Archive-name: SpecMome/discov1.txt

Archive-author: Michael K. Smith

Archive-title: Discovery





[NOTE: This is a love story with sex -- or a sex story with love, take

your pick. If you find either love or sex distasteful, I advise you to

seek professional help immediately!]





   The first two months of my junior year in college, back in 1975,

promised a pretty boring winter ahead.  My semi-girlfriend of the previous

spring had transferred to another school.  My classes were nearly all

"have-to-takes" and its difficult for a History major to work up

enthusiasm for Botany and German Lit.  My first two years' grades had been

pretty good -- that was a principal condition in keeping my on-campus job

-- but I had a dismal premonition that I would really have to concentrate

to maintain my GPA.  Moreover, my job assignment that fall was 20 hours a

week in the library's Government Documents Department -- also a guaranteed

yawner.  And on top of everything else, by the first of October the

usually dependable North Texas weather had turned consistently gray and

rainy.  You could almost feel the depression rate rise on campus.

   Then a possible distraction arrived in the form of a pretty little

blonde, one of whose research assignments led her to begin spending time

in Gov Docs.  I was careful to find out what her topic was so I could be

sure to familiarize myself with the materials; with any luck, she would

come to depend on me as a knowledgeable source of information and we could

get acquainted.  (If it isn't already obvious, I was chronically shy about

meeting new girls.)  Well, the theory may have been sound, but in practice

she was simply too library-savvy to require much help ... or too dumb to

realize she needed it.  Ah, well....

   Late one dull Friday, I happened to be sitting at the reference desk,

gazing at the back of the blonde's head, enjoying the play of the

afternoon light on those flaxen curls, and wishing I had the nerve to just

walk over and introduce myself.  So I happened to see her red leather

pocketbook slide silently off the pile of belongings on the adjacent

chair, onto the floor and behind the table leg.  I began to get up, to go

tell her about it, but then I hesitated and looked around.  Only a few

other students in the department, all intent on their work.  I sat down

again and kept one eye on the blonde and the pocketbook.

   About twenty minutes later, she looked suddenly at her watch and began

hurriedly gathering all her notes and books together and stuffing them in

her bookbag.  Then she was up and walking quickly toward the elevator. 

The seat of her jeans twitched interestingly when she was in a hurry --

and she seemed not to have missed her pocketbook.  I waited another two

minutes, in case she returned in frantic search of her possessions.  But

she didn't, so I got up, walked to her vacated table, retrieved the

pocketbook, and returned casually to the reference desk.

   It was a clutch purse thing, with a currency divider ($6.00), a coin

pocket (two dimes and a nickel), and a stack of plastic windows filled

with credit cards and an assortment of family photos (including an

unpleasant-looking cocker spaniel), and -- BINGO -- her student ID card. 

"Georgette Hepler," with an address over on Maple, where a number of

older, larger houses had been subdivided into makeshift student

apartments.

   "Georgette"?  I had to smile.  She looked more like a "Cindy" or a

"Traci"; probably her friends called her "Georgie" or "George."  When I

left the library at 3:30 the pocketbook was tucked safely in my inside

raincoat pocket and my mind was turning over the possibilities.

   Continuing to live in a dorm was also part of my work-study deal, but

this year I was the floor "counselor" (i.e., warden), with my own phone

and no roommate.  Georgette wasn't in the book (not many undergraduates

were, they moved so often), but Information gave me her number and I

called her about 5:00, figuring she would have discovered her loss by now,

be appropriately frantic, and therefore appropriately grateful.  Then I

could ask her out for a coke or something and she would feel duty-bound to

accept.  I hoped.

   When she answered on the second ring, I said, as businesslike as I

could manage, "Is this Georgette Hepler?"

   A pause.  "Uh, yes?  I mean, speaking."

   "This is Mike Leary -- from the library?"  No response.  "I'm the tall,

red-haired guy who works in Government Docs..."

   "Oh!  Yes, I think I know you.  Uh, what can I do for you?"

   "Actually," I replied, " I think I can do something for you.  I found a

pocketbook on the floor as I was leaving today..."

   "Oh, thank God!  Red leather, right?  I've been looking all over for

it!"

   "Well, I've got it."  Brilliant comeback, I thought: You sound like

you're going to hold it for ransom.  "You live on Maple, right?  I'm

headed that way anyway" -- damn right I was! -- "and I could drop it

off..."

   "That would be *so* nice of you,... Mike, was it?  I'd really be

grateful."

   "Well, you'll see me in about half an hour then, okay?"

   She thanked me again and hung up.  This sounded promising.  I went in

search of a clean shirt.





   I had been in several houses like the one where Georgette lived: big

frame places with screened-in porches that predated central heating and

air conditioning.  Those near campus had mostly been subdivided into two

apartments downstairs and two more upstairs, and they were relatively

cheap; if you were lucky, you got the quarter of the house with the

original kitchen or the original bathroom, both of which were quite large

by today's standards.  Her place had two VW beetles parked in the cracked

concrete drive and a moped leaning against the porch column.  According to

the index card taped beside the mailbox, "G. Hepler" lived in No. 3,

upstairs.

   There were no inside doorbells, of course, so I knocked and tried to

think of something witty to say.  But when the door opened, my mind went

as blank as an unplugged TV screen.  Framed in the doorway was a tall,

slender, black girl with enormous dark eyes set in an oval face, thick

hair draped in waves across her shoulders, and a rather commanding

presence.  Her face reminded me of someone, but I couldn't think who.

   She noted my open mouth, looked me up and down with two quick glances,

and waited for me to say something.  When I continued mute, she shifted

her stance to the other leg and gave me a slightly scornful half-smile.

   "Yes?"  One eyebrow arched.

