A Likely Story

A Likely Story

Julie pulled up, a block away from her destination. She cleared her head with difficulty, and tried to organize her thoughts. Dr. Busch was a serial ravisher, always involved in some conquest or other, but he still must have some downtime. She was more worried that his libido might be depleted, than whether or not he would be in mid-subjugation. She weighed her options. She could feign car trouble, or grief. She favored the latter, but she supposed that any sob story must not only be sad, but also inspire her subject to grieve in kind. If she pretended to bewail the death of a puppy, he might comfort her, but still remain aloof.

She cast about in her mind for a serviceable fiction. Dr. Busch was divorced... maybe if her parents had just divorced? She would have to invent a suitable double entendre as a blasting cap, or the fuel of his passions might still fail to ignite. Hmm. Maybe if her mom's infidelity referenced some portion of her course material? Like a snow-globe settling, her ideas slowly came together. Julie was an only child, but her intended lie would be epic!

She set out on foot. It was nearing midnight, and Dr. Busch was home, still awake, and doing academic paperwork. Although lackeys graded most papers, he was still responsible to record grades and certify them. Encouraged by the gleaming lights, she rang the doorbell. In preparation, she touched a bare finger to first one eyeball, then the other. When he opened the door, she was sniffling gently.

She launched into her introduction before he even spoke. “Doc: I know it's late, but I REALLY need to talk. I don't feel like I can ask anyone else; I need someone who really knows the billows of life's stormy seas!” Sophomores are known for colorful vocabulary, and she was no exception.

“Can it wait until tomorrow afternoon?” her professor asked. “I want to turn in my paperwork by 4 PM.”

She nearly turned away in defeat. Her lie had no provision to invoke urgency. Then inspiration struck. “I'll kill myself!” she asserted, defiantly.

He had half a mind to refer her to a suicide hotline, but her appeal to experience of “life's stormy seas,” alerted him that this was pointless. Suicide hotlines were manned by volunteers who knew little of those they intended to council. Their successes were mostly due to persuading the subject to go to a therapist or mental hospital, whose successes in turn were mainly due to medication – needed or not! He needed a break anyway. “Come in,” he sighed, standing aside. He sincerely doubted that lifelong medication would be necessary.

Her story was an aggregation of creativity, but he never doubted her for an instant. Her mother and father had been “on the rocks,” since before the winter break, but things had come to a head just last weekend. However, this was but the beginning of her distresses. Her mother's birth control had failed, and she had called Julie privately, to talk over aborting her potential sibling. Julie had been ambivalent, but her mother so hated her father, that abortion was almost certain. Enter her brother. A High School quarterback, he had just this evening been involved in a fatal traffic accident, and Julie was destroyed. She had driven about aimlessly, only to leave off driving, and take to the sidewalks to ease her tormented soul.

The professor didn't think there was any real danger she would take catastrophic action, and he gently probed her social network. What did her friends think? Had she told anyone? Here, Julie hit the sweet spot of deceit. Both her despair and her description of her callous (and shallow) peers was real; she simply regarded them as callous and distant in a different context. She adroitly moved to engage his emotions, by asking him to illuminate her father's prospective state of mind. How had he, Dr. Busch, felt when his wife had kicked HIM to the curb? From there on out, she had no difficulty. Her doubts and criticisms were sincere enough. She had successfully predicated the entire discussion on her subterfuge, and all would follow in due course.

Soon enough, she broke down in counterfeit sobs. Soon enough, he took her in his arms to comfort her. From there, it was familiar territory. When he finally became aware that protest was in order, she locked her eyes on his and placed her fingers on his lips as she moved to straddle him. Sincerity of protest could not compensate for a cultivated weakness of character.

He yielded to her charms. The word “yielded” is chosen judiciously. One usually sees the verb as a synonym for “succumbed,” but in the case of the over-achieving medical professor, the behavior was more akin to the traffic symbol “merge.”

When men seduce women, it is observed that there comes a “point of no return,” after which the intended victim becomes a collaborator. A man is mercurial as well, but his motive for desisting differs; he is more likely to stop from wounded ego or offense than anticipated character assassination. Julie proceeded cautiously. Her frame of mind had grown out of the intention to hunt, and, as soon as she surmised that her victim had begun to collaborate, she did her best provoke him to exert himself. She intended to “kill the fatted calf.”

Her man was able, but was he inclined? She won by mistake. Some teachers only teach because they cannot find more lucrative employment. Dr. Busch did not suffer this particular flaw. He genuinely enjoyed seeing the light bulb come on in his students' eyes. This, as much as anything else, fired the engine of his serial conquests. However, the mood had not taken him at the present moment. What did him in completely? Julie genuinely failed to be impressed by his initial effort!

