Graduate Seminar in Creative Writing (closed for SueTeri and PB26385)

[SueTeri]

As they ate, Annabelle continued telling the history of the Velvet Veranda.

Following the Civil War, the plantation economy collapsed, and the Veranda fell into disrepair. Humélie lacked the resources to maintain it, and after several auctions, the property passed to a consortium of businesswomen who quietly reimagined the estate.

By the 1880s, The Velvet Veranda had become a discreet high‑end bordello known for privacy, opulence, and progressive attitudes toward adult companionship. The proprietors believed in autonomy and safety for workers, and the mansion’s design evolved to accommodate private parlors, locked corridor wings, and separate staff passages. Word of its refined atmosphere spread across the region, attracting travelers, artists, and the occasional politician seeking anonymity.

During Prohibition, the mansion transformed again—this time into a social club and speakeasy. Hidden bars, false walls, and concealed staircases allowed guests to mingle, dance, and drink in safety. The bordello element remained but took on a more structured, consensual, membership-based model.

In the 1930s and 1940s, the Veranda became known for progressive views on romance, relationships, and adult expression—long before such ideas were socially acceptable. Many historians point to this era as the beginning of its modern ethos.

As the sexual revolution swept across the U.S in the 60’s, The Velvet Veranda matured into a private lifestyles club with an emphasis on communication, consent, and exploration.

A major restoration revitalized the mansion. The upper floors were redesigned for private suites to provide more intimate and sensual settings. Each of the bedrooms was furnished with antique beds and chairs—mahogany frames polished to a soft glow, velvet upholstery in jewel‑tone shades, and carved details that hinted at eras of whispered decadence.

The restoration team worked with an almost reverent touch. They preserved the creak of the original floorboards, the tall windows with their wavy glass, the crown molding that curled like smoke along the ceiling. But they added modern comforts discreetly: hidden climate control, sound‑dampened walls, and lighting that could shift from warm candle‑glow to deep, seductive shadow.

Every suite had its own personality.

The proprietors insisted that each room feel like a world unto itself—private, inviting, and steeped in the Veranda’s long tradition of intentional, adult connection. Nothing was gaudy. Nothing was rushed. Everything was curated to encourage presence, communication, and the kind of sensuality that unfolded in layers.

Guests often remarked that stepping into one of the suites felt less like entering a room and more like crossing a threshold into a mood.

The main floor was redesigned as the non‑sexual floor, a deliberate buffer between the outside world and the deeper, more intimate spaces below. Conversation parlors lined the hallway—rooms dressed in velvet drapes, low sofas, and warm amber lighting. These were places for members to decompress, flirt, negotiate, or simply breathe after the intensity of the suites beneath them.

A polished mahogany bar anchored the largest parlor. Its shelves held rare spirits, herbal infusions, and a rotating menu of crafted drinks designed to soothe or invigorate. The bartenders were trained not only in mixology but in reading the room—knowing when someone needed quiet, when they needed company, and when they needed space.

The old plantation kitchen had been gutted and rebuilt into a full commercial kitchen. Stainless steel counters gleamed under pendant lights, and the staff moved with the precision of a boutique hotel. They prepared everything from light restorative snacks to indulgent late‑night meals, all delivered discreetly to whichever floor requested them.

Directly off the Entry Foyer, a dressing and undressing suite offered private lockers, soft robes, and quiet alcoves where members could transition between the social spaces and the more intimate levels below. The room smelled faintly of cedar and lavender, and the lighting was intentionally flattering—gentle, warm, forgiving. It was a threshold space, designed to ease the body and mind into the Veranda’s unique cadence.

Behind the reception desk, hidden by a sliding pocket door, sat the office of the property manager. Its presence was subtle but essential. From this quiet command center, the manager coordinated staff, monitored schedules, and ensured that every guest’s boundaries, preferences, and privacy were honored without exception. The Veranda’s reputation depended on that vigilance; it was the invisible architecture beneath the opulence.

The main floor became the mansion’s heartbeat—a place of pause, conversation, anticipation, and return. A place where desire could breathe, gather itself, and choose its direction before descending again into the deeper chambers of the Velvet Veranda.

The basement floor was renovated as the mansion’s most immersive and intimate level, designed for members seeking deeper exploration within a framework of consent, privacy, and curated ambiance.

A series of separate playrooms lined the main corridor, each large enough to accommodate a king‑sized bed and additional seating. The front wall of every room was constructed from floor‑to‑ceiling butt‑joint glass, allowing guests in the hallway to observe the atmosphere within.

The largest playroom is the orgy room, also known simply as the Mirror Room. Its padded flooring and mirrored walls and ceiling created a sense of infinite space, heightening the room’s theatrical quality. Like the private suites, its front wall was made of butt‑joint glass except the inside glass is mirrored, offering a voyeuristic vantage point while maintaining a sense of discretion.

Adjacent to the Mirror Room was the entertainment lounge, anchored by a polished bar and arranged with plush, low‑slung sofas. Several small, padded stages dotted the room, each softly lit and designed for performances, demonstrations, or sensual showcases. The atmosphere here was warm, decadent, and intentionally unhurried.

Further down the corridor, the dance room pulsed with energy. This was the Veranda’s own underground disco—complete with a bar, a polished dance floor, and raised stages fitted with poles reminiscent of a gentlemen’s cabaret. The lighting shifted through jewel‑tone hues, casting the room in a seductive glow that encouraged movement, expression, and playfulness.

A large communal restroom completed the floor, designed with both practicality and comfort in mind. It featured toilets, bidets, urinals, and a spacious gang‑style shower with multiple rainfall heads. The space was tiled in deep green stone, warm underfoot, and softly lit to maintain the Veranda’s signature atmosphere of ease and discretion.

A decade later, the partner university expanded its sexology program, and the Veranda entered yet another phase of transformation. As part of a joint research initiative, a discreet observation platform was constructed within a portion of the basement. The space was carefully modified—never clinical, never cold. Instead, it was modeled after an intelligence‑style strategy room: muted lighting, layered soundproofing, and wall of monitors.

During the renovation, workers uncovered a sealed corridor hidden behind a false wall. The passage descended into a network of natural caverns—spaces once used during Prohibition to manufacture spirits and move them discreetly through the region. Dusty barrels, rusted tools, and remnants of old copper stills hinted at the ingenuity of the era.

The Velvet Vernada leadership saw potential.

The caverns were stabilized, reinforced, and transformed into a dedicated BDSM wing—an environment designed for structured, consensual exploration. The rooms ranged from minimalist restraint spaces to more elaborate chambers equipped for advanced forms of bondage and sensory play. Every element was engineered with safety, communication, and aftercare in mind.

In honor of the infamous Hellfire Society of England—known for its theatricality, secrecy, and ritualized decadence—the new wing was christened The Hellfire Caverns.

Access was restricted.

Only members who completed the Veranda’s advanced consent and safety orientation were issued the black bracelet FOB, a sleek token that unlocked the secured entrance. The bracelet served as both permission and promise: a commitment to responsibility, respect, and the Veranda’s unwavering standards.

The Hellfire Caverns quickly became one of the most whispered‑about features of the estate—not for scandal, but for the precision, artistry, and intentionality with which the space had been crafted.

