Adult Image Library 2/Adult_Image_Library_Volume_2_Disc2.iso/stories/normal1.txt

Text File | 1996-08-27 | 16.0 KB | 233 lines

    Some of the courses one is required to take in college are absolutely
unreal! Sociology is one of them. Sitting and trying to feign attentiveness
while listening to some professor pedantically drone on about "Modes of
Alienation" is surely beyond the threshold of endurance. As such, thoughts and
eyes tend to wander to more stimulating subjects. My preoccupation in
Sociology II was Norma.
    I had met Norma through a mutual friend at the beginning of the semester.
When we discovered that we both had the same class, we naturally gravitated
towards each other's familiar territory, sitting side-by-side in the same row.
    Norma was slim and leggy; her short hair was of a nondescript brownish hue.
Her unencumbered breasts were small and she had a compact little tush which was
invariably ensconced in tight-fitting, faded jeans. She wore no make-up and I
never saw her in a dress or skirt. Often, she'd sport a purple scarf about her
head, effectively framing her face in a manner quite pleasing. Perhaps her most
striking physical attribute was her hands, pale and long-fingered, with
shortly-cropped nails. She probably could have been a marvelous keyboard
virtuoso. The whole demeanor of her gazelle-like being was decidedly hoydenish;
sort of a willowy Jamie Lee Curtis type if quantification was necessary.
    Of singular interest to me was the fact that she never used perfume of any
sort. Yet sitting beside Norma, especially on a dank, humid day, I'd perceive a
decided redolence about her. How could this be described? Musky? No, musty
might possibly be more accurate. The closest I could compare Norma's olfactory
aura to would be that of jonquils. This scent had a profound influence upon me;
throughout most of the class I'd be burdened with a massive erection. Later,
when time came for a piss-break, I noted that the end of my cock
was wet with the glaire of arousal.
    Norma was definitely an unconventional sort; latter-day hippie should well
suffice to describe her. Every so often, she'd punctuate innocuous conversation
with non sequiturs such as "Damn cold makes my nipples hard!" and "Can you loan
me a dime for the tampon-machine?" Parenthetically, now that I think of it, she
never did pay back any of lo, those many dimes she borrowed.
    Amongst a group, she tended to be rather reticent and introspective,
electing to keep her own counsel. It was only when we were alone, and others
had departed a lunch-table discussion, that she'd whisper an opinion on the
topic(s) of discourse: usually a sotto "My ass!" or drawn-out "Bulllllshiiiit!"
delivered disdainfully from the side of her mouth.
    Despite the fact that Norma (or was it just her scent?) was a constant
source of distraction for me, I never made any moves to get intimate with her.
I liked things just as they were; Norma was a friend, a pal. Perhaps
subliminally I was a bit intimidated by Norma. Her inherent assertiveness
frustrated any overtures, sexual or otherwise. She was also five inches taller
than me.
    It was just before Christmas vacation that Norma acted out of character. It
was the first time I had ever seen her wear a skirt, a full pleated affair in
some vaguely familiar tartan. At the end of Sociology II, as we stood up,
gathering our books, she quite casually said: "Well, what the hell, have a
happy holiday," and planted a kiss full on my lips. For the briefest of
microseconds, I felt the tip of her tongue caress my mouth. With perfect
aplomb, she tossed a coat about her shoulders and left the classroom.
    Needless to say, I could hardly keep my mind on the Coriolis Effect which
was being deliberated upon in my next Oceanography class. My thoughts were all
of Norma, that free-spirited, insouciant Lady of The Jonquils.
    When the lecture was finally over and I made my way to the parking lot, I
spied Norma, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. She smiled at me.
"Miriam couldn't give me a lift home. How about giving me one?" We walked
silently together to my old Subaru, the redoubtable "Silver Wraith." The air
was still and dry; the sky a transparent grey, so characteristic of cheek-
reddening New England winters.
    Norma lived quite far from school, in a part of town I was unfamiliar with.
Getting to her home was exasperating; she appeared to have an almost dyslexic
concept of right and left. As we drove, I learned that her roommate Miriam had
left for a holiday visit with her parents in Bangor.
    We ultimately pulled up to an old building which had as a facade an
interesting tracery of ironwork. As she kneeled over the back of her seat,
scrambling for her books, she offhandedly asked: "Care to come up and have some
hot chocolate? It's good stuff. Comes from Holland. A real Dutch Treat."
    "Sure" I answered, and followed her to the door. As she walked up the
stairs before me, my gaze was fixed on the creases behind her kneecaps which
opened and closed with each step.
    Her apartment was (how can one put it tactfully?) a mess. An eclectic
mixture of reprocessed Victoriana, Japanese boutique, and neo-Haight-Ashbury.
"Hey Tweezer!" she yelled out to a battered birdcage, large enough to
comfortably house an albatross. In it chirped a finch of some nondescript sort,
while the cage bottom was covered with sheets of newspaper printed in Cyrillic.
