The Waiting Game Prologue: A Different Kind of Thrusting
If you didn’t know her, your first impression of Sonya would be that she’d descended from a long and particularly prestigious line of varsity cheerleaders. Tanned, blonde, and sporty—she struck that perfect balance between fit and curvy. But she didn’t get her figure from shaking pom-poms at some football game, no sir. She got it from fencing. From stabbing people, competitively. She had a gift for it.
That’s how we first met, actually—she joined the university fencing team with me during our second year of college after transferring from overseas. The guys and the girls competed separately but trained together, and I’m happy to say that I fell in love the very first time Sonya jabbed her foil into my breastbone. She beat me without giving up a single point, then tore off her mask and shook out her long, wavy hair.
“You’re really good,” she said, further charming me with her adorable Australian accent.
I was still trying to figure out how I’d been so thoroughly bested by an opponent six inches shorter than me. “I know I’m good. You’re just much, much better.”
Sonya scrunched up her face into a guilty smile.
“I’m Michael,” I said, extending my hand. But instead of accepting the handshake, Sonya raised her blade, taunting me:
“You wanna try again? Who knows, you might get lucky.”
I DID get lucky. Not in the next match, mind you (she kicked my ass again, just as thoroughly as she had before), no, I got lucky later that night, after she invited me back to her dorm room to watch the big swordfight from Scaramouche.
We hit it off so well, we wound up hardly paying any attention to the movie. I couldn’t believe how compatible we were. We could practically finish each other’s sentences.
She was like a wild, glowing ball of light. Feisty and earnest. Bouncy, flouncy fun. Filled to the brim with art and ideas and an endless supply of energy. And for whatever reason, she was every bit as smitten with me as I was with her. I had never been so happy to lose a fencing match.
By two in the morning, Sonya and I were busy practicing a very different type of thrusting. She was moaning incoherently while I plunged into her from behind, sheathing myself to the hilt inside her warm body. I scooped up those deliciously soft tits in my hands and squeezed…
Sonya cried out in sharp ecstasy—her voice so fucking sexy—that boiling hot body, trembling in my arms—
I pulled out, roaring like an animal as I erupted all over her perfectly formed ass.
When Sonya and I both drifted back down to earth, we turned and saw her roommate standing awkwardly in the doorway, still clutching her keys. Eyes wide open…
At that moment, something snapped inside of us. Suddenly, having somebody else to watch became the biggest aphrodisiac imaginable. The following evening, right after fencing practice, Sonya dragged me into the girls’ shower room, plopped me down on the bench inside, and promptly straddled my cock with her beautiful, naked body. Not a second later, all the other girls on the team strolled innocently inside and found Sonya riding me. Most of them ran off, giggling and shrieking, but two of the girls got such a kick out of our little exhibitionist display, they actually stayed to watch us finish.
After that, our little “shows” became commonplace around campus. We became minor celebrities at school, even had a few jokes written about us in the school newspaper.
Sonya was the love of my life, and we were inseparable for the remainder of our college years. We studied together, we ate together, we even tried to survive that awful P90X workout thing together—so it went without saying that we were gonna move in together after graduating.
But then, at the last minute, the school randomly changed its mind and determined that two of Sonya’s transfer credits would no longer count towards her degree. Apparently “Semantic Linguistics” wasn’t “real” science. Try taking THAT awesome little piece of irony out for a test drive.
We were kind of fucked. The news came so late in the semester, Sonya and I had already signed the year-long lease on our new apartment—across the country in CALIFORNIA. I had a job there, waiting for me to start in a matter of weeks.
So, much as it sucked, our only option was to date long-distance for the summer. Actually, it wasn’t even the whole summer, just eight weeks. It was far from ideal, but we’d survive. How hard could it be?
Very, as it turns out. VERY hard. Like, throbbing, engorged, non-stop Viagra-type hard. I found that out on my very first day on the job.
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