 

[SueTeri]

Teri and Annabelle finished breakfast on the back veranda.

“You ready to get to work?” Annabelle asked, brushing a stray gardenia petal from the table.

Teri rose, smoothing her blouse. “I am.”

She followed Annabelle down the length of the veranda, the boards warm beneath their feet, and through the French doors into the Lounge.

To the right stood a marble‑topped bar framed in dark wood carved with curling vines and magnolia blossoms—a quiet homage to the mansion’s Southern roots. The room breathed history. Dark walnut paneling rose to meet a coffered ceiling where soft amber lights glowed behind ornate brass latticework. The scent of aged leather lingered in the air, plush sofas arranged in conversational clusters like intimate islands. Their oxblood hides gleamed under the light, softened by decades into luxurious comfort.

The space felt both intimate and grand—a holdover from the mansion’s aristocratic past, now polished into a modern sanctuary where members could decompress from the more charged atmosphere of the floors below. Carpets from a bygone era, patterned in wine reds and hunter greens, softened the walnut herringbone floor. Oil portraits—former madams, benefactors, and a few enigmatic figures whose stories were half‑legend—kept quiet watch.

They exited through an ornate arched opening into the main foyer. At the far end, Annabelle opened a narrow door and flipped a switch. A warm glow spilled down the stairwell.

“This way,” she said.

Their footsteps echoed as they descended, the air cooling with each step. The stairs opened into the lower‑floor Gallery, a long corridor lined with framed photographs and soft recessed lighting. Directly opposite the staircase stood a single reinforced door.

As they approached, Teri’s memory flickered—her visit years earlier with her husband, Tiffany, and Tiffany’s ex. She remembered the layout: the entertainment lounge toward the back with its low padded stages and surrounding couches where patrons could watch performances; the corridor to the right where the elevator, across from it the communal restroom with toilets, and showers were located; and beyond that, the hallway leading to the glass‑fronted rooms.

The private rooms were spacious, each with a king‑sized bed set against the back wall. The entire front wall was seamless glass from floor to ceiling, allowing visibility from the corridor when occupants chose to leave the curtains open. It was a design rooted in transparency, consent, and the Veranda’s long tradition of curated voyeurism.

Annabelle paused at the single door and held up a gray wristband. The lock clicked open.

She handed the band to Teri. “This is your FOB. It’ll open any door with access control. Return it when you’re done with your observations.”

Teri slipped it onto her wrist, feeling the subtle weight of responsibility settle with it.

“Ready?” Annabelle asked, her hand resting lightly on the door.

Teri nodded, steadying her breath as the next chapter of the Veranda revealed itself.

She walked in and flipped the switch. The fluorescent lights flickered, humming for a moment before the room brightened fully.

Teri stopped just inside the doorway, stunned. An entire wall was covered in monitors — one massive central screen surrounded by a constellation of smaller ones, each angled with precision. It looked less like a basement room and more like the command center of a covert intelligence agency.

Annabelle stepped up to the main control console, positioned slightly above the two observation stations. Teri heard the rapid clicks of a keyboard, and one by one the monitors blinked awake, filling the room with shifting color and motion.

“Come sit,” Annabelle said, gesturing to one of the dual‑monitor stations.

Teri lowered herself into the chair, still taking in the scale of the setup.

Annabelle leaned over her shoulder, explaining the system with practiced ease. “The facial recognition, the tracking algorithms, the anonymization protocols — all of it was developed by the university’s computer and IT department. Same architecture used by the CIA, DOD, NSA… just adapted for our purposes.”

She tapped a few more keys. “When I’m doing archiving, I usually throw up a party feed as background noise.”

Her fingers danced across the keyboard. Instantly, the monitors filled with footage from a recent event — bodies moving, laughing, interacting, the energy unmistakably charged but not explicit on the screens from this distance.

“This was last Saturday’s Nuts and Bolts party,” Annabelle said with a wry smile. “Quite a turnout.”

Teri watched the shifting scenes — the color, the movement, the choreography of people navigating desire and curiosity within the Veranda’s carefully structured rules.

Annabelle straightened. “All righty. I’ll leave you to it. Lunch is at 12:30, so just come up when you’re ready.”

She slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her, leaving Teri alone with the hum of machines and the glowing wall of screens.

Returning from lunch, Teri settled back into her task. The archiving software hummed softly, the room dim except for the glow of the monitor wall. Every so often she let her eyes drift upward, catching glimpses of Tiffany or herself in the rotating feeds — bodies entwined, mouths lowering toward stranger’s hard manhood or wet vaginas, hips meeting pubic areas or buttocks, hands gripping their breasts. The suggestion alone was enough to warm her skin.

She forced herself back to work.

Near the end of her shift, she glanced up again — and froze.

One of the lounge feeds showed her at the bar, deep in conversation with a woman she remembered vividly. The sight of her sent a slow, unexpected pulse through Teri’s chest.

The woman was striking. Slim, petite, her posture regal yet unguarded, as if she carried her own quiet gravity. A bourbon glass sat untouched before her, catching the chandelier’s glow.

Light traced her shoulders and collarbone, gilding the olive warmth of her skin. Across that sun‑kissed tone, bold white tan lines cut sharp and luminous — brushstrokes of absence against presence. They framed the curves of her breasts and the soft V of vagina, a contrast so vivid it felt almost indecent.

Her dark hair fell in loose waves, caramel undertones catching the light. Almond‑shaped eyes, deep and unreadable, lingered on the glass in her hand. Her arched brows gave her expression a sculpted precision, while her full lips softened it — poised between a smile and a secret.

Teri remembered that conversation clearly.

The woman had been curious — fascinated, even — by how casually people at the Veranda navigated desire, touch, and connection. Teri had done her best to explain the swinger lifestyle: the rules, the consent, the communication, the freedom. The woman had listened intently, head tilted, lips parted slightly as if tasting every word.

On the screen, Teri noticed something she hadn’t registered that night: the woman wore only a white wristband — a first‑time visitor, a voyeur, someone observing but not participating.

Then the bartendress handed Teri a pink wristband. Teri watched her past self slip it onto the woman’s wrist, right beside the white one.

A clear invitation.

On the feed, Teri offered her hand. The woman hesitated — just for a breath — then took it. She slid off the barstool with a grace that made Teri’s stomach tighten.

As they walked toward the elevator, the camera angle shifted, revealing more of the woman’s body. She was five inches shorter than Teri, her frame an elegant hourglass. Her hips swayed with a natural, unselfconscious rhythm. Her breasts — B‑cup, high and full — moved with the slightest bounce, dark nipples visible through the thin fabric of her top.

Teri felt a slow heat rise in her chest as she watched the two of them disappear into the elevator.

She remembered exactly what happened next—and exactly how it had felt.

 

[SueTeri]

Reaching the elevator, Teri took the woman’s face gently in her hands and kissed her — soft at first, then with a slow, deliberate confidence. She remembered the woman whispering that she had never been with another woman before, her voice trembling with equal parts fear and curiosity. Teri had murmured back, reassuring her, telling her not to worry, that she would guide her.

The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime. Teri stepped inside, the woman following close behind, her breath unsteady. As they ascended, the faint hum of the machinery mixed with the distant echoes of pleasure drifting from the gallery below—muffled moans, low groans, the unmistakable soundtrack of the Veranda’s private world.

