Author Unknown
Laura was not my type--not in anybody else's eyes, anyway. The only book she ever read all the way through was the Motley Crue autobiography. She could belch in different octaves. She moved her lips while watching TV. But she was the star of my college's field-hockey team, and she could bench-press me; that was enough to get me obsessed right there.
I don't want you to think Laura was some hulking amazon lummox. Far from it. At 5'11", she was a wonder of twinkling green eyes, lavish long lashes, and pert, bigger-than-a-mouthful 36Ds that might have been made from the Jennifer Love Hewitt mold. Her ass was so tight you could bounce quarters off it, and she had the gentlest, surprisingest, softest gestures with her hands-- and the way her shoulders bunched up was so girlish and sweet I can almost pantomime it right now. Inside there was at least the genetic material of a real girly-girl.
But on top of that...there was power. Thigh muscles that rippled left and right as she squeezed back in a chair. Big, round shoulders framing those big, round tits. And a pair of vascular biceps that looked, to my saucer-like geek eyes, like Popeye's spinach cans. The combination of that strength with those womanly attributes was like crack to me.
From right after freshman orientation, I was glued to her. And it was pretty much clear to everyone that she wasn't going to fuck me. I was her puppy, her pet geek, the guy who held her hand in between her barfing and frat-boy-fucking. I mean, I gave to her. I listened to her stories of her fucked-up family and the guys who did her wrong and her struggles with dyslexia and how sad it was that everybody thought she was dumb. (She insisted to me that Shakespeare wrote about a "King Leo.") But there was a reason I wrote her Chaucer term papers in an imitation of her handwriting.
In a word, Laura smelled bad.
A session at the dorm's break-room after practice, listening to Laura bitch about her coach and her stepmother and her maxed-out credit cards, was mostly only bearable on the basis of Laura's flood-drenched pits. Oftentimes she'd fan out her stinky gray t shirt, apologizing for the DEFCON-One B.O., and I'd throat-clearingly excuse myself to the men's, where I'd have a quick wank to the memory of her reek. I kept hoping against hope that some physical evidence of the Laura-Stench--a pair of sweatsocks kept in her rucksack?--would show up for me to purloin; no dice.
Then, one day, all the elements came together.
We were having dinner in a sushi restaurant as I listened to Laura bitch about the dumb, rich lacrosse guy who had just porked her last night. After a couple sakes, some not-too-subtle hints leaked out that Lacrosse Guy caused some pain in her poopchute. When I made some reference to this, chuckling about while putting down my wineglass, a look of shock and hurt passed over Laura's face, and the palm of her right hand came whacking across my cheek.
Whoops.
I think you could have heard the boner I popped in Saskatchewan.
The look on my face as she pulled her hand back, face still red with rage--my look seemed to carry the subtitle, "Thank you, sir, may I have another?"--that was the deal-closer.
Laura, not the sharpest knife in the cupboard, got it now. This guy doesn't "put up with" my abuse; he craves it like an Eskimo Pie!
Dom and Sub became the twins we silently carried around. There was no kissing, no hugging, no penetration of Laura's wet parts, God knows. Nothing that remotely intimated boyfriend-girlfriend. There were, however, nights when Laura, showered after a long run, mentally fatigued after I coached her for a Spanish test, would stick various objects from her suite up my rump--big yellow magic markers, a nunchuk, finally her finger in a mitten. If I was extra-special-good and did a bunch of chores for her and her roommates (gee, why IS this guy...hand-wiping our radiator?), I would get tongue-bath privileges--limited mostly to calves, back, and super-stinky pits. I would get so grunty and panty and lathered licking her stinko armpits that I'd beg for relief, beg her to let me jerk it right there, but she'd never have that. Into the communal bathroom I'd have to go--with some embarrassing moments as her roommates would knock on the door while I was still wacking, trying to hold on to the jock-girl-sweat savor on my nose and lips. (I think they knew I was not having a stomach problem.)
All of which was sweetly unsatisfying, never quite fulfilling, until the day Laura's mom and dad finalized their divorce.
