Special Delivery

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Special Delivery

It was a State school, and Mark was only here to collect a sheepskin. However, he was a skilled baseball player, left field, to be exact. His room mate, Jerry, was here to get his Information Systems degree, so he could competently engineer his own destiny when he eventually started his computer business. But even though he wasn't “into” sports, he knew that the school had a baseball team: his room-mate was on it. Fair haired and buff, Mark skated through management and business classes. He might never suffer for it, though, because he could expect introductions and positions all over the state... his dad was wealthy and well connected.

While Jerry's excesses ran to all-night coding sessions and caffeinated drinks, Mark's were of a more carnal nature; girls and booze. Now 18, Rachelle was his opposite number. Rather than attempt to monopolize his attentions, she appeared to govern access to him, by gossip. Not that she cut him off. She occasionally saw to it that he got what he wanted – in a bid to show him that these tramps were just as shallow and self-centered as he was. But she didn't compete head to head with the constant, endless, libido of the swarm.

When Mark had a test, Rachelle told him when to study. If he got in trouble, she talked to the Dean. If he got a ticket, she got his dad to pay it. If he needed a favor, she wrote the letter – he mainly signed and drank... and fucked her.

Jerry didn't really pay all that much attention to her, but she noticed him a little. For one thing, he approached his running with the same one-track-mindedness that he approached everything else in his nerdy little world. He was fit and strong, which was not typical of your average nerd. He wasn't fast enough for college competition; that would require covering a single mile in around 4 minutes. However, his application did lead to covering 7 or 8 miles at a 6 minute pace, and that was competitive with even a horse.

When Rachelle spent the night, Jerry usually went to the library until it closed. He would come in after 11, and rise again at 6, taking in a run before his classes. She would invariably be gone before he got back. She and Jerry had the understanding that if Mark had someone else over, it was Jerry's job to kick her out before he took his morning shower.

During their second semester, Jerry found Rachelle in his Trigonometry class. To her, it was instructive to compete directly with a “brain.” If launching a baseball into the upper decks was a feat, mastering ever newer formulas (each more complex than the last,) appeared to be equally challenging; however, it was much more difficult to observe. To Jerry, it was an opportunity to have a conversation without Mark there to take offense at every possible turn.

Time passed. The test covering the Law of Cosines was coming up, and she was disoriented in her material. The ever present 90º angle, the signpost to all trigonometric destinations, was gone. Unlike Mark, Rachelle intended to get the education she was paying for. Jerry was immersed in a competition to compute the Traveling Salesman problem, not on some particular graph, but on a generalized graph of n-nodes. He didn't want to tutor her, because that would slow him down; that's why dedicated tutors existed. However, since she pleaded so artfully, he handed over his notes. He knew that they were meticulously organized. If she had the concepts, but merely lacked the memory framework, this should be adequate.

As they plodded over to the cafeteria, he opened up a little. “You know Andover Joust?” he asked her. Rachelle affirmed that she did. “Well, all the socialites ask me for help in the computer lab, and none of them even look me in the eye outside the lab. But I'm really bummed that Andover is like that, 'cause I really kind of liked her.”

Aware that she was herself a socialite, the diplomacy required to overlook the implied offense was trivial to Rachelle. “C'est la Vie, C'est la Guerre, C'est L’Amour,” she commiserated. They parted ways at the chocolate milk, and the day passed on.

It would have been no matter, in the grand scheme of things, but soon thereafter Rachelle accidentally gave offense herself. His notes for the Cosine Law test were not just good. They were organized in light of an addictive understanding of the material. Delighted and impressed, she gathered her sorority sisters together off-campus, to share. Why be the only one to pass with flying colors, now that the path, from beginning to end, lay clear for all to see? Unfortunately Jerry, the author of said notes, was convinced that they had been too long dormant in his memory. Anxious to review, he looked everywhere for her; but all in vain. She arrived late for the test the next day, and they didn't even speak until she returned his binder that afternoon.

Jerry was very grieved. “Do you think I don't actually have to study?” he asked her indignantly. “Do you think that good grades happen by some kind of magic?”

Rachelle was taken aback. “I thought you knew this stuff cold,” was her response. “You can't have done THAT badly.”

It would eventually unfold that Jerry had not done badly at all. While the curve was indeed much different, it was not for usual reasons. For one thing, it was usual for HIM to set the curve – and this time he had not done so. But more importantly, everyone else had done exceptionally well on the material. This was likely Rachelle's doing – it was she who had shared his notes. The reason he was angry was more because he could no longer justify his moral superiority over these uncaring classmates. He was blind to the reflexive case.

