Chapter 3
Lorraine Olson didn't care one bit for her relocation in the senior dormitory. Her roommate, Connie Reach, seemed positively ancient to her. All of twenty-two years old! Not that she wasn't nice to Lorraine; she was swell, even helped her with her assignments: The two girls were contrasts in femininity. Lorraine was a fuzzy blonde, with wide blue eyes and a dimple in each plump cheek. She looked like a big doll.
And what a doll! At eighteen, she was built like an Italian movie queen, with melon breasts and buttocks that quivered with every step she took. She had long calendar-girl legs with plump calves. Everything about her was plump and round and warm looking.
Connie was a slender, dark, tense female. Her breasts were hard, pointed cones. Her hips were slim but well padded. And she had a dancer's lithe, strong legs. She chain-smoked cigarettes, and she had a habit of crossing and recrossing her legs nervously. She was a brilliant student.
Lorraine missed all of her old friends in the frosh dorm. But most of all she bridled under the two-week restriction. On Saturday evening, she paced back and forth in the small room, clad only in her bra and panties. "Saturday night, and I'm cooped up in this box like an animal in the zoo. It's inhuman."
Connie lay back on the bed and put her book down on her stomach. She studied Lorraine through a haze of cigarette smoke. "You'll live, honey." The blonde had her back to the bed now, and her sweet, heart-shaped buttocks fairly burst out of the skintight panties. The backs of her knees were dimpled too.
"It wouldn't be so bad, but I've been charged up for this date with a boy from Harvard for weeks now. Boy, what he does to me! After a session on the back seat with Bobbie, I'm wrung out for a week."
Connie smiled superciliously. The frosh girls were always bragging about their necking sessions. Most of them would keel over in a dead faint if a boy ever got his hand on their panties, she believed.
"I'll go crazy if I have to go two whole weeks without being with a boy." Lorraine moaned.
"Just how far do you go with boys, honey?" Connie asked.
Larraine came back and sat down on the edge of the bed and giggled. She got a kick out of talking about boys. Her breasts loomed up like two double-vanilla frappes topped with cherries in the flimsy net brassiere. Connie stamped out the cigarette in a tray and regarded her.
Lorraine shivered deliciously. and her tawny hair tumbled over her face. "Well, I've never gone all the way with a boy, but I've done about everything else."
"Like what?"
Connie was wearing shorts and a halter. Lorraine put a hand on one of her sleek tanned upper legs and shoved her playfully. "Oh, you know! Don't tell me you haven't played around with boys! I expect to lose my virginity by the time I get to be a senior."
"I lost mine in my junior year," Connie said matter-of-factly.
"Then you know how that goes. You start out by letting a fellow touch your boobs through your dress when you're about fifteen. Then, finally, you break down and let him touch your bare boobs. Maybe even take off your bra and let him kiss them." She rolled her eyes and moaned. "Old Bobbie, I was telling you about, he can work over a girl's boobs and drive her wild. After your sixteenth birthday, you feel grown up, and you let a date put his hand under your skirt and touch you through your panties. Before long, you're not wearing the panties and you get the nerve to unbutton his clothes. Now, you're really swinging. You can have just as good times that way as with the real thing. That depends on how good you get."
Connie was staring at the white hand on her tanned leg with bright eyes. "Are you real good, honey?"
Lorraine giggled. "So the boys tell me." She held up one graceful hand, so soft looking with its dimpled knuckles. "I just tease them a little while and they can't hold back for long."
"What else do you do?"
"What Bobbie likes me to do is sit on his lap." She tittered. "You know what I mean? He's done the real thing a lot of times, but he says that when I sit on his lap that's every bit as good as anything he's ever done."
Connie could feel a nerve quivering. Her conical breasts jutted against the thin fabric of the halter, the nipples swelling and distending the cloth.
"Do you ever kiss him?"
"Why sure I kiss him."
"No, I don't mean on the lips."
That took the blonde girl down a peg. "No, heck, that's going too far. I'll bet you never did either."
"I have, lots of times," Connie said casually.
Lorraine's eyes widened in true respect. "Wow! No kidding! That's a gas."
"Didn't a boy ever kiss you that way?"