I was there. Oh, was I there for my big dumb 36-D jock girl. I held her as those sweaty mammoth mams jiggled on my throat throughout Laura's sobs. (Laura just...PERSPIRED, field hockey or no.) I listened to all the stuff that came out of her--the inarticulate sadness and abandonment and the dumb animal cries. I held her hand as she nervously retched in that same communal john.
I did a good deed. And Laura decided payback was in order.
"Come with me," she said.
Down into the basement gym we went. And Laura made me kneel down as she did twenty minutes on an exercycle--it felt like it must have been 5 miles an hour. She pulled me along by the hair as she stood in the corner and did jumprope till I thought she'd faint. Streaks like bloodstains were spreading across that taut, jiggle-filled, broad muscly chest. Slick was going down those ripple-up thigh muscles like I'd doused her with baby oil.
And I felt my eyeballs come out on stalks as I noticed that even the calf part of her sweatsocks were wringing damp.
Finally the regimen stopped. Laura was panting and near collapse. She dragged me upstairs by the ear (prompting giggles from a bunch of sorority girls--dumb as they must have been, they surely knew this particular score from their own experience) and made me lay down on her suite's hardwood floor.
She straddled me. I couldn't believe my eyes.
Off came the university t. Underneath, a sopping sports bra that seemed almost to cry from the effort of holding up those jumbo teats. I nearly cried as Laura yanked it off, revealing two immense globes pointing upwards, with wet hard raspberries for nips. Her underarms were wet with slime.
"Clean me up," she said.
I dove in from her washboard stomach up to the heaving, upward-saluting breasts. You may not have experienced sweat-soaked breasts of that size before, but lemme tell you: there's something in it that trips a primal switchboard, makes all of a submissive's circuits fry orange and then go black. Then the pits: girly, clammy, cavelike, spicy, something an instinct inside you tells you you're supposed to run away from, but you like the badness of it, the counterintuitive quality.
And let's just say that there really is something hot about noticing yourself reduced to a slurping, starving, panting dog...especially one slurping up girlsweat.
Wham. Back on my back she pushed me. Yanked off her red Skechers. Peeled off two of the wettest, cheesiest, foulest sweatsocks it has ever been my pleasure-displeasure to see and smell. STUFFED the both of them in my mouth like a gag. Then yanked my neck up, and placed the foot-hole of one of the trainers over my mouth and nose.
The effect was sort of like that moment where Bob Hoskins drives into Toontown in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit." It was like entering a parallel universe. A universe where everything looks, sounds, tastes, feels and smells like a hot, breathy, all-surrounding substance called Jockgirlfootsweat.
My eyes crossed. I heaved, I panted, I made little whimpering sounds for mercy I haven't made since I was four. But there was no escaping the stink. She had laced the shoes around the back of my head and tied 'em tight. My eyes raced around for mercy, for some answer, some way out of this foot-stink ambush. Nothing there but Laura's mean-ass smile.
"Now jerk it," she said.
As I started, she slowly, ever so slowly...the one truly calculated and intelligent move I had ever seen her make outside a game of field hockey...turned around...straddled my waist...my chest, and finally my face.
Her ripe, tight ass, a canteloupe cleaved in two, was right over the shoe fitted over my mouth.
"You'd like to lick this? Wouldn't you? Lick the sweat out of the crack? Tell me you'd like to lick the sweat out of my ass-crack."
How can I render the sounds I made? Mmph-mm-mmm-MMM! And the crazy, retardate nodding I did?
"Well guess what. You're not gonna. 'Cause all you're gonna get from this moment on...if you're lucky...is the inside a my shoe. You don't even deserve my fucking feet. You just deserve the fuckin' SMELL of my feet in the ROOM.
"But I'll do ya one favor. One good thing, just cuz. 'Cause you were nice today. And I hope it makes ya pull that dick a little faster."
And Laura cut the biggest, fattest fart I have ever seen a cute girl cut in my life. My eyes bulged as I thought she would tear a hole in her shorts.
Cleo, her trust-fund-bitch roommate, porcelain-skinned and anorexic, luscious as a princess sitting next to a unicorn sipping from a stream, came barreling in, yelping, before she even entered the room, "Oh my GOD! Laura, did you slice the cheese AGAIN?"
As Cleo's eyes widened as she saw the spectacle on the floor, a ropy stream of my semen hit Laura right in her car-crash-making chest.
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