On the monitor, Teri watched her past-self lead the woman down the open gallery, the railing overlooking the foyer below. The woman stayed close, almost brushing against Teri’s arm, her nervousness palpable.

Teri saw the moment they reached the private suite. She watched herself close the door, leaning back against it as she pressed the small button that illuminated a red light above the frame—the quiet signal that the room was now occupied, and staff would not disturb them.

Inside the room, the woman stood still, hands clasped lightly in front of her, trying to steady her breathing. Teri remembered how delicate she had looked in that moment—not fragile, but open, unguarded, as if she were stepping into a version of herself she had never allowed before.

Teri approached her slowly, giving her time to retreat if she wished. She didn’t. Their lips met again, deeper this time, bodies aligning with a natural, hungry gravity. Teri guided her backward until the woman felt the edge of the wrought‑iron king‑size bed against the backs of her legs. She turned, climbing onto it with a hesitant grace, and Teri followed.

They lay on their sides, facing each other, breath mingling. Their kisses deepened, unhurried but charged. Teri’s fingers traced the woman’s curves—the round, pert swell of her breasts, the soft rise of her abdomen, the warm, inviting path downward toward swollen protruding inner labia. The woman’s breathing grew huskier, her body responding instinctively.

Her hands explored Teri in return, tentative at first, then bolder, fingertips gliding over erect nipples, learning the shape of Teri’s desire.

Soon they found each other’s dripping wet vaginas, the moment electric, intimate, and overwhelming.

Teri rolled gently on top of her, their mouths meeting again, tongues moving in a slow, sensual rhythm. The woman tilted her head, exposing her neck, and Teri kissed along the warm line of her throat, across her collarbone, down between her breasts. The woman arched slightly, her breath catching.

Teri continued downward, kissing around her belly button, then pausing at the small postage stamp size patch of dark brown hair above clitoris. She remembered inhaling deeply, savoring the woman’s intoxicating scent—a mix of warmth, arousal, and something uniquely hers.

Then Teri lowered her mouth to her swollen inner labia, tasting her, exploring her, drawing out waves of pleasure until the woman trembled beneath her, breath breaking into soft, helpless sounds.

The woman climaxed more than once— Teri remembered the way her body tightened, then softened, the way her hands clutched at the sheets, the way her voice cracked with release.

Afterward, as the woman tried to steady her breathing, she had asked—shyly, almost embarrassed—if she could watch Teri with her husband. The question had surprised Teri, but not in a bad way. It had felt honest, vulnerable, curious.

Ten minutes later, they left the room. Teri flipped the occupied switch off, the red light fading. It signaled the chambermaids to refresh the suite with new sheets and towels, erasing the physical traces of what had happened—but not the memory.

Teri watched the monitor as her past self and the woman moved through the Velvet Veranda’s maze of play areas, searching for the woman’s husband. The feeds flickered between rooms — soft lighting, velvet drapes, silhouettes shifting behind frosted glass — until finally the camera caught him.

He sat alone on a plush leather sofa in the live entertainment lounge. Every other couch was occupied by couples, their bodies angled toward the stage. The air shimmered with heat and attention.

Onstage, a woman moved with fierce, unrestrained abandon — and Teri felt her stomach drop.

Tiffany.

Even behind the black mask, Teri recognized her best friend instantly. The way she held herself, the way she arched, the way she commanded the room without trying. Tiffany’s partner onstage was a tall, broad‑shouldered black man whose presence filled the space, but it was Tiffany who held the audience captive.

The woman’s husband was transfixed. His breathing was visible in the rise and fall of his chest. His hand moved slowly over his erection; his gaze locked on Tiffany as if the rest of the room had vanished.

Teri watched her past-self slip onto the sofa beside him, the woman settling on his other side. The wife’s hand reached out, delicate and sure, wrapping around hard manhood to take over the rhythm he’d begun. It was a gesture mirrored across the lounge—women tending to their partners as they watched the stage.

Teri noticed the white silicone bracelet on his wrist—first‑time visitor, voyeur only.

She remembered leaning toward the waitress, whispering a request. A minute later, the waitress returned with a pink bracelet. Teri slipped it onto his wrist, and his expression shifted from confusion to shock.

Teri leaned in, whispering something into his ear.

On the monitor, she saw the exact moment he froze, eyes widening.

His wife nodded, confirming the request.

Teri felt a small, wicked smile tug at her lips as she watched her past-self giggle at his reaction. It had been a mixture of disbelief, excitement, and something deeper—the realization that his wife wanted to see him with someone else.

They stood together, heading toward the private rooms upstairs—the suite Teri had secured through the waitress.

Just as they reached the edge of the lounge, the camera caught movement onstage. Another man climbed up, knee‑walking toward Tiffany with a boldness that made the crowd shift forward in their seats.

Tiffany turned her head, mask glinting under the lights, her expression unreadable but electric.

The man offered his cock.

Teri watched the moment Tiffany leaned in.

They entered the playroom, and as before, Teri flipped the switch beside the door. The small red light above the frame glowed to life, signaling the room was now occupied.

 

[SueTeri]

The suite was warm and softly lit, anchored by an ornate Queen Anne bed against the far wall. A high‑back wing chair sat in the corner, upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, its silhouette inviting and theatrical.

Teri guided the wife toward the chair.

The woman settled into it, her breath already unsteady, her legs draping over the arms in a posture that revealed open and wet vagina without shame. She was trembling with anticipation—not of touching Teri’s husband, but of watching.

Teri turned to the husband, positioning him where his wife could see everything clearly. His breathing was shallow, his eyes flicking between the two women, his body already responding to the charged air in the room.

Teri sank gracefully to her knees before him.

She placed one hand around his hard manhood, her touch slow and deliberate, her movements meant as much for the wife’s eyes as for the man standing before her. She leaned in, her lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath the elongated helmet shaped head, her breath warm, her posture confident.

The wife’s chest rose sharply. Her fingers drifted toward splayed open inner labia, her body reacting instinctively to the sight of her husband being touched by another woman.

Teri glanced over her shoulder and gave the wife a wicked, knowing smile—a silent acknowledgment of the power exchange unfolding between them.

She lowered her head again, her mouth moving in a way the camera showed every detail, but the husband’s reaction made unmistakable. His hand tightened at his sides, his breath catching, his body tensing as Teri worked him with a slow, practiced rhythm.

The wife watched, mesmerized, her hand moving over her hard button in a steady, hungry pattern.

After several long, breathless moments, Teri rose smoothly to her feet.

“On the bed,” she murmured to the husband—a soft command, but one he obeyed instantly.

As he moved to the Queen Anne bed, Teri crossed the room to the wife. The woman’s hand was still between her thighs, her body flushed, her eyes dark with desire.

Teri leaned down and kissed her—slow, deep, tasting the woman’s breath, her need, her trembling anticipation. The wife’s fingers tightened around Teri’s arm, pulling her closer, her body arching into the kiss.

The room pulsed with heat, with permission, with the electric promise of what would happen next.

Teri climbed onto the bed, her breath already unsteady, her skin warm with anticipation. She straddled him slowly, deliberately, her thighs brushing the outside of his as she settled into place. She could feel the heat of his body rising toward her, the firm pressure of his swollen manhood poised beneath her, waiting.

