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I saw Phoebe’s legs from the top of the hill, easily one hundred yards off. This was for a few reasons. For one, it was the first of June. This meant that where there was usually a small horde of undergraduates swarming the lone sandwich shop in the tiny college town, with all but a few summer sessions going on you could have Main Street pretty much to yourself. For another, it was one of those crystalline New England spring days, with a sky so blue it seemed as if you could just push off the ground and swim to the heavens, and an unfiltered sun so bright that from the right vantage point you could literally see for miles. And finally, they were Phoebe’s legs. Phee’ was over five feet ten inches tall. And a whole bunch of that was legs: long, lean, well-muscled pins enhanced by years of volleyball and tennis. They were, to be brief, hard to miss. Phoebe didn’t notice my approach. She was leaning back in a metal cafe chair, her face angled toward the sun. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling, enjoying the warm pressure of the sun caressing her cheeks. As I crossed the street and got within a few feet of her I realized there was another reason why the beacon of her legs had shone so brightly. At least two, and possibly three, buttons at the bottom of her knee-length shirt-dress were undone, causing a plain frock to take on the characteristics of a daring cocktail dress. Fully two-thirds of her lovely thigh was available for viewing. ~Phoebe was twenty-one, a British exchange student on a year abroad. We had met on the first day of classes, as she was auditing a graduate seminar. She was lovely. Her hair, in mid-effort to grow out a short Princess Di cut, was a tousled, blonde mess as if she had just rolled out of bed. Maybe it was that just-been-fucked quality that made it so attractive, despite its apparently unkempt nature. She had blue-green hazel eyes that peered from under long lashes, as she tended to speak with her chin pointed toward her chest. The British accent – Welsh to be exact – was an exotic twist. She was quiet and shy, speaking in that lilting Göztepe Escort whisper that Brits of a certain class sometimes affect. I was attracted to her, but then so was more than half the class, including my East Indian lesbian friend and colleague, who was always a sucker for what she called “Imperial pussy.” Phoebe would have hardly been Savita’s first such post-colonial conquest. Despite a few flirty efforts, I made no connection with Phoebe, and the competition was clearly thick, so I forced her out of my mind. There were plenty of other coed fish in the sea. But then I seemed to run into her all the time. We’d bump into one another at the Student Union, at the tennis courts, and around town. We always said “hello,” but that was it, until one day we found ourselves walking together on the path from campus into town. I asked her for coffee, and that turned into a drink, and that turned into dinner. Phoebe came out of her carefully crafted British shell, revealing sharp intelligence, a teasing, cheeky sense of humor, and a talent for storytelling. I was smitten. Phee’ had minor physical flaws that in America might have been artificially addressed in her teenage years. A couple of misaligned incisors would have been straightened. A bump on her nose may have been smoothed out. A beauty mark on her ridiculously long, kissable neck might have been removed. For me, these were all part of an alluringly authentic package. She was beautiful. I found myself wondering what that long body would look like naked, stretched out on my bed. Sadly for me, Phoebe was already involved. Her choice of the U.S. as a destination for her year abroad was directly linked to a boy she had met in England the previous year. He was finishing his senior year at a college in Philadelphia and she would travel there by bus on the weekends. She was a relationship dead-end for me.But every time I resolved to move on, Phee’ would turn up again. One cold night, after a long, engrossing conversation over too much brandy, we wound up back at my place. It was hardly Göztepe Escort Bayan my best effort, but owing to the apparent incompetence of my competition, she seemed quite impressed. After a semester of denied passion for her, my hormones did not allow me to be particularly slow, or gentle. I still recall her looking up at me, wide-eyed with delighted surprise, as I fucked her with firm, passionate strokes. She cut the Philly guy loose not long after. And so we were a thing, and I fell pretty hard. We quickly spent most of our waking and sleeping time. In bed, Phoebe fed my ego. She had very little experience, and so I felt like a Don Juan. It was fun to introduce her to new things. And it didn’t take much. She had never done anything but missionary, never had a guy eat her out, never taken a cock in her mouth. Phee’ enjoyed taking direction and was open to trying most anything at least once. There was one problem — one thing that challenged my ego. It was the fact that she could not climax. To this day, I have one fetish, and it is the female orgasm. The truth was her orgasm might well have been more important to my fragile male ego than it was to her. I performed in positions worthy of a circus act. I used my tongue until it was torn. I studied and practiced orgasm-inducing methods like I was going for a thesis defense. But we had no luck. ~I must have stood next to her for close to a minute, enjoying her pretty face, her Mona Lisa smile, and that exposed thigh. At last, I stepped into her light and cast a shadow across her face. Phoebe opened her eyes and beamed up at me.“Have I got a story for you!” She laughed.She ordered avocado toast, and I, a B.L.T., as she recounted her morning. I knew where she had been: posing nude for an art class. That, along with pulling pints at the V.F.W. a couple of nights a week, was Phoebe’s source of cash for the summer. When she had told me about the posing option, I had encouraged her. Two hours a session, three sessions a week, paid surprisingly well. And, the idea of it kind Escort Göztepe of turned me on. Phee’ began her story between bites of her brunch. There were ten students, four men and six women, as well as the female instructor. Phoebe was put into a pose at the instructor’s direction and then had to hold it for an achingly long time – twenty minutes at a stretch. She was animated in the telling. She was clearly humored, excited, and proud of her experience. As she waved her hands in explanation, illustrating the angle of her poses, her boobs jiggled under her dress. I realized that as with the buttons at the bottom of her dress, the buttons at the top were likewise open one or two more than normal. Her bra had also gone missing in action. Phoebe caught me looking.“Quite right,” she laughed, with an extra jiggle and a giggle, reading my mind. “I couldn’t be bothered with underwear after sitting around naked for two hours!” Ah, so under that shirt-dress was nothing but pure Phoebe. My cock stirred. “Anybody hit on you?” I asked lightly, revealing more jealousy than I intended. “Pretty sure the teacher is interested,” Phoebe laughed. “And a bearded guy gave me this sketch,” she said, unrolling a parchment. “He wrote his number on the back,” she added with a wink. The sketch was pretty good. I was impressed. I was also freshly reminded of Phoebe’s beauty. Phee’ went on to describe the drawing process, how the students took turns getting shockingly close to her. One by one they would come up, ask her questions, or have her slightly modify her pose. One of the students commented on the symmetry of Phoebe’s breasts. Another asked that she arch a bit more so he could better see the dimples in her lower back. And they all were struck by the long crescent-shaped scar that ran across Phoebe’s left rib cage – the lifelong result of a horrific childhood bicycle accident. It was something Phoebe had come to accept but was still self-conscious about. So much so that she chose bathing suits expressly to cover the scar. But after being admired by twenty-two appreciative eyes, she was now speaking of the jagged scar tissue with pride. I found myself getting hard as I, too, admired my pretty girlfriend, just a few undone buttons from being naked in front of me. It was somehow all the hotter that she was relaying the attraction strangers had for her nude figure.
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