Lorraine twisted around on the bed. "Gee, no! Gosh, the very thought makes me weak though." She giggled. "All over. I shouldn't be listening to all of this stuff. I'm ready to climb the walls."
Connie goaded her on. "You never did anything until you've been kissed that way, sweetie. That's seventh heaven." She began to move sensuously on the bed. "He starts on your boobs, naturally, and works his way along.. . Shut your eyes and imagine Bobbie is kissing you . . .
Lorraine emitted a genuine cry of anguish, "Stop that, Connie!" Her soft hand convulsed on the dark girl's leg, and flames spread as Connie talked on feverishly, with her gaze fixed on Lorraine's inflamed face. In explicit detail she described the imagined behavior of Bobbie, and when she was finished, Lorraine was trembling with desire so intense that she was almost in tears.
"Connie," she pleaded, "I'm going out of my mind. What can I do?"
The dark girl sat up. "We can pretend."
"Pretend?"
"Sure, just close your eyes and pretend that I'm Bobbie. I'll pretend you're my boy friend."
The younger girl recoiled in alarm " Connie! You don't mean . . . ? " She could not find the words.
"What's the difference?" Connie urged softly. "Sometimes that's even better with a girl. They're more gentle."
Lorraine could not believe her ears. "You mean . . .you did that with another girl?"
"Sure. So have half the other kids in this school. That's convenient. That's friendly. And fun." She put an arm behind Lorraine and unsnapped her brassiere.
The quivering mounds of white flesh spilled loose. She covered them with her arms. "No, Connie. Please. I don't want to."
"Yes, you do." She reached out and pinched one of the fire-red turgid nipples with her fingers. "You're as eager as I am."
Lorraine whimpered as her roommate pushed her arms away and cupped her sensitive boobs, kneading the resilient flesh with strong fingers. Connie bent her back firmly on the bed and touched her lips to the tender knobs, erasing all further doubt from the blonde's mind.
"Don't stop, that's so wonderful. I can't help myself."
Connie giggled. "You help me, and I'll help you." They disengaged briefly to fling off their clothing. Lorraine tore her panties slipping them over her ankles, but she didn't care. With eager eyes, she watched Connie undress. The halter whipped away, exposing the glistening cones of flesh. Connie's boobs were nowhere as large as Lorraine's, but they were aggressive, and the red-orange tips turned up almost vertically. Connie kicked off her lace panties.
For an instant they examined each other as they crouched naked on the bed. Then Connie pushed Lorraine down flat on her back across the bed.
"How do we do this?" Lorraine asked anxiously.
"You'll see. This will all seem natural." Connie kissed her lips and Lorraine was amazed to find that was almost as thrilling as kissing a boy.
Now, Connie's mouth moved along the curve of her throat to the cleavage of the buxom mountains of flesh. She worked around one mountain, traversing the base and then moving slowly up the slopes, around and around, until, at last, her kiss reached the tortured summit. Lorraine tensed and sighed, and her shaky hands reached for Connie's breasts. Sweet, firm pears. She worked at them fiercely.
That was a dreamy voyage to ecstasy, slow and easy. The dark girl murmured with pleasure as her own lips sought every contour of the blonde. She was beside herself with desire now, and wanted to get to the glorious conclusion as soon as possible.
Each touch of hands and pressure of lips sent the girls to new heights of pleasure. Then they could go no higher, and they tumbled like feathers, floating gently down to earth again.
When that was over, Connie raised her head and looked at Lorraine's dazed face. "Well, honey, how was that?"
The buxom blonde shivered and sighed. "Who the heck needs a Harvard man!" she simpered. "I wonder what Miss Sloan would say if she knew how good your influence has been on me?"
Connie laughed. "Well, she told me to take good care of you. I'd say we got off to a pretty good start!"
Phylis Moon finished her second martini and walked to the little bar in her living room to pour a third. She lit a cigarette and inhaled vehemently, hating the smoke, hating the gin and vermouth and hating herself more than any of them. She examined her image in the mirror over the bar and saw a genteel looking blonde widow, age forty-two, who might have been years younger, except that her twenty-two-year-old daughter, Janet, was a senior at Jane Richmond College.
