They were all written on paper, would you believe the whole entire college had only one computer, an IBM 7 series the size of a walk-in refrigerator. Most of the poems showed promise, most as firestarters for barbecue charcoal, but we had to print a few. Yes, I was an arrogant puppy in those days. Then there was one, it stopped me. I remember the beginning so well: As I lie with you I go to glory I go to glory When I lie with you And the white owl One ear cocked to the ceiling One liquid eye floating in the goblet Upward. I remember I shivered. I could feel the poet’s arousal, imagine her (I knew it had to be ‘her’ even before I looked at the signature) opening her legs, waiting for the thrust (or better still, the gentle insertion and pressure), tensing, relaxing, waiting for the rush of glory. God, I hoped he was good, a good man, a great fuck, she deserved the best. And if she got tired of him, I was prepared to volunteer on the spot. Then I read the name: Glynnis Trondheim.. “Did I do that?” she smiled out as her hand slowly reached out and gently probed my folds.I couldn’t resist bucking my hips towards her touch. I moaned again and threw my head back. “Yes, you and the fact that an online friend had me masturbating earlier,” I confessed.Her gentle probe turned into a torrid caress, her fingers working over my clit. I heard the metal chattering as the chainmail bikini bottoms fell to the floor. “Tell me all about it,” she said to me, “Or I’ll stop.”I relayed the private online conversation between my friend and me as she worked her magic on my soaking pussy. Her fingers rolled and caressed my clit and her other hand alternated between groping my ass and stroking my labia. The tension of the day, the prior naughty conversation, and her ministrations on my sex gave me a leg-buckling orgasm. I had to lean back against the table to keep upright.“I need to taste you again,” she plead. She pushed her face into my crotch and ran her tongue up and down my slit..
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