    "Make yourself comfortable while I heat up the chocolate" Norma directed as
she disappeared into the kitchen. There wasn't much room to sit down anywhere
except on a large threadbare sofa, which I doubt had ever seen better days.
Piled haphazardly on the chairs were books of all sorts, with titles like: "The
Works of Virgil Finlay," "The Kalmyk Mongols," "Les Fleurs du Mal," "Sundials,"
"Memoirs of a Tattoist," etc. In all, a most diverse assortment of interests.
    When Norma returned from the kitchen, I noticed that she had changed her
clothes. She was again wearing her accustomed jeans and a black tank-top. I had
never before seen her bare arms. I was mildly shocked to note that her
underarms were unshaven; adorned with sparse wisps of silky auburn down. She
was also barefoot. Her feet were tiny and well-formed, without any of the usual
calluses heels inflict on a woman. She looked adorable; women are so sylph-like
when barefoot.
    She carried a large stoneware mug in each hand, steaming with the frothy,
fragrant chocolate. Handing me one, she announced: "Music we need," and walked
over to a cassette player. I expected something weird, but was surprised to
hear the strains of bossa-nova and the voice of Astrud Gilberto.
    As we sat, we drank the chocolate and smoked, a kindred vice which somehow
branded us as being of like kidney. Our conversation consisted of the usual
mundacities: school, friends, relations, etc. I found myself becoming warmer,
doubtless because of the beverage and the fact that she kept the flat at a
temperature amenable to her finch. Rivulets of sweat coursed down my sides from
my armpits. I wondered if she detected the rutting-odor of my arousal.
    "Dance?" she invited.
    "I really don't dance very well" I honestly admitted.
    "Then I'll dance for you."
    She danced slowly, her eyes closed; her steps were frugal, her feet hardly
moving from the same spot. She danced more with her hips, hands and head. When
the piece was finished and the next one began, her lips formed a little gamine-
like smile. "Well, looks like it's SHOWTIME!" she exclaimed and summarily
reached down and pulled the tank-top up over her head. She cradled her small
breasts provocatively in her hands. "Like 'em?" she inquired.
    The point where two people spontaneously embrace is easier experienced than
written about. Suffice to say, our arms were about each other and our lips
pressed together, tongues flicking, probing, entwining. Norma turned around in
my arms and guided my hands to her breasts. They were firm and her nipples
jutted out in two hardened nodes. As my hands meandered down under the
waistband of her jeans, I found that she was not wearing any panties. She
chuckled at my discovery. "I like to go G.I. style once in a while."
    By now my erection was both prominent and achingly insistent, a state she
augmented by rubbing her ass against it. Slipping from my arms, she took my
hand and led me into her bedroom.
    The bed had certainly not been made since the morning. She laid down upon
her back, hands behind her head, looking at me as if to say: "Let's see what
you're made of." I quickly undressed, then reached over to pull her jeans off.
    Divested of her jeans, Norma obligingly and coquettishly spread her legs
wide so I could delight in the sight of her sex. There are those who maintain
that "women are all the same below the waist." This is far from true. Women's
pussies are as infinitely varied as women themselves are, each unique in its
own way.
    Norma's pussy was surmounted by a light-colored tuft of brown hair which
formed a perfect triangle. Yet, all her pubic hair was confined to her mons,
little of it extending to her pussy nor down to her perineum. Her engorged,
pouting outer lips were dark red and slightly opened, while her cleft shone
with moisture. It was the closest I had ever got to receiving a vulval smile.
    Out of propriety and self-consciousness, I allowed myself but a brief
moment to visually savor her sex. I laid down between her legs and continued
the ardent kissing which had been temporarily suspended.
    As we kissed, her jonquil-like scent became almost inebriating. From whence
did it emanate? I sniffed her hair, a warm amber scent. Her soft, aromatic
breath was merely an amalgam of chocolate-sweetness and tannic-tobacco. Her
hirsute armpits offered more interesting territory. The hair trapped her odor,
both concentrating it and radiating it like some sort of seductive antenna. As
I greedily licked her sweat, both olfactive and gustatory sensations came into
play. What might I compare her perspiration to? Brine-like, saké-like, cider-
like; her smell mixing with the odor of my saliva.
    As I switched my attention to her breasts, she enveloped me with her legs,
her lubricious pussy grinding against my stomach. Norma's areolas had their own
distinctive scent, albeit a subtle, ephemeral one. My tongue delighted in the
tactile sensations her erect nipples afforded. Norma too, seemed to share my
enjoyment, softly moaning pleasure-sounds, her pelvis spasmodically jerking
upwards from time to time.
    Unhurriedly, my kisses moved down her torso, lingering about ribs and
tummy. My mouth serendipitously encountered her navel, not a demure little
hollow but a great crater of voluptuous rugae. My dalliance there caused Norma
to arc her precious body to meet the proddings of my tongue-play.
    "Go down there, now," Norma hoarsely insisted.