She reached down, guiding him with a steady hand, aligning their bodies with a precision born of confidence and desire. Her own vagina throbbed with a deep, insistent ache, her inner folds swollen and sensitive, the warmth of her arousal unmistakable.

For a moment she hovered there, suspended in the charged space between wanting and taking — her breath caught, her pulse loud in her ears.

Then she lowered herself just enough for their bodies to meet.

The contact was electric.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped her—half‑sigh, half‑moan—her head tilting back as her eyes fluttered shut. The sensation washed through her in a slow, rolling wave, her body tightening around the first spark of release. It was sudden, overwhelming, the kind of orgasm that came not from movement but from sheer anticipation finally breaking open.

Her fingers curled against his chest for balance as she rode out the tremor, her breath shuddering, her thighs trembling around him. She stayed there for a moment, letting the pleasure settle into her bones, letting the connection between them deepen and steady.

When she finally opened her eyes, she looked down at him—and the hunger in his gaze told her they were only at the beginning.

The wife watched with parted lips, her breath catching as she saw the sheen of Teri’s arousal glistening along her husband’s cock, a visible testament to the heat building between them. Her fingers paused for a moment at hard button, as if the sight alone had stolen her composure.

On the bed, Teri moved with slow, deliberate control, her body lowering inch by inch as she aligned herself with him. The anticipation alone made her tremble. When their bodies finally met, a deep, guttural sound escaped her—raw, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep in her chest. Her head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as the sensation washed through her.

She settled onto his lap, her breath unsteady, her body pressed fully against his. The connection between them was unmistakable—intimate, consuming, electric. She turned her head toward the wife, her voice low and breathless.

“He feels… incredible.”

The wife’s hand resumed its movement, her body responding to the sight of her husband and Teri intertwined, the intimacy unfolding inches away from her. Her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

Teri shifted, her muscles tightening around rigid pole with practiced control, her body moving in a slow, rhythmic ascent. The husband let out a deep, helpless sound— half‑moan, half‑surrender his hands gripping the sheets as he tried to steady himself.

The room pulsed with heat, with permission, with the charged awareness of three people sharing a moment none of them would forget.

Teri watched the monitor, transfixed by the sight of her-past self moving with slow, deliberate rhythm. Even without sound, she could feel the memory — the heat of her own breath, the way her body had responded instinctively, the pulse of pleasure that had rolled through her in waves.

She remembered the sounds vividly: the wet, rhythmic press of bodies, her own breath breaking into soft moans, the husband’s low, helpless groans, and the wife’s rising, breathless excitement as she watched from the chair. The room had been thick with it — desire layered on desire, each of them feeding the others.

On the screen, the husband’s hands slid up her sides, cupping her breasts with a hunger that made her past-self arch into his touch. Teri remembered the jolt of sensation when he squeezed, the sharp pull of his fingers on her nipples, the way it had sent a deeper, more urgent pleasure spiraling through her.

Even now, watching it from a distance, she felt a ghost of that intensity — the way her body had tightened, the way her breath had caught, the way the wife’s eyes had widened as she watched the two of them lose themselves in each other.

The memory wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. Charged. Alive.

And seeing it again on the monitor made her pulse quicken all over again.

Teri remembered the multiple orgasm he gave her before announcing he was about to ejaculate

She sat down forcing the husband’s cock head pressed in the concave indentation of her cervix. Soon she felt his cock pulsate and his warm semen flowing into her uterus.

Teri climbed off him slowly, her breath still unsteady, her skin flushed with the aftershocks of everything they had shared. The room felt warm, thick with the scent of sweat and perfume and something deeper — the kind of intimacy that lingered long after bodies separated.

She leaned in first to the husband, brushing a soft kiss against his lips, a gesture of gratitude rather than possession. Then she turned to the wife, cupping her cheek gently before kissing her too—slower, lingering, a silent acknowledgment of the trust she’d been given.

“Thank you,” Teri murmured, her voice low and warm. “I hope it was everything you wanted.”

The wife nodded, still catching her breath, her eyes bright with a mix of awe and satisfaction. She reached for her husband’s hand, squeezing it, grounding him—grounding herself — in the moment they had just navigated together.

“It was,” she whispered. “More than I expected.”

Teri smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from the woman’s forehead. There was a softness in the wife’s expression now, a kind of quiet pride, as if she had stepped into a version of herself she’d only imagined before tonight.

The husband exhaled, a long, shaky breath, still processing the intensity of it all. His gaze flicked between the two women—gratitude, disbelief, and something tender settling behind his eyes.

 

[SueTeri]

Teri rose from the bed, smoothing her hair, her body still humming with the memory of their touch. She moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to flip the occupied light off— the small red glow fading as the room returned to its neutral state.

Behind her, the couple remained on the bed, holding hands, their bodies close, their breathing slowly syncing.

Teri stepped into the hallway, the cool air brushing her warm skin, and allowed herself a small, private smile.

Whatever the wife had hoped to witness…whatever the husband had feared or desired… whatever Teri herself had needed in that moment…It had all landed exactly where it was meant to.

Teri watched the feed as her past-self descended the staircase, the glow from the gallery lights brushing her skin in warm gold. She slipped into the parlor, where Tiffany sat perched at the bar, sipping a soda and cooling off from her earlier adventures. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly mussed, her smile loose and satisfied.

Teri remembered sliding onto the stool beside her, the two of them laughing softly as they compared partners, experiences, surprises—the kind of candid, unfiltered conversation only the Veranda made possible. Tiffany teased her about her stamina; Teri teased her about her exhibitionism. It was easy, familiar, the kind of friendship built on trust and shared secrets.

Then an elegant Asian woman approached them, her posture confident, her eyes bright with invitation.

“Would you two join us in the Hellfire Cavern?” she asked — the Veranda’s BDSM wing, where velvet shadows and soft restraints created a different kind of intimacy.

Tiffany grinned immediately.

Teri remembered feeling a spark of curiosity.

As they walked toward the elevator, Teri glanced toward the foyer—and saw the husband and wife from earlier stepping out the front door. The wife leaned into him, her hand wrapped around his arm, her expression soft and glowing. The husband looked dazed, almost floating, as if he were still processing everything that had happened.

Teri had wondered, even then, whether the experience had changed something between them.

An hour later, back in the observation room, Teri finished archiving the last of the videos. The system chimed softly as each file locked into place. She stretched, ready to shut everything down for the night — when a thought struck her.

The husband.

She hadn’t checked his profile.

Curiosity tugged at her. She typed in the number she’d seen written across his right pectoral — the VV ID assigned to guests.

The system processed for a moment. Then a profile appeared on the center monitor.

Teri froze.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open.

She slumped back in her chair, staring at the screen as if it might change if she blinked hard enough.

Richard Duro!

 

[PB26385]

After his classes and his encounter with Ryleigh that Monday, Richard needed a good workout. As was his custom on Monday afternoons, he went to the university recreation center pool for a swim. The cool, clear water and the physical effort had a way of cleansing his mind.