The notes officially returned, they parted without closure, Rachelle more amused than concerned. She knew it hadn't hurt his grades, but she felt sorry for his injured pride.

The baseball team won its next home game, and the next time Rachelle and Jerry met, Mark was once again present. Things had returned to status quo, and Jerry duly left for the computer lab. Mark and Rachelle celebrated the win, but fell asleep earlier than usual. Jerry slipped in and went to bed as was his wont.

He didn't even notice Rachelle again, until he returned from his morning run. He was showering, when the door opened, and she entered to make use of the facilities. One side of the bath was completely devoted to a mirror, and they could both see each other... totally nude. Of the twain, she was the less bashful, and enjoyed the dimples in his ass as he reached for his towel. Her bladder empty, she rejoined Mark in bed.

Girls are somewhat more cunning, socially, than boys are, and her nature led her to leave the door slightly ajar, as an experiment. Mark had his feet to the television, so he could not tell, but as she straddled him, she could see Jerry in the bathroom mirror. By the same token, Jerry could also see her. She watched in the mirror as she initiated Mark's attentions, until she knew Jerry had realized what was going on.

She was astride, and she caught his eye, as she guided Mark's mouth to her breast, and gave him an exhibitionist look. When she knew Jerry would keep watching, she returned her focus to Mark. She waited for her chance, and it came in moments. She timed it so that she caught Jerry's bashful eye, right as she did her trick.

There's not really a good vocabulary for that kind of thing, but Mark's grunting moan of pleasure demonstrated that she had done it right. His eye's were closed and she held Jerry's gaze as she did it again. Sitting there, working Mark over, she felt strangely close, not to Mark, but to Jerry. His eyes had not left hers, and she couldn't help but smile. Jerry's bearing changed imperceptibly, and he smiled back – was it knowingly? Mark didn't last long under these conditions, but she was inordinately satisfied. Jerry was discrete enough to close the door silently. By the time he'd brushed his teeth and shaved, etc, she was gone. “Yeah,” she chuckled to herself, “brushing his teeth... THAT's what he was doing!”

This experiment lacked any control group, or even a hypothesis, but she was actually in the process of making it up to Jerry. The plan was organic, rather than calculated. Yet, just as surely as birds build nests, she was instinctively working toward a goal. She drew her inspiration from the example of crab fishing.

Her family had vacationed on the East Coast, and she knew, from catching crabs in Chesapeake estuaries, that a crab will not “hit,” a baited hook. However, the solution is not to devise a more creative hook. Instead, dangle a piece of raw meat on a string, and the carnivorous crab will investigate. Many's the time her older brother, Darien, had returned to their grandmother's, empty handed because he wouldn't let the crab savor his bait. Her success lay in allowing the crab to actually taste the meat, before she acted. Once a crab knew the bait was food, he would seize it with his claw, and refuse to let go. Such was the determination of the crab, that she could lift him completely from the water and carry him wherever she wanted; he would not let go. She didn't know how this applied to Jerry, but she was going to see to it that he tasted ...the bait?

She gave it 72 hours, and as her self imposed deadline approached, she busied herself with all the tasks preparatory to a “hot” date, giving special attention to shaved legs and hairdo. In the morning, she did her make-up carefully (girls often mean something different than boys, when they use the term “make-up sex.”) She made sure that Mark was actually in class, by meeting him there. She even took the opportunity to remind him he needed to put in 2 hrs at the batting cages. Mark was not one to neglect that particular duty. Now, if she had timed it right, Jerry would be in their room, having just finished his Python programming class.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. When Jerry duly answered it, she told him, “I have something for you ...for helping me with Trig.”

“Oh?” he responded. “I thought you forgot that Mark had class.”

That was a private joke for her, but she didn't share. “Let's see... it's in here somewhere,” she rummaged unnecessarily in her purse. She drew out her diaphragm, and gave a cheery, “here it is,” without letting him get a good look. Instead, she handed him her purse, asking, “Could you hold this for me?” and retired to the bath to put it in

When she returned, she found him standing with the universal awkwardness of men who hold purses. Making no move to retrieve it, she stepped out of her skirt. Her only other article of clothing was her blouse. “I have a torn muscle just inside my shoulder blade,” she lied. “Do you mind helping me with it?”

Guys will reliably assist a lady in distress, and he could not refuse. “Y-yeah,” he stammered.

She stood there, directly in front of him, and unbuttoned her blouse. She knew enough not to rush it, but she was affected too, and her pace was not very measured.

“Do you mind?” she asked, and handed him her blouse. She now retrieved her purse, and set it aside as she moved to the bed. He was N.E.V.E.R going to forget THIS!