Dance is an elective at my college, but, after spending five solid years immersed in both modern and classical, I had less than zero interest in the course. The room, however, was most useful; large and well lit, with mirrored walls and practice bars. Three times a week I would make use of the facility when no class was in session. Quiet and alone; able to concentrate on keeping my body at its youthful peak.
The room was separated from the gymnasium by a plate glass wall, and on occasion passers by would stop and watch me.
The gym was often occupied by students doing floor routines, or using the equipment, under the tutelage of a male and female instructor. Taking a break one afternoon, a fellow student caught my attention. His specialty was the rings, and, to my untutored eye, he appeared to be of Olympic quality. He would slowly descend into an Iron Cross, hold it for an eternity, then flip up into a handstand, and execute a triple dismount. The rings would appear to be welded in place.
It was not just his expertise that attracted my attention. He was slim, ripped, and had a most intriguing bulge beneath his tights. Close cropped dark hair and a Roman nose.
At the start of the second semester I found him seated beside me in European History. "You're the dancer babe, aren't you?"
"Swan. And you're Tarzan, swingin' through the trees."
He laughed, flashing big white teeth, held out his hand. A spark zapped from his bod to mine. Oooh; what am I gonna say to Marcel? "Nuke. Short for nuclear, ‘cause I had a temper when I was little. After getting my butt kicked a bunch of times, I learned to mostly control myself. You're really good."
"Well, YEAH. I studied forever, danced semipro for two years, before quitting to start college." The professor pulled down a big roll-up map of Europe and got going on the Hapsburgs.
A week later he asked me out, I turned him down. Same thing the next class. Third time he asked me if I was a lez. "No; what I am, is in a relationship. A pretty special one. But I tell you, Nuke, if I wasn't, I'd jump your bones!"
I told Marcel about Nuke, how he'd been coming on to me, how I liked his bod. We were in bed, had just done the deed, were languishing in post-coital bliss. "Do you ever look at other women?"
"All the time!"
"Do you. . .fantasize about them?"
"Is the Marquis a Sadist?"
"Prick!" I poked him in the ribs.
"Fantasy, my dear Little Swan, and reality are two different worlds. In my fantasies I peel them like a grape, ravish them, leave them wet and breathless, begging for an encore. In reality, I get a stiffy, and hurry home to you."
I snuggled against him, "Oh, Marcel; you'll make me weep!" I touched his sticky dickie, sucked my finger, kissed him, and we fell all over each other a second time. Marcel is slow to rise, deliciously slow to erupt, but, alas! All too languid on the recovery. Sometimes, a girl needs a second inning without the wait.
It's unusual for Marcel to get another erection that quickly; generally a half hour or so is required. The wait is worth it; at his age (he's sensitive about how much older he is, says he's only twenty seventeen), Marcel lasts much much longer than the kids I'd balled in high school. Pump pump squirt squirt slam bam thank you ma'am. I wondered at his speedy recovery. Could it have been Nuke? Oh, how delicious!
That Sunday, in the bath, doing our weekly ritual, lazing against the back end of the big claw foot tub, my arms and legs hooked over the edges, I broached the subject from a different angle. "Marcel? You ever do it with two women at the same time?"
He rinsed the razor in the suds, cleaned the excess lather from my freshly shaved cunt, and stood, so that I could give him the same treatment. "Ah, ma petite oiseau! So; you want to add this young gymnast to our games!"
I locked my lips around his soapy cock, stiffening him for his shave. God, this man knows me so well! That's why I never, ever keep anything from him. As to whether he reciprocates, I am still not sure. . .
Later, in the bed, breakfast dishes on the floor, Sunday papers strewn across the duvet, passions momentarily slaked, I turn and hold him against my breast. "Straighten me out, Marcel; like you did with my lezzie lover. I'm so so so confused; lead me, teach me, tell me what to do!"
He kisses my forehead, touches my cheek. "It is you heart that must tell you what to do." He rises, shrugs into a robe. "However, I will do this: write a note, for you to deliver. The next step will be his, then mine, and finally yours. Trust me?"
"Marcel, Marcel! Je suis enchante, mon amour, mon amour!"
"Swan, I think you need to pay more attention to your homework. . ."
I have to turn this over to Marcel; I'm too too F'd up to deal with it; besides, he really took control of the whole deal, at least for the first act. . . ----------------------------------------------
‘Young Mr. Nuke', I began, scratching the broad italic nib of my Mont Blanc across the hand laid note paper that I order from London. First impressions are often the difference between access and denial. ‘Swan informs me that she is intrigued by you; and, as her guardian, I wish for us to meet, so as to ascertain your suitability. Forgive my directness; I am obsessively protective of the child.' I added a date, time, and location as a postscript, signed the short note ‘Marcel P.,' and tucked it, unsealed, into an envelope. A small temptation for my Swan.
That afternoon I am seated at a curbside table outside the local bistro, a script and the dregs of an espresso before me. He approaches, apprehensive, eyes darting. I rise, smile, extend my hand. "Nuke," I say. "Swans description hardly does you justice." I gesture to the other chair, turn to the hovering waiter. "Felix. Noilly Prat; And, for the gentleman. . .?"