Richard found a lane, put in his ear plugs, pulled his swim goggles over his head, fit them tightly around his eyes, and dropped into the water. There was a splendid isolation about swimming, he thought. With ear plugs in, the water all around, gazing at the dark blue line on the bottom of the pool marking the lane, and the rhythmic movement – right arm, left arm, right arm, breathe; left arm, right arm, left arm, breathe - you could be alone with your thoughts in your own world.

Exercise was his comfort, his means of meditation, the central organizing force in his life, much like faith had become Helen’s. Ah, Helen – he needed to call her tonight. She’d been on his mind quite a bit the last few days. Being out on the road on Saturday morning near the old mansions made him remember a time he and Helen had gone there together to visit that old swinger club. What did they call it? The Velvet Veranda.

The laps clicked by in steady fashion. Richard thought about how he was going to handle the situation with Ryleigh. Of course she was very sexually attractive, and she’d made it very obvious she loved to use her attractiveness to push boundaries. However, attractive as she was, he wasn’t going to risk losing his job or his self-respect over an 18-year-old with a high libido. He’d been a college professor for years, first in San Antonio and later at Magnolia State, and had had lots of lovely and flirtatious Texas girls in his classes over the years without getting into trouble, and he wasn’t going to start now. Furthermore, she was, well, too obvious. There wasn’t much intrigue or subtlety behind grabbing someone’s crotch. He much preferred the intelligence, experience, depth, mystery, and feline sensuality of Teri. She was a fascinating and multilayered woman – not an obvious girl. He had an inward chuckle about how he’d turned the tables on her in class today, and was already thinking about what to do for Wednesday’s class.

Soon, his swim was over. He toweled off and changed in the locker room, then drove home.

At eight that evening he managed to get Helen on a Zoom call. She had her hair up and looked as though she was getting ready for bed. It was 10 pm in Puerto Rico, after all. Still lovely after all these years, he thought.

“Rich, it’s so wonderful to see you. How are you doing?” she asked. She sounded tired, but eager to talk with him all the same.

“Hi, Helen,” he said warmly. “I am sorry we missed each other last week. Tell me how your work is going.”

“I won’t lie, Rich, it’s been an exhausting couple of weeks. The corruption here is ridiculous. You have to pull favors or pay a bribe to accomplish almost every task. Getting the officials to do anything requires almost an act of God – and that’s saying something, given my work,” she said, with a mix of humor and exasperation. She continued to speak for several minutes about her ministry work. If it weren’t for her passion for service, she would have left by now, Richard thought.

“But what about you, Rich – how are your classes?” she inquired.

“My classes are going well, and it looks like I’ll be presenting on my new translation of Casanova at the International Conference on Literature, Sexuality, and Erotic Aesthetics in Los Angeles in May. I just received word my proposal was accepted,” Richard said.

“Oh, Rich, that’s fantastic news! I am so happy for you. I know that project has been a labor of love for many years…”

“No pun intended,” Richard interjected, laughing.

“Haha, very true,” Helen giggled.

“Hey, do you remember that night – it’s been years now – where we went out to that old mansion off of Plantation Drive. You know, the swinger club?” he asked.

“Oh, gosh, Rich, I will never forget that night. I mean, we both had a few glasses of wine to summon up our courage, but then…what we did together, and then what we both did with that woman we met….” Helen’s voice trailed off. “That was the most erotic experience I think we ever had together.” Then, after a pause, she added, “But what made you think of that?”

“I was running out that direction on Saturday and ran by a bunch of those old places. That triggered my memory. Just wanted to see if you remembered it like I did,” Richard said.

“Well, yes, I do. Some aspects are a little blurry because of the wine and the amount of time it’s been, but I do remember how amazing that evening was. Those were good times, Rich. We certainly were good together,” Helen added, softly.

There was a pause as they looked at each other, and smiled warmly.

“Yes. Well, I just wanted a few minutes to reconnect with you and check in. It’s so wonderful to see you, Helen. Much love to you always. I will talk to you soon.”

“Good night, Rich – and thanks for the trip down Memory Lane. You may have made it hard for me to sleep now.”



The next morning, after a relaxing early run along the river path, Richard showered, pulled on a sweater, jeans, and loafers, and made his way to campus. He stopped by Brew & Brain for a quick cup of coffee on his way to his office in Main Hall, and, he had to admit, a chance to see Teri Tytarse. She frequented the coffee bistro on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the mornings, and they’d had many stimulating conversations during the last few weeks.

As he went through the doors, he saw her in her usual chair, with notebooks out and laptop open. “A creature of habit,” he thought to himself. She had on workout clothes, a baseball cap, and her blonde hair was in a pony tail which she had threaded through the back of her cap. She gazed at the computer screen, peering at it through reading glasses perched on her nose.

She looked up as the bell on the door tinkled, saw him, smiled, and watched him as he stepped into the room.

“Good morning,” he said, stopping by her table. “Hard at work as usual, I see. How’s the next section of your harem girl story coming? I’ve enjoyed reading it a great deal.”

“Good morning to you,” Teri said, pushing a chair out and inviting him to sit. “Yes, I was just doing a bit of research on clothing of the period for that story. Fascinating stuff. Have time to talk?”

“Yes, sure. Let me get a cup of Joe, and I’ll be right back,” Richard replied.

He got in line, wondering if she was working or looking his way. He glanced toward the windows to see if he could see her reflection and where her gaze was. Hmm, he thought, noticing she was looking his direction and chewing on the end of her pen. “Well, I wonder what Freud would say about that,” he thought with a smirk.

Soon, he was back at her table and sitting down. Looking over at him, Teri asked:

“Richard, I told you a bit about my late husband and my life prior to returning to school, but you’ve not told me much about your background. I’m just curious…have you been married in the past? You’re not married now, I gather?”

Richard thought for a moment. That was an interesting question out of the blue. Hmm.

“Well, yes, I was married for a number of years, but we split very amicably five years back. My ex-wife Helen and I still have a wonderful relationship – in fact, I spoke with her last night. Why do you ask?” Richard responded, more interested in understanding Teri’s line of questioning than anything. He wanted to stay one step ahead of where she might be heading if he could.

“Nothing really, just feeling like you knew more about me than I knew about you. Does she live near here?” Teri asked.

“No, she’s a lay missionary with the Catholic Church. She is working in relief efforts in some more rural areas in Puerto Rico. I admire her call to service tremendously,” Richard replied.

“She sounds like a wonderful person, Richard. I can see why you still think so highly of her,” Teri added. “No kids?”

“No, we never had any children of our own, but between my teaching and her mission work, we sort of feel like we do a good bit of ‘parenting’ all the same,” Richard said. He thought about bringing up Ryleigh, but just at that moment, his phone buzzed.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I need to take this call. It’s my guitarist from my jazz trio. We’re trying to work out a rehearsal time. Be back with you in a second.” He stood up from the table and moved away so she could resume her work. As he stepped away, he looked in the window to see the reflection of Teri. Yep, still carefully watching him. “Hmm,” he thought, “interesting.”

 

[SueTeri]

Richard returned to the table, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

“Did you work out a time for your rehearsal?” Teri asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity.

“Yes, we did,” Richard said, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “We need to go over our playlist for this Saturday night’s gig at The Throbbing Tempo.”

“Oh, I love that place,” Teri said, leaning back with a smile that hinted at memories she probably shouldn’t share. “It’s Tiff and my favorite live jazz club.”