   "Oh -- uh, yeah.  I was looking for Georgette...?"  I peered at the

aluminum number tacked to the door: No. 3, all right.  I looked back to

her face, which was a smooth shade of almond toffee, and swallowed --

which made me look even more stupid.

   She smiled with just her upper teeth (perfectly aligned and dazzlingly

white), stepped aside, and gestured me in.  "George!" she called toward

the bedroom.  "Someone to see you!"  (I was right: "George.")

   I ran a rapid visual catalog of her as I entered: Very short cutoff

jeans -- so short, the white pocket material stuck out below the bottom

edge -- and a thin yellow tank-top with lingerie lace around the armholes. 

Apparently no bra, judging by the independent movement of her high,

conical breasts beneath the material.  Barefoot, she was only about an

inch shorter than me, and I'm just under six feet tall.  As she led the

way to a rather beat-up sofa ("student issue," as we used to say), I made

additional note of her long, graceful legs, the swaying of that rich,

satiny hair at her shoulderblades, and the fact that her shorts were also

cut pretty high in the back.

   Then I remembered my manners and said "I'm Mike Leary, by the way." 

She stopped and turned abruptly.

   "Sorry -- Cindy Hamilton."  And she matter-of-factly held out her hand. 

I took it and felt a little thrill at its cool softness (but I was easily

thrilled by the touch of almost any girl my age in those days).  Her grip

was firm and emotionally neutral.  And I had to smother the urge to grin:

This girl had the WASP name I had expected from her little blonde

roommate!

   Georgette emerged from the only bedroom, fastening a gold hoop earring. 

She was wearing a cashmere sweater and new-looking bell-bottom slacks.  It

seemed she had *expected* us to go out, which was more than I had hoped

for.  I should have known better.

   "Rick -- my boyfriend -- will be here in a few minutes, so I'm glad you

could come by before I left."

   I pulled the red clutch from my coat pocket and handed it to her with a

little mock-bow; it didn't even get me a patronizing smile.  Georgette

riffled quickly through the currency pocket and the credit cards, which

annoyed me; if I had intended to rip her off, would I have brought the

damn thing back?  Then she pulled the corner of a fiver from the clutch

and looked up at me uncertainly.

   "Can I offer you...?"  I was so taken aback I was speechless -- and

instantly angry.

   "George!" the black girl snapped, setting her fists on her narrow hips. 

"This guy was nice enough to bring back something that you lost and he

found -- and you're offering him a TIP?!"  Her slender eyebrows made a

flat line, dangerously low.

   The blonde shrugged and said "Sorry..." in a genuinely innocent tone

that made it clear she had no idea what her breach of manners had been.  I

got the impression her roommate scolded her regularly for such infractions

and that she accepted it.  At least Cindy had given me time to bite back

what I WOULD have said.

   The black girl opened her mouth to continue but a knock at the door cut

her off.  Georgette quickly opened it to admit a burly, superior-looking

character I assumed was Rick.  His crewcut was even blonder than

Georgette's.

   Rick didn't even bother to glance in our direction as he helped his

date on with her raincoat.  Georgette waved her fingers, little girl

style.

   "I'll be out late, Cin.  Bye-bye!"

   Cindy gave her a wave of resigned dismissal and shook her head as the

door closed.  She sighed and her eyebrows returned to their normal

steepled appearance.  (Who DID she remind me of...?)

   "Look, man -- Mike, was it? -- I have to apologize for George.  I mean,

she's a nice person and all, she really is ... but the girl just wasn't

raised right.  She wouldn't insult anyone deliberately and she hates to

hurt anyone's feelings, but sometimes she doesn't think about what she

says or does -- before OR after."  I saw a bit of a twinkle as she folded

her arms.  "I'm teaching her, though!"  She smiled again, this time with

all her teeth -- and I knew instantly why that lovely face was familiar.

   A few weeks before, I had been waiting uneasily in a dentist's office

to have a cavity drilled and filled, and to keep my mind off the coming

ordeal I was leafing through every old magazine in the office.  One was a

copy of VOGUE, not something I ordinarily read, but I paused at several

points in that issue to reflect on how beautiful some of the models were. 

Well, sexy, too, many of them ... but a few possessed a serene, "primary"

kind of beauty that fascinated me.

   One of the models, with a photo feature all to herself, was a tall,

willowy African girl (Ethiopian?  I couldn't remember).  She had a long,

oval face, heavy-lidded eyes below steepled brows, and little white teeth

that were meant for nibbling on a man's ear.  And her gaze was assured and

regal.  Her name was Iman and I thought she was gorgeous.

   Cindy Hamilton wasn't Iman, physically or otherwise, but the generic

similarity was there.  I suspected someone meeting the two of them

together would take them for close cousins.

   I suddenly realized Cindy was regarding me with a puzzled look.

   "What?" she asked.

   I could imagine what my face must look like and I flushed and tried to

turn away.  She caught my arm and moved in front of me.

   "Hey!  What?!"

   So I had to explain about VOGUE and Iman and the resemblance I imagined

I saw.

   "You're saying you think I look like Iman?  The fashion model?"

   "Yes -- kind of.  Not *like* her, but very much the same type...."

   She kept looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite fathom. 

Would she laugh?  Or get angry, thinking I was making fun of her?  Then I

realized that *Cindy* was blushing; I just couldn't detect it.

   "I think you're flattering me, but I can't imagine why, so ... thank

you."  For a moment, the tall dignified young woman with the complexion of

oiled teak looked like a 13-year-old who has just been told for the first

time by a boy that she's pretty.  It made me feel warm inside.

   I stuck my hands in my coat pockets.  "Well, I guess I'd better be

go---"  I was interrupted by a cymbal-clash of thunder right over the

house that made us both jump.  Then we both laughed at our reactions, too,

and went to look out the front window.  In the dusk, the earlier dampness

had become a downpour so heavy I could barely make out the street.