Phylis didn't feel old enough to be the dean of a college, didn't feel old enough to have a grown daughter, didn't feel old enough to resign herself to the shriveling-process of becoming an old maid. Harry had been dead for four years now, and she had remained celihate all that time, for four years of nagging, hopeless frustration, for she had always been a passionate woman. But there had been no opportunity for anything different. The dean of one of
America's most fashionable women's colleges could not go bar-hopping the way the kids did and pick up strange men. Barring that method, there was no other way to meet an eligible, unattached male in Woodfield. Outside of the husbands of the faculty members, practically all of the men in the region worked in the local mills or factories. She and they had nothing in common.
It had occurred to her to have an affair with one of the faculty husbands, on occasion, but good sense always stopped her. Their wives worked in her employ. They were suspicious of her for being an attractive single female. She knew perfectly well that whenever she attended any college social function, dozens of pairs of "cats'" eyes were turned on her sullenly every time she danced or even talked with a married man.
Originally, this had accounted partially, at least, for her decision to hire a male educator at Richmond two years earlier. She felt it was time to break down segregation. Wesley Parker would blaze the trail for some other prospective male faculty members. Single men. Eligible men. But it had worked according to plan. The resentment against Parker had been so extreme that it had disrupted the proper functioning of the school for eighteen months, not to mention the strain that he had undergone. The experience had wearied her. She had decided not to risk hiring another man, at least for another three years.
Lately, she had been watching Parker with interest above and beyond her concern with him as head of the English department. When she saw Parker and his wife together, there was evidence of coolness and strain between them. Was it mere coincidence that he was spending more and more of his evenings at the library or working on his thesis in his office? Or did the two things go together? If things weren't going right for the Parkers, what was he doing for a love life? He was a strapping, virile looking young man, and she knew that the younger girls found him attractive. She smiled in the mirror. So did the older "girls."
Phylis wondered what he thought of her as a woman. If he thought of her as a woman! Her hair was swept back straight and tight across her head and curled in a large chignon at the nape of her neck, severe, but well suited to her aristocratic, cool features. Her pale eyes were wide-set and vaguely almond-shaped. She had a youthful throat, no sag or dewlap, like so many women developed after the age of forty. She wore a white satin, sleeveless blouse that showed off to good advantage her high, firm breasts. For the occasion, she had borrowed one of Janet's scandalous half bras, the kind that made the breasts appear as if they were being served up on small dishes. A slim, short velvet skirt completed the ensemble and matched her black suede ballet slippers. She looked quite girlish, she thought, quite a contrast to the way she appeared in her college office, deliberately gotten up to fit the image of a women's dean in mannish suits, no lipstick or eye make-up, sensible clumsy shoes, horn-rimmed glasses.
She touched a hand to a stray hair near her temple and practiced a sultry smile. Wesley Parker was in for quite a surprise this afternoon. The verdant odors of spring wafted in through the open windows, honeysuckle, roses, grass. It was an unseasonably warm spring, with the temperature hovering near seventy degrees almost every day the past week.
Spring had always done things to Phyllis's glands, as far back as she could remember. Even after ten years of marriage, she had behaved as ardently as a bride, come April, her husband Harry had liked to joke. And inactivity had not diminished the strength of her ardor one whit. These warm sweet nights were nightmares for her as she tossed and turned, constantly aware of her woman's breasts and her woman's body.
Even during the day, walking about the campus, reminders were everywhere. Love! The Richmond girls and their dates, strolling hand in hand, looking at one another with that bright, hungry look. Their hips touching lightly, but so meaningfully. Sometimes they would be lying on the grass half concealed by shrubbery, locked in passionate embrace, straining against each other with the strength of youth. She could tell by the way the girls' legs twitched exactly what they were feeling. She felt the same way on those long, maddening warm spring nights. But, in the case of the young ladies, the awful desire would not be long denied fulfillment. The boys would give them relief before the night was past, on the back seat of a car, or on the sweet grass or on some front porch glider.
But for the dean of women, there was no relief in sight. Well, maybe!
Phylis had invited Wesley Parker to Saturday afternoon tea on the pretext of discussing daughter Janet with him. "It's as much personal as it is academic, and I think we'd both be more comfortable in my parlor," she had told him.
Wes was perfectly agreeable, and arrived on schedule at three thirty P.M. He wore a tweed jacket over a checked sports shirt, open at the throat, and he was smoking his pipe. He looked exactly as a young instructor at a fashionable college should look.