Her mind drifted—uninvited but vivid—to the last time she and Tiff were there.

Tiff had been in one of her moods that night: restless, electric, hunting for trouble like it was oxygen. She’d locked eyes with that baby‑faced fraternity guy before the first set even ended. Ten minutes later, she’d dragged him out the side door, leaving Teri to finish her drink alone.

When Teri finally went looking for her, she found Tiff in the alley, hair wild, lipstick smudged, the frat boy looking like he’d just survived one the greatest blow jobs. Tiff had laughed—loud, unbothered, wicked—and pulled Teri back inside like nothing had happened.

And then, somehow, the two of them had ended up tangled in a hotel suite with a grandfather‑and‑grandson duo who’d clearly never met anyone like Tiff and Teri before. By the end of the night, the staff was pretending not to stare.

“Maybe we’ll show up,” Teri murmured now, lifting her latte and watching Richard over the rim. Her smirk was slow, deliberate. Still can’t believe he didn’t invite us, she thought. And he didn’t say a word about that photo of Tiff and me…interesting.

“Well, Dr. Duro,” she said as she rose, smoothing her hand down her hip in a way she knew he noticed, “I’ve gotta meet up with Tiff for spin class. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow,” he replied, eyes following her openly.

Teri gathered her things and headed toward the door. She paused to toss her cup, then turned—catching Richard watching her. She let a teasing smile bloom and gave him a slow, knowing finger‑wave.

Then she slipped out of Brew and Brain, leaving behind the faintest trace of perfume and the suggestion of trouble brewing.

Teri and Tiff were sitting on the patio of a bistro, sun beating down, plates half‑ignored. Tiff watched Teri poke at her salad like it had personally offended her.

“Okay, what’s your damn problem, hon?” Tiff asked, squinting at her. “Is this about Richard?”

Teri dropped her fork, leaned in, and blurted, “I fucked Richard.”

Tiff’s eyes went wide. She smacked Teri’s hand lightly but sharply. “You dirty little whore. And you’re just telling me now? Seriously? Split the damn details. Don’t you dare hold out on me.”

Teri groaned and rubbed her forehead. “Remember when we went to the Velvet Veranda… what, eleven, twelve years ago?”

Tiff barked out a laugh. “How the hell could I forget that night? I was a menace. I was out there doing my best to fuck and suck every cock, then more eating of wet pussy, and then somehow even more ass fucking. I swear I left that place dehydrated and spiritually compromised.”

She shook her head, grinning like the memory was a shot of tequila. “God, I was feral.”
Teri leaned back, smirking. “And I told you about that night with that gorgeous woman… how I was all over her, and afterward she got this wild idea and wanted to watch me fuck and suck her husband.”

Tiff snorted. “Yeah, yeah… I remember you telling me how you deep throated him and then you rode him cowgirl like you’d lost your damn mind.”

“Well…” Teri paused for effect, “the couple was Richard and his ex‑wife Helen.”

Tiff froze. “Shut the hell up.” Her eyes went wide. “Wait—did I… did I ever fuck Richard?”

Teri burst out laughing. “No! No, you didn’t. They’re literally the only couple you didn’t fuck and suck.”

Tiff stared at her for a beat, then cracked up. The two of them dissolved into loud, messy laughter.

 

[SueTeri]

Tiffany leaned forward. “You think Richard actually remembers you?”

Teri shook her head. “Doubt it. Half my face was covered by that black mask. And I was thinner, younger… hell, I didn’t even recognize him until I saw his damn profile.”

“So, what’s the problem, Teri? You already fuck and suck Richard eleven years ago.” Tiffany stared at her like she was missing something obvious.

“In my Foundation of Human Sexuality class today, someone brought up the whole ‘students sleeping with professors’ thing.”

Tiffany blinked. “Okay… and? How many professors did we even fuck back then?”

It was a pointless question — they both knew the answer was a lot. Male, female, didn’t matter. It wasn’t for grades; they were 4.0 students. It was the thrill, the chase, the game.

“MSU has a policy now,” Teri continued. “If a professor has a sexual relationship with an undergrad or grad student, they can be terminated.”

“They probably had that when we were there,” Tiff shrugged.

“Actually, Tiff… they didn’t.”

Tiffany’s eyebrows shot up. “So, what are you gonna do?”

Teri exhaled, frustrated. “I don’t know. I really… really like Richard. And I want him. I want to ruck and suck him. But I’m not risking his job.”

“There’s gotta be some kind of loophole,” Tiffany said, already shifting into problem‑solver mode.

She made a mental note to have one of her paralegals dig into the policy. Being the Chief Executive Partner of Philem & Teats — one of the biggest all‑female law firms in the country — had its perks.

And there were loopholes. Hidden ones. Buried in locked archives known as The Magnolia basement of the administration building, a place only the President’s office, general counsel, and a handful of faculty even knew existed.
Tiffany tapped her lip, thinking. “I wonder how all this affects the SEF requirement for our pledges.”

She remembered the old rule: every Sigma Upsilon Kappa pledge could earn merit points by seducing faculty — 25 for a woman, 20 for a man.

Suck. Eat. Fuck.

The motto no one said out loud at rush, but everyone knew.

“I guess we can ask Ry,” Teri said, unable to hide the pride in her voice. “My girl pledged SUK. Legacy status and everything.”

Sigma Upsilon Kappa had been around since 1928 — elite, brilliant, and always a little infamous. Campus media never knew what to do with them: controversial but compliant, misunderstood and deliberately opaque.

Exactly how the house liked it.

“Ry and two of her pledge sisters are at our home right now,” Teri added. “Her big sis is with them, taking photos for the pledge calendar.”

Tiffany raised a brow. “They still do the calendar as a fundraiser?”

“Oh yeah.”

Their own pledge class had started it — a cute bathing‑suit calendar.

But it was Teri and Tiffany who’d suggested the nude version, the one that tripled the profits and nearly got the Dean fired for pretending he didn’t buy three copies.

Teri’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, smiled.

“Ry wants us to meet her big sis before they finish up.”

As they turned off the cul‑de‑sac and onto the private drive, the wrought‑iron gates swung open automatically, welcoming them onto the estate. Teri guided the car slowly along the curved driveway, the 5,467‑square‑foot brick home rising into view—two stories with a walk‑out basement, perched on a gentle hill. Its English‑cottage façade carried hints of Colonial symmetry and Tudor Revival charm, all softened by mature landscaping.

Ryleigh’s Jeep Wrangler Rubicon was already parked in front of one of the three garage bays. Teri eased her car into the space beside it.

“Do you think they still produce the nude calendar?” Tiffany asked.

Teri only shrugged.

Inside, they paused in the kitchen long enough to pour themselves goblets of red wine before stepping out onto the deck. The backyard stretched below them like a private resort—tropical plantings, a waterfall spilling into the pool, and warm light catching on the stonework.

“Well, I guess that answers your question, Tiff,” Teri murmured.

At the far end of the pool, Ryleigh and her two pledge sisters were posing confidently near the waterfall, clearly in the middle of a photo shoot. The tableau made the purpose unmistakable.

The girls noticed them at the railing. Ryleigh lifted a hand and motioned for them to come down.