   "Well, no good deed goes unpunished, you know," Cindy observed wryly. 

She was standing close beside me now, her bare arm brushing my sleeve.  I

glanced down and saw that her bare foot was only an inch from my shoe.  I

looked up again to find her studying me.  Her eyes had become larger and

softer, almost hypnotic.  I was afraid that if I didn't think fast, I'd

try to kiss her -- and she'd probably deck me.  So I tried to take the

cowardly way out.

   "No problem; I'll wait down on the porch until this front blows

through.  It'll let up some in a few minutes."

   She responded with a musical laugh.  "What, so you can drown slow

instead of fast?  I'm not going to be responsible for that!  Your coat,

please...."  And, stepping up close in front of me, she reached out and

pushed my raincoat back off my shoulders.  She seemed surprised, confused

at her own actions.  I caught the coat on my elbows before it hit the

floor.  For a few seconds, our noses were no more than an inch apart and

this time I let myself stare back into her eyes.  I won: She looked down

and a wave of her hair swung out from behind her ear and tickled my cheek. 

Then she stepped back and the moment was past.  I handed her my coat and

pretended my fingers weren't trembling and my pulse wasn't pounding.

   The smell of her, rich and warm, remained behind while she hung my coat

in the closet.  I replayed slowly the up-close details I had observed in

that instant: Thick, long lashes that needed no mascara; a narrow blade of

a nose that spoke of a thoroughly mixed gene pool; full lips defining a

rather small mouth; delicate ears with almost no lobe; a smooth, high,

unblemished forehead that vanished behind a mass of combed-back,

iridescence hair; the small but full breasts with rigid nipples that

pushed against the fabric of her tank top; and, above all, those liquid

eyes, which I could see now were not black but a very deep brown, like

caramelized sugar.

   Walking back toward me, she moved her hips more than she had earlier,

and somehow I knew it was instinctual on her part, a counter-reaction to

whatever it was that was happening here.

   "Would you like a cup of coffee while we wait for the rain to let up?" 

She had regained her poise; her features were composed and I was at a

disadvantage again.  Well, I could at least try not to sound like an

idiot.

   "Yes, coffee would be great."  (Good -- a simple declarative sentence

with no stammering.)  I followed her into the kitchen, which must have

been a large linen closet in its former life.  I imagined you could

prepare an entire meal there without shifting your feet.  An elderly

wooden table just large enough for its two chairs stood in the middle of

the room and Cindy nodded me to one of them.  I sat and watched her boil a

pot of coffee with a graceful economy of movement.  She poured two cups

(mismatched), sat, and deliberately waited until I was taking my first sip

before speaking.

   "You were hoping to ask Georgette out on a date, weren't you?"

   I choked and sputtered while Cindy put her hand to her mouth to smother

her laughter.  I glared as I wiped coffee off my chin.  Why did she keep

putting me on the defensive like that?

   Her eyes danced as she tried to appear contrite.  "Listen, I'm sorry, I

really am -- I really have to learn not to do that to people!"  She

reached across the table with a paper napkin and dabbed at a coffee spot

on my throat, and I felt a tiny spark of female electricity pass through

her finger and into my chest.  I wondered if she had also felt it.  I had

to say something, so I answered her question.

   "Yes, I WAS thinking of asking her out, actually.  I see her at the

library almost every day.  She's very attractive and I'm not dating

anyone, and, well...."  I shrugged and Cindy nodded sympathetically.

   "Yes, the old dating rat-race can get to be a pain sometimes, can't it? 

I don't go on dates much myself, but I don't mind it."  I thought maybe

she did mind.

   "I find that hard to believe, Cindy."  It was the first time I had

spoken her name aloud and I liked the taste of it.  "In fact, I would

think you'd be fending off guys with a stick."

   "Yeah, well.  Maybe I'm just picky."  She folded her long fingers

around her coffee cup and studied her nails.

   I took a sip; Cindy made very good coffee.  "Would you go out with me,

then?"

   "Yeah.  Right."  She didn't look up.

   "All right -- how about tomorrow night?  I'm afraid I don't have a car,

but--"

   Her head snapped up in alarm.  "Wait a minute -- you were joking,

weren't you?"

   "No."  I took another sip.  "I wasn't kidding."  I was the one who

didn't blink this time.  "I'd be honored if you'd go out with me, Cindy." 

She just stared at me narrowly.

   "Why?"

   I could have been a smart ass ("Because I'm a masochist" came to

mind...), but I wanted her to take me seriously because I WAS serious. 

There had to be a reason for this girl's aggressive/defensive tactics and

I wanted to know what it was.

   "Because I think you're a very interesting girl and I'd really like to

get to know you better.  And I think it'd be fun.  But why are you so

surprised I would ask?"

   "Okay, assuming you mean what you say -- I guess maybe you do --

haven't you noticed anything about me?"  She leaned back in her chair,

head cocked, and ran her right hand slowly up and down her smooth, bare

left arm.  I wished it were my fingers doing that.

   "I've noticed you're a knockout...."  Odd, how I was becoming more

confident at this give-and-take.  I folded my arms.

   She made a small, frustrated sound.  "Mike," she said slowly and I

savored the sound of my name from her lips.  "Look at me: I'm black."

   "Really?  I see a very lovely shade of brown.  But what about it?"

   "Dammit, don' you see?  I can't be runnin' aroun' wi' no ---"  She

stopped abruptly and bit her lip.  Then she took a deep breath and put her

hands to her forehead.  "My father would kill me if he heard me say that,"

she murmured.