She had been expecting Christmas and the Fourth of July. What he delivered was a steak dinner. Wounded pride is one of man's deepest animators, and he responded to show superiority. His first response would certainly have been adequate for a girl genuinely foundering in the throws of grief and woe. Julie was exempt because she was not sincere. Having no unit of measure to use, even if he so desired, he was blinkered by a newborn determination to overawe her.

What followed was something of a guided tour of coitus. His sofa had a wing, instead of an arm, and he perched her on its edge. Her legs moved to the most natural response to missionary insertion, like a dead spider lying on it's back. He watched her until she became entranced, then moved her knees to more of a 90º angle with her torso, while simultaneously parting them like a book. The result was to give himself better access to her clitoris; she had already plateaued and the new wave of pleasure that washed over her as a result, was her first proof of his super-powers.

For an encore, he pushed her torso back into the seat, and used his thumb between her lips judiciously, while he sought his own gratification. As in every field of endeavor, he had a natural talent, but he would never have risen to these heights, if his size was a perennial disappointment. He was large, and Julie was reminded of Detmer. He had her like a pig on a spit, and she was starting to cook in earnest.

Her mentor kept it up until her response was no longer effectual. She had already had two orgasms for sure, possibly three. He turned her over, and substituted rear entry. This position afforded the deepest penetration, and was a statistical favorite.

His sofa might as well have been engineered to maximize the effect. Julie was past articulate thought. He finally came. His stroke flagged as he climaxed, but he pressed through, in order to feel the sweet ecstasy that resulted from stimulating a man immediately following orgasm. Like a Mustang frothing the water as he surges into a current, his cum mixed with her biological lubricant, becoming thick and sticky. Julie assessed it to be like a mouthful of cake, after you chew it for a minute, and it dissolves a little.

“My LEGS,” she exclaimed, when she attempted to stand up. “They feel like rubber!” He preened slightly. That was more like it! Julie's natural inclination was to linger. “Hold me,” she mewed.

He decided to acquaint her with the classic French story of “Valmont,” and put “Dangerous Liaisons” in the DVD player. Some would have been embarrassed by the parallels, but he reviewed it as vindication. To him, the story was as old as the ages.

An alley cat is as fickle as he is promiscuous, and her doctor might have escaped her web if she had not learned from observing her cousin Jerry. She used her pillow talk to share a little, and she did not relent until he reciprocated. She had primed the pump, but her appetite was only whetted by his confidence, not slaked. As much as he probed her, she pumped him in return.

When the movie eventually ended, she carried her clothes into his bedroom, but made no move to put them on. For no good reason, she was goading him to excess. He received this stimulus not as a water buffalo, being reluctantly prodded along, but rather as a thoroughbred answers the riding crop. He would not be victorious until she was every bit as overwhelmed as her predecessors.

In his bed, she vacillated between two poles of perspective. On the one hand, she was an observer, watching, waiting, anticipating new developments like a feudal Lady, awaiting the next course at a banquet. On the other hand, she was a gymnastic participant, egging her stallion on at every opportunity. The two extremes were at odds with each other, but while they mentally conflicted, they did not impede her cooperation.

Soon she was treated to a different analogy for the points of the compass. Her instructor demonstrated that her sensation differed when he placed her legs on his shoulders. Added to the observation that he could rev her engines by pulling her knees toward him, this itself being a variation on her natural first inclination, she concluded that the variations available by turning on her side might be worth investigating. They were nothing to write home about... maybe a jaded mule would crave them, but to her they were unremarkable. Not unpleasant, to be sure, but hardly worth the trouble. New frontiers were yet to be discovered from rear entry, though. Initially, she had arched her back like a cat. As an experiment, this had been a success, and she had mentally bookmarked the result. New revelations resulted from a swaybacked posture. Since he was blazing the trail, in a way, her partner proceeded to demonstrate his own knowledge, and before long she had accumulated so many positions that she needed a naming convention.

When she became aware of time again, she was impressed by the persistence of her mate. She remembered a documentary on lions she had once seen. Naturalists reliably seek to reveal mating habits, and she had regarded the fleeting coupling she had witnessed as anti-climactic. Now, the narration came back to her: “During a bout of mating, which can last for several days, the couple copulates as much as forty times a day – the male covering his female every fifteen or twenty minutes.” Before, she had been incredulous. Now she was respectful.

Human beings are naturally insatiable. The organs of discernment adapt to new sensation, to perceive them as the norm. However, Julie's ability to perceive new pleasures was becoming saturated. She was sated, even jaded, when they collapsed into cuddling. She didn't want the weekend to end; she wanted donuts for breakfast again.