    As my head nestled between her legs, I soon realized that this was the
axis, the veritable nucleus of the woman Norma. My tongue fluttered about the
creases where her thighs met her trunk, then assertively darted full into her
sex. Oh mellifluous, mucoid myrrh which is the ineffable woman-dew! Tastes and
smells of the sea, of musk and must, of urine and clitoral smegma; the feral,
fruity, primal, fermenty, fenny nectar which is the female yin-essence.
    I drank her in as a hummingbird does a flower; a kaleidoscope of steamy,
heady smells, rank and ambrosial, skyrocketed through my head. I hungered for
more. I turned her over onto her belly, caressing and gently kneading her
buttocks. These preliminary palpings were short-lived; with dispatch I drew
apart the cleavage of her ass and post-haste made for her pink-puckered anus.
Here were different smells and tastes. Bitter, mephitic, funky, sour; yet at
the same time smelling mildly reminiscent of certain overly-cloying flowers; a
variance which vacillated between sweet and rank. Thus so was the asshole of my
darling. My tongue slipped past her wrinkled sphincter as I attempted to fully
probe her. Alas, the task was a difficult one. Spasmodic contractions,
punctuated by tiny yelps precluded my love-skewerings.
    Norma turned over onto her back, drawing me up until our yonic parts were
well-met. Reaching down, she clasped my cock and drew it into her warm,
distended pussy. Her breath came in short gasps as she held my sides,
orchestrating my movements. Wanting to prolong her pleasure, I stuffed a bit of
pillow into my mouth, biting down hard upon it. My hand reached around to her
ass, which she obligingly lifted. It was wet with the overflow of her copious
secretions. Gradually, I worked my finger into her asshole. Initially, it was
tight, but I was eventually able to gently coax her anal ring to relax and
dilate. As my middle digit entered its whole length, Norma's breath sucked in
languidly. Though the base of my finger was being firmly gripped, inside there
was room to move about. I perceived my cock moving in her vaginal canal, and
massaged the barrier which was common to both openings.
    Her final orgasm was overpowering; I could feel the sheath of her vagina
gently gripping my cock, milking it as it were into ejaculation. Within
seconds, I too attained the zenith of my ecstasy. Sperm which had been dormant
for weeks coursed through me into her. I felt the resilient, electrifying
tingle of her cervix against the tip of my cock. The crescendo of my pleasure-
cries, like hers, were guttural and unrestrained.
    Post-coital comments are usually limited; "That was great," "Was it good
for you?" or some other sort of inanely redundant colophon. Nothing original
like "Quick, gimme a Chinese Restaurant palindrome!" (Answer: "Won-ton? Not
now!") The best and perhaps tenderest thing to do is to fall asleep in each
other's arms, wet spots be dammed.
    I awoke to the sound of splashing water. Norma was bare-assed in the
bathroom, brushing her teeth. As I watched her, she let out a little groan,
quickly taking a tissue to wipe something off her instep.
    "Everything o.k. Norma?" I yelled out.
    "Wha?"
    "Everything, o.k.?"
    "Wha?" She shut the water. "I can't hear you with the water running."
    "I said, 'everything o.k.?'"
    "Yeah. Just memories of you--dripping all over my floor."
    I got up and joined her in the bathroom. She kissed me, and I tasted the
"minty-freshness" of a popular toothpaste. "Here, use my toothbrush." she
offered. "I gotta wash my smuss."
    She climbed into the tub, opened the tap, and with the aid of a sponge,
started moiling away at her privates, transforming the whole bath into a
massive bidet. I elected to follow suit in these ablutions. Her damn sink was
high and I had to stand on tiptoe in order to lave my cock and balls. After
toweling down, I brushed my teeth. As I did, I half-wondered about any
fermenting food particles from Norma's mouth which might be enmeshed in her
brush's bristles. "What the hell," I thought, "I had my mouth in worse places."
    While we were dressing, Norma smiled warmly and pinched my cheek. "You're a
good lover. A gentle lover. Why not stay the night?"
    "I'd like that, but I have to drive my sister to the airport. She has a
late flight."
    "Well, maybe next time."
    "Next time soon, dear Norma," I confirmed as I lightly kissed her forehead.
    We had a parting cup of tea together, which was prepared by merely tossing
a teabag into a mug and filling it with hot water from the faucet. Norma made
no pretense of being a gourmet.
    Glancing at my wristwatch, I knew that I must leave. We embraced; I kissed
her eyes, cheeks and lips. She led me to the door and before opening it
commanded me to wait. She reached down under her jeans to her crotch. Her
fingers glistened as she brought them up to my face and lightly daubed her
juices under my nose. "Here's something to remember me by." Done by anyone
else, the gesture would have been crass, wanton. But done by Norma, it was
tender and loving. Perhaps in some way she was marking me as Her Own.
    As I drove North, Norma was the only thing I smelled, the only person who
occupied my thoughts. There would be a next time. Soon.


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