   I had discovered something important: Cindy had worked hard at

acquiring the precision of speech and vocabulary that is (supposedly) the

hallmark of an educated person.  When she became upset, she slipped back

into what was, I assumed, a childhood speech pattern.  And she had just

done it in front of a white boy who said he was interested in her.  I

leaned forward on my elbows and reached out my hand in her direction.

   "Cindy, please look at me," I said softly.  She lowered her hands and I

thought I saw a damp spot at the corner of her eye -- but if it was there,

she certainly wouldn't admit to it by wiping it away.

   "If I embarrassed you, I'm very sorry," I continued, low and slow.  "I

like you, and I wouldn't do that to you.  If you mean people would object

to the two of us going on a date,... ask me if I care.  If it matters to

you,... well, I'll apologize again and go away and leave you alone."  Her

folded hands were resting on the table and I laid my hand gently atop

hers.  "DOES it matter?"

   After a few seconds of silence and stillness, she withdrew her hands

and I felt a little ache of disappointment.  But then she took my hand in

both of hers and began absently tracing the bones beneath the skin with

one fingertip.  The hairs rose all up my arm.

   "You know, you're very sweet."  She studied my hand.  "But I don't

think you understand.  Have you ever dated black girls in Texas before?" 

I didn't trust my voice not to crack so I shook my head.

   "My Daddy was the first in our family to finish high school.  Then he

went to college on the G.I. Bill, after the Korean War.  Got a business

degree, a good job -- for a black man.  Made 'middle management' even.  He

reads a great deal, anything he can get his hands on.  And he taught

himself to speak like the white men he worked with.  He's gotten to be

good friends with some of them, too, but I know others think he's ...

'uppity'.  You know.  He puts up with it.  And he made his kids speak

proper English.  We did at home, anyway.  But at school we talked 'jes

lahk all de udduhs'."  She glanced up at me for a moment.

   "You should hear my kid brother, Kenny; he's still in high school. 

I've heard him in debate competitions -- beautiful diction, voice like

Clarence Darrow.  And he wants to go to law school, too.  But running

around with his friends, it's all 'bro' this and 'I be' that and 'homeboy'

the other.  And they all go to a good private school -- they're educated! 

But they want to sound like ghetto kids!"  There were tears dripping from

her lashes now, but she ignored them.

   "One reason I like Georgette, she doesn't think there's anything odd in

a white girl asking a black girl to share an apartment with her.  You've

already seen how naive she can be.  She tells me some of the snide things

she hears other girls say about us; I have to explain it all to her ...

and she still doesn't get it.  We're just friends -- that's all that

matters to her."

   I understood something else, now: Cindy might chew out her friend for

saying or doing dumb or thoughtless things, but she would never tolerate

an unkindness to Georgette.  If I had said what I was thinking when I was

offered that "tip," I'd have been out on my ass in two seconds.

   "Anyway, the black guys on this campus mostly think I'm trying to be

'white' because I won't play the role they expect of me.  Or else I'm a

lesbian with a white girlfriend.  Opinions vary."  Cindy released my hand

and wiped her tears away with two quick motions.  She took another sip of

coffee and made a face.

   "Cold.  Would you like some fresh?"  The imperious expression was gone

>From her face; she looked more like an ordinary person.  A *beautiful*

ordinary person.

   "Yes, please.  Um, may I say something about all this?"  She nodded

without looking directly at me.

   "I don't know about you, but I played basketball for a couple years in

high school, in Dallas...."  She flashed a grin; any girl that tall would

be under continual pressure from the coaching staff.

   "I wasn't great at it but I held up my end.  Anyway, our team was about

half-and-half, black and white.  When you're jammed on a team bus for an

overnighter, you can't help but get to know each other.  There were a few

guys I didn't like much, for various reasons.  Most of the rest, we all

got along okay most of the time.  A couple of the guys, though, we became

pretty good friends off the court.

   "Gary Wanstead was a good-looking guy, always had the girls hanging on

his shirttail; he used to try to fix them up with other guys on the team

so they'd leave *him* alone!  Nice guy, though; tough and gentle both. 

His family came down from Boston and he went back up there to go to

school: Boston College on a sports scholarship.  But he's also holding a

4.0 average.  I tell him I'm going to wait until he's made his first

million and then blackmail him for an executive position, using his sordid

past."

   I laughed, remembering Gary's fondness for horrible puns; he'd get you

into some strange, drawn-out discussion just so he could spring a really

awful pun on you.

   "The other guy was named Jack Orwell -- we called him 'Jackie O.' He

grew up in the service, like I did, so we had things in common.  He's the

serious type.  I mean, he has a sense of humor, but it's the razor blade

variety.  He's in his second year at the Air Force Academy."  Cindy gave

me a look, wondering where all this was going.

   "Well, I took some flack from certain guys on the team -- the ones I

didn't like much -- for hanging out with Gary and Jack so much.  And it

pissed me off.  But those two got grief from some of THEIR other friends

for hanging around with ME.  And that pissed me off even more but they sat

me down and explained it to me.  Gary said, and I quote, 'I don't think

you could understand'."  Cindy looked at me sharply.

   "That was what really got to me: My friends not wanting me to be angry

for the way some people treated them, much less me.  I wouldn't talk to

either of them for weeks.  We finally patched it up, of course -- no hard

feelings.  We were friends, after all."  I stopped and sipped at the fresh

cup of coffee Cindy had just poured for me.

   She sat down and held up a hand.  "Just a minute; let me guess the

punch line of this story.  Are you about to tell me these two friends of

yours were black?"

   "As far as I know, they still are.  Much 'blacker' than you.  'Course,

I never asked either of them for a *date*...."  I could practically hear

the little wheels going around in that pretty head, as she gave me a very

thoughtful look.

   "Cindy, when I stood there like a damn dummy at the door, it was

because I was expecting my knock to be answered by a short, cute girl ...

not a tall, beautiful one."  As I said that, I knew it sounded like a

line.  But Cindy's expression hadn't changed.  "I'm attracted to you and I

really would like to get to know you better.  Much better."