"Not instructor for long," he told himself. "Next year, I'll have my doctorate and the title of 'professor.'" It was a fine feeling.
His first glimpse of Phylis when she opened the door startled him, and he showed it. "Why I thought -" He stopped in embarrassment.
She smiled. "You thought what?"
"I didn't recognize you for a moment."
"I hope that's a compliment. Do tome in, Wesley."
He followed her into the parlor "It is. Somehow, you don't look like the dean of Jane Richmond today."
"What do I look like?"
He flushed, but said it. "You look like a woman."
Their eyes locked silently for an instant, then she turned away to the bar and said softly. "Why thank you, Wesley. Will you have a martini?"
He had expected tea, but was more than happy to have the martini. "That will be fine. Shall I mix them?"
"Thanks, but they're already mixed."
At last they were settled before the fireplace, cold now but retaining the cozy atmosphere of all fireplaces with the memories of blazing hearths on cold winter nights. He sat on a chair across the table from Dean Moon who was sitting on the couch with her legs crossed. It was rather disconcerting. It was the first time he had ever been aware of the woman's legs in two years. And they were good legs, long and sleek in the sheer nylon stockings, displayed to a modest inch or two above the knees under the short velvet skirt.
He coughed importantly and frowned. "Well, what's our problem, Dr. Moon?"
Her pale eyes surveyed him solemnly. "Wesley Wes, do you mind if I call you Wes?"
"Please do."
"All right, Wes.. . I think I'd feel more at ease if you would call me Phylis." She saw his eyebrows flare. "I mean, this is not exactly a professional matter I want to discuss with you, and I can do it better if we keep the meeting as informal as possible." She lowered her eyes demurely. "I want your advice not just as Janet's English instructor, but as a man. A friend."
"Of course," he said, with a small swell of mate pride. "I'll do what I can Phylis."
She smiled at him gratefully. "I know you will, Wes." She looked at his hard, brown hands and his strong jaw and the tuft of dark, curly hair at the neckline of his shirt, and she felt the longing curl through her and invade her breasts.
She commenced. "I'm frankly worried about Janet's marks. There's less than one month to go, and I'm afraid she won't graduate without a miracle."
He nodded. Janet Moon had never been a good student, but she had managed to squeak through for three years with a C-plus average. But this last term, she had fallen apart completely, failing in four subjects, including English. She was spoiled, impudent, boy crazy and indifferent to her teachers, her mother, her marks and her reputation. Twice, there had been nasty rumors about Janet being seen at infamous road houses and motels with various men. She was a hellcat, a tawny-blonde Venus with a wisdom in her green eyes and a figure that made her seem ten years older than her twenty-two years.
He tapped the pipe stem against his teeth. "I'm afraid you're right Doc I mean Phylis. As you may know, I've spoken to her about her English grades on at least three occasions this semester."
She put her stemmed glass on the table and sagged back against the cushions. "I'm at my wit's end, Wes. I have no control of her at all. If only dear Harry were alive, I think things might have been different A girl child, as well as a boy, needs a strong masculine influence in those vital teen-age years. I've tried to be mother and father to her, but it just won't work. I'm all female basically, you know. Not firm enough." She smiled at him wanly. "That's a terrible admission for the dean to be making, isn't it, Wes?"
"Not at all," he said defensively. "It proves you're human, not a machine. You shouldn't reproach yourself, Phylis. With the ponderous responsibilities' you have at the college, it's a wonder you can find the time or the energy to be a homemaker at all."
"I've done the best I can," she said. "But it isn't enough. At least not with Janet it isn't."
He was hypnotized by the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the clinging satin. The way the nipples protruded, she appeared to be wearing no brassiere. But he chided himself for the speculation.
"Is there anything I can do to help, Phylis?"
"I I don't know. I hope so. Possibly you can talk to her."
"I have tried to, you know."
"I don't mean in school, as an instructor. Here, at our home, as a friend. Not as a man who is employed by her mother. Do you understand?"
"I think so. Only won't it seem like a put-up job? I've never been a social visitor here, except for faculty functions."
Her eyes were wet. "I'm sorry about that. You know, I've never had any real close friends among the faculty. The kind one cares to talk to and confide in."