Teri and Tiffany descended the stairs, crossing toward the beach‑entry side of the pool where the loungers sat waiting, the air warm with the scent of jasmine and chlorine.
Ryleigh trotted from the far end of the pool, droplets sliding down her skin as she approached her mother and her pseudo‑aunt. Teri and Tiffany couldn’t help admiring the confident sway of her C‑cup breasts, the easy, unselfconscious way she carried herself — the kind of poise SUK drilled into its women from day one.

Behind her, her two pledge‑sisters followed in a slow, deliberate strut. They were nude as well, their vaginas shaved smooth — a requirement for SUK pledges — and they moved with the cultivated glide of runway models. The only person clothed was the photographer, a striking Asian girl whose presence felt almost ceremonial in contrast to the naked ease of the others.

Ryleigh leaned in and kissed both Teri and Tiffany, a brief brush of lips with just a hint of tongue — affectionate, teasing, and entirely intentional.

“Mom, Auntie… this is Scarlett and Ashley.”

She turned, presenting the two women with an open‑palmed gesture, as if offering them forward.

Scarlett stepped slightly ahead. She was a gorgeous mixed‑race woman with a petite hourglass frame, subtle but unmistakably sculpted. Her breasts were small to moderate, with dark brown areolas that contrasted beautifully against her skin. Their shape had that natural, rounded teardrop curve that suggested both softness and quiet confidence.

Her face — a heart‑shaped oval with high cheekbones — framed long, jet‑black curls that fell in tight, glossy spirals. Combined with her compact body and the deliberate way she held herself, she radiated a presence that felt composed, intentional, and undeniably adult.

Ashley stood just a touch taller, her silhouette slim and proportionate, giving her a balanced, almost statuesque elegance. Her features were soft but mature: an oval face, clear skin, and expressive hazel eyes that took everything in with quiet intelligence. Her dark‑blonde hair fell in loose waves to the middle of her back, catching the light with every subtle movement.

“Scarlett, Ashley — this is my mom, Teri, and my Auntie Tiff.”

The two women stepped forward in turn, embracing Teri and Tiffany in warm, lingering hugs — bodies brushing, breath mingling, the kind of contact that carried a hint of sexual desire without crossing into it.

Finally, Ryleigh lifted a hand and waved someone over.

“Mom, Auntie Tiff — this is my big sis, Miki. Miki, this is my mother Teri and her best friend, my pseudo‑aunt Tiffany.”

The gorgeous Asian woman froze mid‑stride, eyes going wide, breath catching like she’d just been hit with a shockwave.

“Oh my God… oh my God,” she whispered, hands fluttering before she clasped them to her chest. “I can’t believe I’m meeting TnT!”

She practically vibrated as she threw her arms around Teri and Tiffany, hugging them with the kind of trembling excitement usually reserved for celebrities or religious visions.

Teri and Tiffany burst into laughter, Teri giving Tiffany a playful shove on the shoulder.

“We haven’t heard that nickname in eons,” Teri said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye.

On the lounger nearby, the three pledge‑sisters sat in a neat row, staring like synchronized owls.

“TNT?!” they echoed in unison.

Miki took a breath, smoothing her hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“Yeah,” she said, pointing at Teri and Tiffany with both hands. “Your mother and auntie are infamous for their exploits — or should I say… their SEX‑ploits.”

“MOM!” Ryleigh yelped, performing a perfect imitation of shock, though everyone knew she wasn’t actually surprised. Growing up in a nudist household with parents who lived an alternative lifestyle meant she’d heard just enough to know there was a lot she hadn’t heard.

The pledges leaned forward, curiosity practically glowing off their skin.

“So… what kind of exploits?” one of them asked, eyes bright.

Teri and Tiffany exchanged a look — the kind that held decades of shared mischief — before Teri finally shrugged.

“Well,” she said, settling back comfortably, “we’ll give you the R‑rated version.”

Tiffany grinned, lifting a finger.

“And we’ll leave the XXX versions for another day.”

The girls leaned in, eager, as the two women began recounting stories full of wild nights, questionable decisions, and the kind of charged, boundary‑pushing adventures that made the nickname “TnT” feel more like a warning label than a moniker.

 

[SueTeri]

Miki leaned in with that mischievous glint she never bothered hiding.

“Ry, why don’t I get some photos with your mom and your aunt?”

Ryleigh laughed, already knowing exactly where this was headed.

“That sounds like a great idea… but I’m naked, so they’ve gotta match the vibe.”

Teri opened her mouth to object, but Tiffany was already in motion—spin‑class reflexes kicking in—peeling out of her clothes like she’d trained for this moment. Teri hesitated for half a heartbeat, then shrugged and stripped too, the girls cheering as if witnessing some legendary rite.

The younger women stared, openly impressed.

“Damn,” Ashley breathed.

Scarlet nodded. “If we look half that good when we’re their age, we’ll be lucky.”

Miki started directing like she’d been hired for a magazine shoot.

“Okay, Teri, Ryleigh—closer. No, closer.”

The two pressed together, bodies aligning in a way that made everyone watching suck in a breath.

They held different poses, laughing, teasing, letting the moment get deliciously reckless.

“Okay, one last pose for you,” Miki said, adjusting her stance like she was about to capture a magazine cover.

“Teri, face me. Now—Ry, straddle your mom’s hip.”

Ryleigh stepped in sideways, close but not quite touching.

“No, Ry… closer,” Miki insisted, voice low and commanding. “I want you pressed right up against her. All the way.”

Ryleigh swallowed, then moved in until there was no space left between them. Her inner labia was slightly open, pressing against her mother.

“Good. Now lay your head just above her chest—nestle into her neck. Yes, right there.”

“Ry, wrap your arms around her neck. Teri, hold her head to you. And with your other hand, lift her leg—ninety degrees. Beautiful.”

Miki’s camera began clicking in rapid bursts, each flash catching the tension, the closeness, the breath shared between them.

She paused. “Don’t smile.”

Then resumed shooting, faster this time.

With their lips nearly brushing, Teri murmured so softly it barely registered, “I can feel your wet pussy against me.”

Ryleigh’s breath trembled. “I’ve never been this close to you…like this. It feels… good.”

Teri exhaled slowly, her voice warm and dangerous.

“If it helps…I’m feeling more than I expected too. Maybe when semester break comes, we can… explore some mother–daughter time.”

Teri felt her vaginal juices trickle down her thigh.

The camera kept clicking, but the room felt like it had gone still—everyone aware that the pose had shifted into something deeper, heavier, and far more charged than a simple photo.

Then it was Tiffany’s turn with Ryleigh.

Tiffany stepped in confidently, tossing her hair back, giving the camera a look that said she knew exactly what she was doing. Ryleigh matched her energy, the two of them posing with a kind of playful boldness that made the backyard feel warmer.

Miki stepped back, scanning the poolside like she was arranging a magazine spread.

“Tiffany, move a few feet into the beach‑front entry. Feet shoulder‑width. Let your weight drop into your hips. Good.”

Tiffany shifted, settling into a stance that made the water ripple around her ankles.

“Now, Ry,” Miki continued, “kneel close to your aunt’s thigh.”

Ryleigh lowered herself, stopping just shy of contact.

“Closer… slowly… until your torso meets her naturally.”