   She didn't say anything but she stood and stepped around by my chair so

I stood, too.  She looked like she had made a decision.  She nervously

pushed her hair behind her ears and said "I'll compromise with you: I

won't go out on a regular date with you, Mike -- not yet.  But it would

make ME very happy if you would come over here sometimes and ... and be my

friend.  We could talk.  And things...."

   Cindy hesitated and sucked at her lower lip.  Then she murmured "Oh,

hell..." and her long arms were suddenly around my neck and her breasts

were gouging craters in my chest and her lips were touching mine.  Light,

feathery touches, followed by a warm, steady pressure that made me

lightheaded.  I put my arms around her slender body and encountered the

heat from her back beneath my palms.  In another moment we were in a tight

clinch, pressed together from noses to knees, each tongue coiling about

the other.  It was an act almost of desperation, punctuated by moans and

frantic hands moving everywhere.

   We had to come up for air but our lips didn't move far apart.  Her eyes

flicked about my face and I knew I was doing the same.  It was a little

strange: I was certainly thinking about sex with this gorgeous creature

but it didn't necessarily involve fucking -- which I imagined was out of

the question anyway.  Mostly, I wanted to put my hands all over her and

feel those long fingers of hers on me.  I wanted to enjoy simply looking

at her, drinking her in.  I'd be satisfied with that.

   Cindy was breathing hard, almost into my mouth.  "God, I haven't felt

like this for ages," she whispered.

   "I haven't felt anything like YOU in my entire life," I whispered back. 

"Could we go into the living room?"  I wanted to get her on that beat-up

old sofa.

   "No -- but we could go into the bedroom...."  She said it as if her

unconscious was thinking for her and she wasn't sure what would come out

of her mouth.

   "You're sure?"  She nodded quickly.  "Then let's go."  My God....

   Cindy took my hand and led me through the two doorways to what I hoped

would be Paradise.  Standing next to one of the two single beds, I made to

take her in my arms again but she backed off a few feet and held up a

hand.  "No, let me do this ... before I lose my nerve.  Or get my senses

back."  She took a breath like she was about to jump into a cold pool. 

Then she swiftly pulled the tank-top over her head.

   My mouth fell open.  It was still less than two minutes since our lips

had parted in the kitchen; I'd had no time to prepare myself for this. 

Cindy's breasts were the same milk chocolate shade as the rest of her and

they were so perfect and firm-looking I almost couldn't believe they were

real.  Her collarbone and the arch of her ribs served as a frame.   The

areolae were a darker brown, swollen like miniature volcanoes.  Her

blue-black nipples stood out slightly from the tips and pointed up over my

head somewhere.  I sat rather suddenly on the end of the bed.

   Cindy put her hands behind her back in a nervous gesture; the effect

was to separate and lift those perfect breasts even more.  If a Platonic

ideal existed for a woman's breasts, I was gazing at them.

   "More?" she whispered.  She also seemed short of breath.  I nodded,

mouth still open.

   She unbuttoned her cutoffs and lowered the zipper, and then pushed her

shorts and her panties together below her knees.  As she bent forward, her

breasts formed a textbook catenary curve.  Then she straightened and

shifted her weight from hip to hip a few times so her shorts would drop

the rest of the way.  She stepped out of them and stood looking at me with

her hands folding and unfolding.  Looking at Cindy's long, slim, smooth

body, I thought that if I should die of a stroke at that very instant, I'd

go happy.

   She cleared her throat slightly.  "Still think I'm pretty?" 

Unbelievably, it wasn't a come-on.

   I shook my head slowly as my mouth silently opened and closed a few

times.  "You are the most perfect-looking girl -- woman -- I have ever

seen ... or that *anyone* has ever seen."  I spoke slowly, working out

exactly what I wanted to say.  "Cindy, just looking at you makes me want

to cry, you're so absolutely beautiful...."  Then I had to swallow before

I really did choke up.

   The look on her face held a kind of wonder, like a two-year-old who has

just seen the Christmas tree lights switched on for the first time.  Her

image of herself was apparently nothing like my reaction to her incredible

magnificence.

   She walked the few feet to where I sat, still stunned.  She searched my

eyes and discovered I was telling the truth.  Then the tears did come,

leaking from the corners of her almond eyes, moving down her cheeks in

tiny waterfalls.  She didn't even sniffle as she set her hands on my

shoulders.

   My hands moved by themselves to her breasts, cupping them and measuring

their weight.  They filled my hands as though the designer had had this

moment in mind all along.  She leaned her knees against the bed on either

side of my legs and I scooted back so she could kneel astride my lap.  And

when I carefully took a nipple between my lips and touched my tongue to

it, she stroked the back of my head and cooed softly.

   I sucked all of that little mound into my mouth; it tasted like Cindy. 

I wondered if all of her was the same wonderful flavor.  As my tongue

moved around and across, her fingers tightened on my hair and pushed my

head forward more urgently.  My hands moved to her waist, which was narrow

and tight in my grip.  Then back over the swell of her buttocks; she

twitched her ass muscles and my fingers tingled as they had before.

   "Your turn," she breathed.  With great reluctance, I released her

breast and leaned back on my arms so she could reach my shirt buttons. 

She settled back on my lap and I was instantly aware of the nearness of

her secret depths to my crotch.  The movement had opened the cleft between

her legs and I could see a hint of pink below the small ebon triangle of

pubic hair.  I let my hands glide up and down her flanks, savoring the

soft, downy hair I couldn't see.