He was sympathetic. "It's always lonely at the top I guess."
"You don't know how lonely, Wes." She was slack against the cushions with her eyes turned up at the ceiling. The short, velvet skirt had skidded back higher on her legs, almost to the tops of her stockings. And her knees were carelessly arranged so that he could see the white rounds of her legs above the nylons. He felt his face flame and his heart accelerate, and guiltily pulled his gaze up to her face. There was a spark of desire bothering him, something he had not experienced involuntarily for some weeks.
To his horror, she suddenly bent her face forward into her hands and began to sob. Wes bounded to his feet in great agitation. What to do now?
"Please, Phylis, don't cry. I'm sure we can work something out. I'll do everything in my power to help."
"Oh, Wes, you're so wonderful," she blubbered.
Not knowing what else to do, he sat down beside her on the couch and clumsily attempted to make some display of comforting her. The role was alien to him. The whole situation was embarrassing and bizarre. He put a clumsy arm around her shoulders and patted her.
"There, there, it's going to be all right."
The vigor of her response took his breath away. She practically hurled herself into his arms, snuggling her face against the hollow of his shoulder. Their position was exceedingly unsettling.
First of all, he could look down the loose neck of the satin blouse and see the whole upper hemispheres of her large, puffy breasts. At first he was sure he had been correct in surmising that she wore no brassiere. He could see her nipples, reddish brown and poking against the satin. But then he realized she had on one of those bras he had seen on manikins in lingerie shops, the type whose sole purpose is to supply some modest support beneath the breasts and nothing more. That scarcely conformed to his picture of the severe, functional underwear one would expect a college dean to be wearing.
The second unsettling thing was that, in turning toward him on the couch, she had pushed her skirt practically clear back to her hips. The entire length of her tapered legs was exposed, the gartered stocking tops, the bare white flesh above them.
Thirdly, one of her hands was clutching at his leg. The very thought of what could happen sent his interest climbing.
He was shocked at himself, shocked at Phylis. And he knew that the whole thing was unthinkable! But there was a sensual excitement fermenting now which was altogether different from the conventional excitement he had enjoyed with Sue in their first year of marriage
What happened next was dictated by a stranger who inhabited the body and mind of Wesley Parker, by a stranger whose existence he had been ignorant of until this precise moment.
He slipped his hand under the satin blouse and gently eased one of her breasts out of its half cup. The nipple thrust against his palm fiercely, and a shudder wracked her body.
"Darling, Wes," she murmured. She lifted her lips to him and he kissed them. At the same time, she was unbuttoning her blouse. Before he realized what she was doing, she was nude from the waist up. Her breasts were rich and heavy, matronly without sagging. They were great spongy fruits in his hands
She took one of his hands and guided that to her, moving her body against him. She was panting and trembling unceasingly now. a kind of animal behavior that frightened him a little.
She kept muttering vague, disjointed gibberish. "Oh, my love. So long . . . you don't know. A thousand nights . . . no love . . . the torture . . . "
Her eager hands fumbled at his clothing. He was startled by his vitality which had been in hibernation for the past two years. The cry of delight rising in her throat as she gazed upon him was music in his ears. He felt like a man. A real man, not the child-man with five sisters and a motherly wife. Phylis, literally, pounced noon him, capturing him with her hands and her lips.
And then they heard the footsteps on the porch and the laughing voices. They bolted upright. "My God, who is that?" Wes whispered.
She choked. "It must be Janet. They must have only stayed to see half of the double feature."
"They're going to see a much better show here," he said wildly. He leaped to his feet and arranged his clothing.
She was up too, clutching at his arm. "Quick, there's no time. We have to get out of sight." She dragged him to a door at the far end of the room, near a baby grand piano. "Storage closet," she said breathlessly. "We never open it." They ducked inside and closed the door, not a split second too soon. Janet and her date came into the parlor.
"Hello!" she bellowed. "Anybody home?" She repeated it again in the hall at the foot of the stairs, then returned to her date. "We're alone. I guess mother went out. She mentioned having a date this, afternoon."
The boy laughed. "A date? With a man?"
She giggled. "Strictly business. I don't think mama would know what to do with a man. It's been so long, she's probably forgotten what life's all about."