between her legs from behind, just touching the skin which lined the juncture of her thighs. She gasped, spasmodically pushing her hips against his, arching her back and clamping her arms around him as though she had no intention of ever letting go.
My penis! he thought. She'll feel it! He stopped for a moment, embarrassed, then pulled her to him, pressing her buttocks with both hands to hold her against him. He let her feel it through his trousers. He wanted her to know that he was excited and aroused and full of pain and desire and that he wanted her to be aware of it.
They were lying on their sides. He pushed her down into the roomette seat and raised himself ever so slightly so that they were just far enough apart for him to get his hands between their bodies again. He reached for her soft belly and touched it through her panties; then he slid his hand under the waistband, pausing for a moment to linger at her lovely bellybutton.
God, what a navel! he thought, picking out the lint and then discarding it as he spread his hand out and around and down to where the roundness gave way to hair-to the soft, curly and now moist swatch of femininity. He fondled it, and started to move his hand down further, and heard her speak.
"No."
It was all she said. No.
He made his hand stop its southward progress, then moved it upward in temporary retreat. She seemed to relax slightly, so he let the finger slide back to the border of her luxuriant crop of pubic hair, where he fondled a few of the curls as he kissed her along the collarbone.
"Why not, Wiffie?" he whispered.
"No!" she repeated.
It was maddening, this sudden change of attitude. It was maddening, maddening, maddening ... He felt something then; he felt it happening in his shorts, hot and sticky, and he knew he had to do something; that he couldn't stop.
He put his hand in her fur once more. She tried to push it away, and anger stiffened his face into a frustrated frown.
"I love you, damn it!" he muttered in her ear, and he stabbed two fingers into the vestibule of her cunt.
"Stop!" she whimpered. "Please, please stop!" Her tone was almost hysterical, but her voice was still soft enough that Hamp had no fear of its being overheard in the corridor of the car.
"I love you," he repeated, using the two fingers to caress one of the swollen inner lips.
"Oh, God, please!" she whimpered.
He stuck his middle finger in her then; stuck it in as deep as he could reach, ignoring the way her thighs stiffened with the hurt and the shock of it all. He moved the finger around, then pulled it out and balled his hand into a fist, which he moved roughly back and forth outside her cunt.
"Kiss me," he commanded with an angry tremor in his voice, and to his surprise she kissed him even more passionately than before. And as their tongues lashed like fighting snakes, he rubbed her crotch, unballing his fist and using his fingers to fondle her clitoris, and occasionally to slide down and strum her love lips back and forth. With each squeeze, with each caress, she squeezed him back, now pressing her teeth into his shoulder through the cloth of his shirt as her fingers made rapid movements up and down his spine.
He reveled in it. Manipulation, clitoris.. .all the knowledge gleaned from the "Foreplay" chapter of a friend's paperback sex manual came to his aid as he caressed her. Then he remembered something, suddenly; he thought of the hymen, and of how tight Wiffie was down there, and he realized that she was a virgin. Oh, he had known it all along, of course, of the fact, and to know that no other man had ever entered her; that, indeed, it was highly un-likely that any other man had ever fondled her as he was doing now. At that moment Hampton felt a tenderness toward Wiffie; his anger disappeared, and his voice took on a kind and loving tone. "I love you," he told her, this time in a soft whisper. She squeezed him, then moved her lips from his shoulder to his ear, and nibbled the lobe in reply.
A moment later, contractions. Her bottom was bouncing as her crotch pressed itself against his moving fingers, and her upper thighs seemed to crush his hand rhythmically as her breath came in gasps. "Oh, Hamp," he heard her say.
In a few seconds it was over, and she groaned happily, keeping her thighs squeezed tightly about his hand as if her organs didn't want to say goodbye.
Finally, she pushed his arm away and sat up. She kept her face turned away, declining to meet his gaze as she picked up her discarded clothing and began to put on her brassiere.