   Then my shirt was open and pushed back, and I sat up again to get rid

of it and to haul off my tee shirt.  We kissed again while I was there but

Cindy cut it short; her face promised marvelous things to come.  She

pushed me onto my back and unbuckled my belt and opened my zipper.  Then

she had to roll off onto the bed so I could rip off my shoes and socks and

shuck my slacks.  She propped herself up on her elbow and observed closely

when I pushed off my briefs.  My cock was at half-mast and still

ascending, and Cindy's eyes gleamed.

   I lay carefully on my side facing her and let my eyes close for a

moment when her hand moved in a cautious exploration of my chest and

abdomen.  I had always regarded male nipples as evidence of God's sense of

humor -- until Cindy's fingertips, and then her tongue, discovered them. 

She pushed me onto my back again with a warm smile that gave me tingles of

anticipation.

   Without warning or foreplay, and without using her hands, she abruptly

swooped down and inhaled the head of my penis.  The unexpected shock of

contact made me gasp aloud -- the reaction she was hoping for, I was sure. 

My sexual nerve endings lit up all green when her tongue swept along the

underside of the shaft and it was my turn to bury my fingers in her

luxuriant hair.  She certainly knew what she was doing but I had the

impression nevertheless that she'd had no sex of any kind for some time. 

Perhaps I was a welcome release to her, as she was a revelation to me. 

Maybe this could happen only once for us.  If necessary, I could live with

that.

   But if this did turn out to be our only encounter, I wasn't willing to

end it with a climax so soon.  I tugged a little at her hair and she

released my cock with an audible *pop*, snaking her way back up my body

until she was stretched out on top of me.

   Ever since I began seriously making out with girls, I had had to

accommodate their much smaller size.  Cindy was a delight in that respect,

too.  She could rub noses with me while tickling the tops of my feet with

her toes.  Our bodies matched.

   We kissed again, less frantically, her hands pressed against my chest

and my arms wrapped around her.  Her hair was considerably less tidy than

when we began and wild curls dripped down around my head.  Less than

thirty minutes since leaving the kitchen, and we both seemed to feel we

had been making love to each other for years ... a state of mutual

intoxication.

   We remained like that for some time, relaxed and intimate, and in no

hurry.  She shifted her body slightly every minute or two so that we kept

discovering new points of physical contact.  We were so comfortable with

each other, we even dozed.  Then she would nibble my ear or I would

squeeze her delicate ass, and we would be off again, kissing and clutching

and moaning.

   Finally, lying there on the bed in the dim light from the other room

and the fuzzy glow of a streetlight through the window -- the rain had

long since stopped -- I realized I could wait no longer.  My cock had

grown rigid and hard between Cindy's heated thighs; it was beginning to

ache with the unfulfilled desire to bury itself in her.  But I didn't

carry condoms around with me and it seemed unlikely that Cindy was on the

pill.  And the possibility that my adoration of this woman might get her

pregnant was intolerable to me.

   It seemed her thoughts were paralleling mine.  "Mike," she murmured,

"don't you want to fuck me?  Because I really WANT you to...."

   "We don't have any birth control handy.  I can't take that chance,

Cindy -- not with you."

   "You could take it out before you came...."

   I snorted and stroked her eyebrow with one finger.  "That's supposed to

be the *guy's* line, to wear down the girl's resistance.  You know it's

not that easy.  Besides, I don't think I could make myself do it."

   She sighed unhappily.  "Yeah, I know ... but I can't help it -- I want

to feel you IN me."  This low-voiced conversation was making me crazy. 

"You could--"  She hesitated.  "You could put it,... you could put your

cock, you know, in my ass...."

   I'd done that a couple of times with one of the wilder girls I'd known

in high school.  I think half my male classmates had.  She might have been

one of the semi-legendary nymphomaniacs guys are always praying they'll

meet.  She would do virtually anything with anybody, anywhere, under

almost any circumstances.  Ass-fucking, I had learned, could be a real

turn-on sometimes -- but the idea of doing that with Cindy, especially our

very first time, was distasteful.  It would be too much like "using" her. 

When I simply looked back at her without blinking, she let it drop with

palpable relief.  She didn't particularly like the idea herself, but she

was willing to do it, as a last resort ... for me.  I squeezed her

tighter.

   Cindy rolled off me again, with a frustrated sigh.  And then another

small miracle intervened.  I kissed those full, warm, lips yet again and

eased my hand across her pubic patch.  My first two fingers moved to the

alcove of that warm, damp crevice.  Maybe if I brought her off with my

hand, it would be enough.  She bent her knees to help me.  Even in the

state of extreme arousal in which we found ourselves, she seemed VERY wet.

   As my finger traced the length of her sheath and reached the resilient

bud at its tip, her whole body vibrated like a violin string.  She sucked

in between her teeth and pushed her pelvis forward in encouragement.  When

my second finger slid in to join the first, she began to return the favor

by sucking on the fingers of my other hand.  Seeing my pale freckled skin

moving between the rich brown of her lips was a turn-on all by itself. 

And when I tweaked her rigid clit, she bit down hard enough to leave an

indentation in my knuckle ... and then she kissed the bite, so I didn't

care.

   After a few minutes, during which Cindy moaned and hung onto my neck, I

brought up my hand with the intention of licking her succulent juices from

my fingers ... and found my hand half-covered in bright red blood.

   We both stared at the redness and then at each other.  Cindy

self-consciously edged her lower body away from me.

   "My God," she said hoarsely, "I shouldn't be starting my period for

days yet.  Oh, Mike, I'm so sorry!"

   "No, no, Cindy, think a minute -- you can't get pregnant while you're

having your period.  Don't you see?!"

   She was even more unsure of herself, now.  Completely unlike her

earlier persona.  "You,... you want to make love while,... while I'm like

*this*?"  I thought she wasn't so much repelled by the idea itself -- just

very surprised that I wasn't.

