She ripped the bed sheet off the mattress. My hand swept down her leg in a mutual muscle spasm; her leg jerking forward and my arm surrendering. I collapsed on top of her. My head touched down on her pillow. My orgasm felt like it took two minutes. Brie’s exhales were long and loud. It sounded like she said ‘Ga’ over and over. She squeezed me twice with her arms and legs. I drooled on her shoulder and stopped caring if all the cum I was pumping out broke the condom and Brie got pregnant and we had a baby and gave it up for adoption and kept fucking. This particular moment I didn’t want this to end. When I got back to my room, I found a note on the door: MEET US AT THE BACK OF STORM AT 5:30. WE KNOW YOU DON’T HAVE CLASS THEN. WE KNOW YOU WON’T REGRET IT. There I was, at the back of Storm Hall. I didn’t see anybody. I don’t usually smoke, but I was smoking a cigarette then, because I was nervous. I don’t usually get nervous. Only in my dreams. I try (and succeed) to not give a shit. She comes on at six.’ ‘Friend of yours?’ ‘You could say that.’ ‘Anything else I need to know?’ He looked at me just as our drinks arrived – and as the lights dimmed – and there was real sorrow in his eyes. Then it hit me…all the anxiety I’d heard in his voice the past week was somehow linked to what was about to happen on this stage. The little stage was circular, and apparently it rotated. I could still see men and women surrounding the stage as the room grew dark, then brilliant spots came on, flooding the stage with intensely bright light. There was a single cane chair on the stage, a small sofa and a tiny table by the chair. Neatly arranged on the table were dozens of sex toys, of every kind imaginable as far as I could tell, and suddenly, in the chair? The most incredible looking woman I guessed I’d ever seen. Tall, flaming red hair, opalescent skin freckled intensely. Lingerie, jade with black lace trim, black stockings, very high heels, black, leather. A strap-on phallus.
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