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Candie
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
I had always been slightly, well, a little more than slightly,
interested in Candie, the girl across the hall. She always wore a
powder-blue terry-cloth robe just loose enough to tantalize and tease.
She had the kind of breasts that those much overused adjectives
applied to accurately. Every set of firm, soft cantaloupe-sized
protusions dreamed of and written of in Penthouse Forum could only be
a weak imitation of Candie's anatomy. My dream was to walk into the
coed bathroom at just the right time, but such luck had not been mine.
I could only imagine.
That is, I could only imagine until that 17th of February, an
ordinary, snowy Tuesday. We ran into each other in front of old
number six, the best dryer in our dorm. I had bent over to see my
clothes spinning around and around, and when I stood up, my head
bumped into her overhanging breasts, which gently nudged me. I
started to apologize embarassedly, but she only smiled knowingly. I
followed her eyes which traced a path to her heap of clothes, fresh
out of number seven and ready for folding. I helped her fold,
embracing the opportunity to fondle her dainty underwear. Everything
she wore smelled gently of the sweetest perfume, enhanced by that
fresh lemony scent of laundry.
Conversation could have been awkward. Relating to a goddess had
always been difficult and strained for me, a mere mortal. But luckily
I had been reading Freud's Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality for
my psych class. She seemed interested. I quickly moved into high
gear with a thrilling condemnation of Freud's biased account,
climaxing in a thrusting blow to his narrow discussion of perversions.
She was greatly impressed by my control and mastery, agreeing
completely with my disdain for implied prudery. She wondered out loud
why so many people were so willing to show disgust at the idea of oral
sex. I said, "Probably because they haven't tried it." She only
smiled and told me that nothing turned her on more than a good tongue.
I licked my lips.
At this point, my chest was heaving with excitement and
anticipation, and her chest, in a much more scenic way, was echoing my
call. I found myself out of control, and Freud's much-talked-of
sexual drive overthrew my reason. I began to gently bump into Candie,
and my bare arms repeatedly brushed up against her bulging breasts,
with their nipples yearning to be free through her soft tank top. But
I knew that the laundry room was not the right place.
Candie asked me to help her carry her clothes back to her room.
Suddenly my clothes in number six were unimportant. We slowly waltzed
back to our familiar hall. But because our arms were full with
clothes, we did not see the stacks of books in Candie's room as we
passed through the threshold. We fell to the ground, and the fresh,
lemony clothes flew everywhere. She muttered something about her
roommate leaving things lying around. She asked if I was alright.
But I actually had hit my lips with my wrist during the fall, and my
lips were bleeding. She noticed. I, again embarassed in the face of
a goddess, tried to turn away, but then I saw her breasts falling out
of her shirt--she had no bra on!
She leaned in slowly and lapped up the blood on my lips. Her
sensuous mouth seized me in the most passionate kiss I had ever
experienced. Her hands quickly moved over my chest, and mine, without
any conscious directive or knowledge, squeezed her luscious, ripe
tomatoes. I could feel my tool throbbing like a weasel in a seizure.
She knew my need to be free. But she would not help. She backed off.
I was beginning to fear for a need for a cold shower when she
stood up and lifted her shirt off. I could see her breasts in all
their resplendent glory--bounteous beauty to behold. She moved her
hands slowly over her chest, down over her slim torso and in own
smooth motion removed her shorts and underwear. Her blonde target
zone called for my ICBM of love to home in. I had never been harder.
She took me by my hands and helped me to my feet. She placed my
hands on her breasts--so big, so firm, so soft. I didn't know whether
my heart or member was throbbing harder. As my hands explored her
body down to her dripping wet box, she deftly removed my shirt and
shorts. She moaned softly when she ripped off my jockeys and revealed
my eight inches of untamed passion. She dropped to her knees, and I
braced myself as if for gale force winds.
She licked me expertly and my insides tingled. She moaned
again. I was going to come. She backed off. I moaned. She grabbed
my throbbing member with a vice-like two-fisted grip. I had never
felt anything like this. I squealed with pleasure, and my voice died
in a moan. I was lighter than air. Then I was in the air. She had
lifted me by my rock-hard apparatus, and I was flying like a newly
freed sparrow. A small bird was I in her power. She swung me as
Tarzan swung his vines. The air blew over me as it does in my dad's
convertible. Then she let go.
For an eternity I flew through the stratosphere of room 623, and
when I landed on her soft pillows, I knew that my juices had decorated
her walls. Her posters would never look the same. My indelible
signature would always remain. And with that measure of satisfaction
I slowly grabbed my clothes and walked back to 622, my home.
I must confess that I cannot now look at Candie the way I had
before. But now I have the pleasure of looking at more of her more
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