   I took her by the shoulders and kissed her hard, and said as

emphatically as I could, "Cindy, I want to make love to you -- with you --

anytime and anyplace we can.  I'd do it with you on a garbage scow in

Houston harbor if it meant we could fuck each other unconscious!"  I shook

her gently.  "I'd do it with you in Times Square, or on the Dean's desk! 

I don't care!"

   The realization of what I was saying came home to her.  It showed in

her lovely, deep, dark eyes, which grew deeper and darker, it that were

possible.

   "Oh!  Oh, Mike -- please fuck me!  Oh, I want you so much right now!" 

The blood didn't matter anymore, not to her and never to me.

   She spread herself on her back and squirmed into a comfortable

position, with her knees bent and open wide.  I almost said something

about throwing a few old towels on the bed to protect the sheets, but the

sight of those tits jiggling as she settled herself was more than I could

take.  I'd buy her a new set of sheets.

   Cindy grabbed my cock -- the first time she had touched it with her

hand -- and squeezed as she maneuvered me into place on top of her.  My

organ was already rigid and straining; I would have to take it slowly or

I'd climax much too soon.  Her frantic hurry, her anxiety, set my groin to

throbbing, though.

   She was as limber as I had expected and when I pressed her knees back

against her chest she caught on instantly and hooked her small ankles over

my shoulders.  I rubbed the head of my cock along her gaping labia and her

whole lower body vibrated.  I looked down between us at those beautiful,

long legs and slender thighs lifted in the air for me, at her upturned ass

and the dark little pucker behind the brilliant pink of her flowering

cunt, and at the bright bloody smears scattered nearby.

   The steaming aroma that rose from her was like hot wine with the

cloying estrus smell adding an oddly stimulating flavor.  And I watched,

fascinated, as my penis slipped home into the channel intended for it.  I

took care that my entering shaft gave full friction to her pulsing clit;

incredibly, it felt like a tiny heartbeat throbbing away at the true

center of her.

   With the trickle of bright blood, no additional lubrication was

necessary.  On the first stroke, I buried myself to the root, though

Cindy's tightness was making it very difficult to restrain my climax.  I

hadn't really fucked many girls when I was 20 and all of them had been

considerably shorter than me; it was easy to bump the head of my cock

against the end of a small girl's vagina and cause unintended pain.  But

Cindy's height was matched by the deepness of the passage in which I was

buried.  I was beginning seriously to think that there were many ways in

which the two of us were meant to be together.

   I began to stroke slowly but Cindy began to whimper.  "Do me!  Fuck me,

fuck me!  Oh, do it harder, please -- it's been so long!"  So I increased

the pace and the force of my strokes until the breath was being pushed out

of her at each thrust.  Again, I eased off a little but she shook her head

wildly and whispered "More...!"

   By the clock, it could only have been a few minutes, we were both wound

so tight.  Subjectively, it was an endless time of concentrated pleasure. 

I wanted desperately to please this wonderful girl as much as myself.  So

I held back as long as I humanly could, until I felt the tiny ripplings

begin in her thighs and belly.  Looking down, I saw her inner lips sucking

at my cock on each stroke.  Her ass was cocked up even more than before;

her asshole was fully exposed, and it was twitching.

   That did it.  As Cindy reached her own climax, I jerked and shot what

seemed like quarts of semen into her.  It felt like there was no end to

it, that my balls must be emptying themselves completely.

   We eventually slowed and stopped, like a runaway locomotive coasting

massively to a halt.  We were both gasping for breath, nearly drowned in

love, as her legs slid from my shoulders to fold loosely on the bed.  I

managed to keep myself propped on my elbows as my shrinking cock withdrew. 

The sweat trickling off my chest and shoulders mixed with hers; she was

agleam with drops of our moisture.  Her eyes sought mine and our gaze

locked, though we were still too winded to speak.  She wrapped her arms

tightly about my neck and hugged me tightly, cheek to cheek, and panted in

my ear.

   "You're ... the most ... marvelous...," I managed to whisper, and she

squeezed me harder.

   After a few minutes, she loosened her hold on me and I pulled my head

up so we were nose to nose again.  I licked the sweat from her forehead

and her eyelids and the bridge of her nose, and she smiled, dreamy and

contented.  She stroked my cheek with the palm of her hand and I combed my

fingers through her tangled hair.  The "wonder" look was in her eyes again

and the way she stared at me made me feel strong and heroic ... and loved.

   I didn't know whether there would be, or even could be, a future for

Cindy and me in the cold light of day.  But I sure wanted to give it a

try.  Back there in the kitchen, all those eons ago, she had asked me to

be her friend.  If I could have nothing more, if that was the way things

turned out, I would be at least a friend to her in every way I could.  But

deep down somewhere in a hidden corner of my heart, I knew I was already

falling too deeply in love with this perfect woman ever to escape.

   Then there was a muted noise in the living room and we both held our

breaths.  I had no idea what it was but Cindy seemed to recognize it.  The

bedroom door was still standing open and the light we had left on in the

kitchen drifted in.

   "Cin...?  Cindy, are you here?  You awake...?"  Georgette's soprano was

hesitant and a bit fearful.  The kitchen light on and apparently no one at

home?  No wonder she was nervous.  She had said she'd be back late; could

I really have been here for six or seven hours?

   "Cin?"  The voice was closer to the bedroom.  I looked down at Cindy's

face, wondering why she hadn't responded.  But Cindy had both hands

clapped over her mouth and her eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter. 

I imagined how we would appear to Georgette if she walked through the

bedroom door: Her friend and an almost-total stranger, sprawled naked on

the bed and obviously in the throes of passion.  I grinned at Cindy and

she couldn't hold it back any longer.

   "George ...  ... I'm here,...  ...

everything's okay...."

