Part One of a two act story.
They had said that Trina Thompson was high-maintenance. Of course they were right, James and Nigel and Stash, and if anybody should have known it was them, and I ought to have heeded their advice. But I couldn't help myself.
I was in the grip of very great lust, not for the first time in my life, and I had reckoned that my keen and innate talents were sufficient to overcome whatever obstacles were in the way. Boy, was I in for a surprise.
"She is one predatory bitch," said Stash, perched on the armrest of our beat-up couch, his eyebrows furrowed, as he popped the top of his fourth Pabst of the night.
"But look at her," I insisted. "She's got a chest to fucking die for. And the way she flaunts it, waves it around, wears those tight tops? She's asking for it man, I tell you."
"Yep, asking all right," said Stash, between droughts. "And you are gonna pay for it. And pay for it, and pay for it until you wished you'd never set your miserable fucking eyes on her."
"But that's the trouble. I have set eyes on her. Those mighty tits. That Kardashian ass she wiggles around. Those big full lips on her mouth that deserve to be running up and down my cock." I gyrated my pelvis enough that Nigel laughed.
"That large-lipped luscious cunt those big broad hips just have to be holding, that will suck up my sperm up like a 100 watt Wet/Dry Vac."
Stash, whose ironic nickname referred to the sparseness of his determined but pathetic mustache, laughed hard, spilling some beer on our well-worn student-housing carpet.
"You know, of course, that she's plowed her way through just about the whole offensive line of the football team? Probably most of the linebackers too. Half of Delta Smegma."
James chuckled at this little joke of ours. Of course this referred to Delta Sigma Phi. All the cocks in our little foursome were circumcised, we couldn't help poking fun at the "sword in the scabbard" lot who tended, for reasons unclear, to dominate the ranks of that fraternity. Don't ask how we possessed this bit of intelligence.
"You don't believe us, go talk to one of them." James leered at me. "Don't do it, Chris, you will be one sorry hombre."
"She's eaten up and spit out better men than you, Chris," said Nigel.
I bridled at this. "You don't think my cock is up for a challenge?" I asked, eyes flashing. "I did Alisa Churchill four times one night last October, then filled her mouth good once more the next morning."
(This assertion was not strictly accurate, but was within our group's standard deviation of boasts, plus or minus one, except that we always rounded up. Still a higher truth-value than our beer consumption calculations, however.)
"Not concerned about your cock, Chris. Well, maybe a little. It is the peripherals that are gonna fucking kill you."
We argued back and forth a bit, but it didn't do any good. I was smitten. I wanted my prick doing all sorts of lovely things to this buxom big strumpet, my penis lodged in various places of her anatomy, having her sexual energy winding up my clock, coaxing me into catatonic states of climax. I wanted to be intimate and playing with every square inch of her body.
The guys listened and just shook their heads.
Stash sighed. "You go ahead man, go ahead. Don't let us stop you. But don't come back whining later, either."
Of course I had met Trina before, you could hardly miss her on campus, she occupied a lot of airspace, but that Monday morning before class I had run into her in line at the Starbucks just opposite the main entrance to the university. We traded chat for a few minutes at one of the unoccupied tables over our cups before we rushed off in our separate directions.
She is one big girl, taller than me when she has heels on, but round, broad, hefty. Her jeans were tight, her meaty thighs straining the fabric. A jaunty red beret topped her wild unruly dark hair, a leather jacket kept the early March cold of Boston at bay.
The only, albeit minor, aspects of her appearance (besides the fact that she wasn't supermodel thin, which didn't bother me in the slightest) that kept her from a five-star rating involved, unfortunately, her face.
Not that it was unpleasant - I liked her flashing brown eyes and beckoning smile, her hair and overall features. But she had one of those short pointed chins that doesn't really stick out much and mostly just retreated into her thick, fleshy throat. She also possessed a sharp, prominent nose. Together they gave her a vaguely porcine appearance. Nonetheless, she would rank at the top in looks for any girl I had ever dated, and she turned heads wherever she went.
Her eyes had showed interest while we talked at Starbucks, it was not my imagination. While I cannot claim, at that stage, that we "flirted," there was definitely something going on.
We had traded phone numbers and I texted her later that day, seeing if I could buy her lunch Wednesday. She responded sooner than I might have thought, a big Yes. Hot damn.
We had a good time that Wednesday at Rudi's, a sandwich place just off-campus, and my notion of some chemistry between us accumulated further evidence. She wore a blouse unbuttoned down a daring distance, and she made sure I got a good look at her cleavage when she leaned forward to talk with me over her pastrami-on-rye, those creamy big breasts of hers squeezed together into a lovely valley.
No doubt there was possibility here. She had a saucy smile and her eyes took in my shoulders, carefully cultivated flat stomach, and what I considered to be an acceptably handsome face. She absolutely oozed interest. I asked her out Friday night, to a restaurant usually beyond my means, hoping for good things. She said yes. Later that evening, back at our flat, my excitement in telling my suite-mates this piece of news had resulted in them voicing their dismal opinions on the whole matter.
I had planned to get us to the restaurant via the Redline "T" on Friday but she insisted on driving. A car, eh? This was apparently not your usual poverty-stricken undergraduate. Yes, she was a senior, and me only a sophomore, and the way she dressed did not suggest food vouchers were part of her life, but I still was completely blown away when she showed up at the curb in front of my flat in a screaming red Porsche.
Her smile - was it triumphant? taunting? - said it all. She was in charge - the BWOC, I then christened her in my head - the Big Wench On Campus. I hopped in the passenger seat, in a couple months she would likely have had the top down and her long dark hair flying in the breeze, but not yet, not now in early March.
She drove fast, confidently, and I admit I envied her ride, wondered what it would be like on a nice winding mountain road, what kind of drift I could get out of the car with the stability control disabled. I watched her hand on the gearshift while we drove, imagining those adroit fingers with the black fingernail polish running up and down my penis. I licked my lips.
It was a good dinner, although I confess to some panic at the prices on the menu. She laughed at my jokes, we each found out a bit more about each other. She was an only child, of an Anglo lawyer father and an Italian-American teacher mom, from mid-state.
It didn't appear that money had been much of an issue growing up. She was studying economics, no clear career plans yet. Her eyes flashed at times while we talked, an erotic challenge sent straight my way.
When it was dessert time I sidled over next to her in her booth and found a way to spoon-feed her bits of the luscious
creme brulee
we were sharing. Watching her tongue take in the creamy dollops I piloted to her mouth was intoxicating.