   "Everything's *fantastic*," I whispered, and licked her nose.

   "Hush."  I licked her nose again.  "I'm in the bed-- bedroom, Geor--

George...."  She jerked as I tickled the back of her knee.  "I have -- uh

-- company -- ohhhh...."  I had scooted down and was using my tongue on a

hypersensitive nipple.

   "George, honey, I -- oh ... oh -- I wish you-- you'd stay in there

awhile -- please -- uhhhh -- please, George?"

   There was a moment's silence from the living room and then we heard a

delighted giggle from just beyond the doorway.  "No problem, Cin, I guess

it's my turn, isn't it?  You sure I can't take just one peek...?"  Another

giggle, followed by the door being quietly pushed almost closed from

behind.  Little Georgette wasn't the type to sneak a peek on her friend. 

A lamp winked on in the living room for a minute or two, the springs of

the old sofa squeaked, and the lamp went off.

   Cindy got even for my distractions by tickling me under the arms but we

ended the brief, laughing struggle in another long, gasping kiss. 

Finally, I moved off her so she could stretch her strained muscles.

   "Cindy, I wish to God I could spend the rest of the night with you. 

But we couldn't keep George out of her own room -- and there's not enough

of me left to go around for TWO women."

   She swatted at me and I grabbed her wrist and we shared another sweet

kiss.

   "Actually," she said, "I've spent a few hours on the sofa at one time

or another, like when Rick didn't want to leave -- or *George* didn't want

him to.  She's right: It's her turn."  She sighed.  "I wish you could

stay, too, but I'm a little afraid.  It would be almost too much, too

fast...."

   "I know," I said, and kissed her gently on each eyelid.  We could go on

saying goodnight until Monday morning and we both knew it.  Time to quit. 

For now.

   Cindy sat up and I admired the dim shadow of her figure as she

investigated the size of the mess we had left on the bed, mixed semen and

not too much blood.

   "Fuck it," I said lazily.

   "I think that was the problem," she chuckled.  "Come on -- off."

   I climbed off the bed and helped her strip the sheets.  Then she

stepped into the small bathroom and cleaned herself up.  When she came

back, she carried two damp washcloths, and the string of a tampon was

visible between her legs.  She handed one wet cloth to me -- my cock and

pubic hair were thoroughly matted -- and used the other to scrub the stain

on the mattress as well as she could.

   She didn't seem quite as smooth and efficient as she had while making

the coffee.  She was also a little bowlegged and shaky.  I finished

cleaning myself up and went to help her.  She straightened with a groan.

   "You okay, sweetheart?"  I called her that without thinking but she

smiled at me in a way I had come to adore.

   "I'm fine -- just out of practice."  She put her arms around me again,

but fondly and possessively this time.  I stroked her back and kissed her

lightly on the cheek.

   "Mike, I haven't done this in, I guess, three years.  I've never done

it like THIS in my life, but...."  She shook her head slowly.  "You're

right.  Why should I care what anyone thinks?  You're you and I'm me, and

that's all."

   I held up a finger.  "I just have one question: Will you go out on a

date with me NOW?"

   She rolled her eyes and laughed.  "Yeah.  Maybe I will." 





   Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed, Cindy was wearing the pajama top

she slept in, and we were walking slowly, arm in arm, to the door.  She

had my phone number at the dorm and my oath that I would call her in the

morning (well, *later* in the morning).

   I glanced at the sofa and realized that Georgette, curled up under a

comforter, was awake and smiling.  I detoured over that way and hunkered

down.  Her eyes widened a little when she realized who it was that her

roommate had spent so many passionate hours with.  I took the hand that

lay beside her head and gave it a small squeeze.

   "George, I want to thank you."  She looked blank.  "It was your

pocketbook that made it possible for me to meet a really wonderful girl." 

That pleased her and she looked up at Cindy, standing behind me, and

winked.

   I started to rise but she held onto my hand.  "Wait,... Mike?  Yes:

Mike."  Her smile became a bit embarrassed.  "Um, I thought about it and I

finally figured out what it was I did earlier.  I'm so sorry about that. 

I didn't know who you were and I thought that if you had to work at the

library all the time, you probably,... well, you might be short of money. 

And I had a little I could spare.  I was just trying to help, because you

helped me.  Really."

   "It's okay, George.  Cindy explained--"

   "Cindy gets me out of trouble so often -- I don't know what I'd do

without her.  I mean, I make good grades and I'm smart about a lot of

things.  Like, I'm going to marry Rick.  He doesn't know it yet, but I am. 

But I *am* dumb sometimes about people.  But I don't mean it, honest."

   She looked so earnest and hopeful, any earlier annoyance I might have

had vanished.  I lifted her hand and lightly kissed the back of it.  I

could see her blush even in the dim light.  Cindy reached out and stroked

my shoulder and I felt her approval and gratitude through her fingertips.

   As I stood and shrugged on my raincoat, George kind of hugged herself

under the comforter.  "Cindy," she said, "I'm so glad you have a fella." 

(Such an old-fashioned word but it didn't sound odd from George's mouth.) 

She looked at me again.

   "Cindy's my very best friend, best ever, and she gets so lonely

sometimes -- I can tell...."

   I thought for a moment and bent over the sofa again.  "George, would

you think it was strange if Cindy and I went out together?"

   "Oh, I think it would be terrific!"

   "But it wouldn't look strange?"

   "Would what look strange?"

   I took a breath.  "Georgette: She's black and I'm white."

   George's eyebrows came down; she wasn't as dumb as she thought she was. 

"What about it?"

   I grinned and folded my arms as I turned to Cindy.  "Sound familiar,

love?"  Cindy hugged me around the neck once more and kissed me a promise.





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Copyright 1993 by Michael K. Smith.  Copies may be made and posted

elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~