Ryleigh eased forward, breath catching as her body aligned with Tiffany’s. Her breasts and torso resting against her aunts thighs and stomach.

Tiffany inhaled sharply at the warmth against her skin.

“Hold there,” Miki said. “Tiff, one hand lightly on her shoulder. The other relaxed at your side.”

They adjusted the pose settling into something intimate, deliberate, almost ritualistic.

“Ry, lengthen your spine. Chest open. Don’t lean—hover.”

Ryleigh held the position, close enough to feel Tiffany’s body heat, close enough to catch the faint, earthy scent rising from her sex.

“Tiff, look past the camera. Don’t meet the lens. Ry, tilt your face down—eyes soft, half‑lidded.”

They shifted, the pose sharpening into something undeniably charged.

Miki peered through the lens.

“Ry, knees an inch closer. Tiff, angle your hip forward just a touch. Freeze… yes. That’s it.”

The shutter fired in rapid bursts, capturing the tension, the stillness, the unspoken current running between them.

Miki—trying to sound casual and failing—said, “Uh… how about a threesome shot? Teri, Tiffany, and Ryleigh?”

The pool area erupted in laughter at the Freudian slip, but the women didn’t hesitate. They moved into position, all three of them arranging themselves in a way that was definitely not accidental.

Off to the side, Ashley nudged Scarlet.

“Okay, but seriously… which one would you take to bed?”

Scarlet didn’t even blink.

“Both.”

Ashley grinned. “Yeah. Same.”

They kept whispering, eyes drifting over the scene with hungry curiosity, already imagining possibilities.
“May we take some selfies with y’all for our ‘Social Book’?” Ashley and Scarlet asked with matching hopeful eyes.

“Of course—we’d be more than happy to,” Teri said, and Tiffany nodded in agreement.

Scarlet moved in close, pressing her cheek against Teri’s as she extended her arm to snap the first photo. The pose looked innocent enough, but Teri felt Scarlet’s hand give her butt a subtle squeeze—light, deliberate, unmistakably intentional.

Teri answered the hint in kind.

Her hand slid to Scarlet’s firm, rounded backside, fingers tracing the curve with slow, exploratory confidence. Her middle finger embedded in her crack. Teri slowly slid her hand down over her cheeks, her finger getting deeper within her crack.

Scarlet kept clicking photos, shifting her face against Teri’s—cheek to cheek, temple to temple, lips brushing the edge of a smile. Her breath hitched when she felt Teri’s touch deepen, teasing in a way that made her posture falter for a heartbeat after Teri’s fingertip tap on her pucker starfish.

Teri continued the slow, deliberate exploration through Scarlet’s craves, her fingers drifting with a kind of practiced curiosity, lightly across her smooth perineum until her fingertip dipped into Scarlet lower protruding moist inner labia.

Scarlet let out a soft, involuntary sound—half sigh, half moan—right as the camera captured her closed eyes beside Teri’s bright, knowing smile. The contrast made the moment look almost artistic, like a candid stolen from a much more intimate scene.

“May I come by for a more…intimate social?” Scarlet whispered, overwhelmed by the closeness, the heat, the unspoken invitation between them.

Teri’s steel‑blue eyes sparkled with unmistakable delight.

“Of course you may.”

She took Scarlet’s phone, typed in her number, and hit send.

Teri let it ring three or four times before ending the call—just long enough to make sure Scarlet had her number saved, and long enough to make the gesture feel intentional.
Scarlet and Ashley switched places with a kind of wordless, hungry coordination the group had already fallen into.

Ashley’s hand drifted down Teri’s backside, her touch slow, teasing, deliberate—just enough pressure to make Teri’s breath catch before she slid a finger to know pulsating ass hole.

Teri didn’t bother with hesitation. She reached for Ashley, already worked up from Tiffany’s earlier attention, and slipped her fingers to her sopping wet hole, drawing a soft sound from Ashley’s throat.

Teri glanced over at Tiffany—her best friend—who shot her a wicked wink, the kind that said yeah, I’m doing exactly what you think I’m doing, her grin stretching wide as her own fingers moved to Scarlet’s vagina.

After a half‑dozen selfies—each one more chaotic and giggly than the last—one of the girls suggested a group photo.

They lined up: Scarlet, Ryleigh, Ashley in the front row, bending forward with their hands on their knees.

Teri stood behind Scarlet and Ryleigh; Tiffany behind Ryleigh and Ashley. The women placed their hands on the girls’ backsides, fingers spreading over curves, leaning in just enough to make the pose look like a sorority‑house fever dream.

Miki snapped several shots.

“Hey, Miki—you’re not in any of these,” Ashley pointed out.

“Oh! Let me grab my tripod.”

Miki set up the camera, adjusted the height, programmed the timer and burst count through the app.

She started toward the group when the girls all stuck out their hands like a stop sign.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. If you’re joining us, you’re getting naked too,” Scarlet declared.

Miki shrugged, unfazed. She kicked off her bleached‑white Keds toward the teak chaise, then crossed her arms and peeled her black MSU shirt over her head, tossing it aside.

Teri and Tiffany exchanged a look—surprised at just how generous Miki’s chest was for someone barely five‑two. Full, heavy curves, pale beige areolae, easily a cup size larger than Tiffany’s DD.

She slipped off her shorts next, revealing smooth, hairless, smooth vagina and the same sorority‑sister confidence the rest of them carried.

She stepped into place between Scarlet and Ryleigh.

Teri shifted behind Scarlet and Miki; Tiffany stayed behind Ryleigh and Ashley.

They all assumed the classic sorority pose again—front row bent at the waist, hands on knees; back row leaning in, hands resting boldly on the girls’ hips and backsides.

“Okay, gals. On three. One… two… three.”

A beat later, the camera shutter clicked automatically, capturing the whole wild tableau.

 

[SueTeri]

When the camera finally stopped clicking, Miki lowered her phone and clapped her hands lightly.

“Alright, ladies. We need to get back to the sorority house. Start getting dressed.”

“Awwww…” the three pledges groaned in perfect unison, sounding like disappointed little girls as they shuffled off toward the house, still glowing from the chaos of the shoot.

The remaining three women began pulling their clothes back on, the air still warm with the aftertaste of mischief. Miki hesitated for a moment, then spoke.

“I’ve been wondering… would you two let me shoot you for my photography thesis?”

Teri paused mid‑button and glanced at Tiffany. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

Miki’s eyes lit with that particular artistic hunger.

“Turn‑of‑the‑19th‑century lovers. Women who weren’t allowed to be seen… but found each other anyway.”

Tiffany’s eyebrows rose. “That’s… actually fascinating.”

“However…” Miki said, clearly preparing to drop a bomb, “you’ll need to grow your hair out.”

Teri blinked. “You mean…a full bush?”

Neither she nor Tiffany had let a single hair grow since puberty; smoothness was practically part of their identities.

But Miki wasn’t done.

“And your armpits. And your legs.”

Both women stared at her, stunned into silence.

A long moment passed before Tiffany exhaled and said, “I’m in.”

She turned to Teri, waiting.

Teri smirked, resigned but intrigued. “Well… you need a lover for the theme. So I guess I’m in too.”

Miki lit up, delighted—almost giddy.

“This is perfect. I’ll let you know at the start of next semester when everything’s due. You can decide when to start growing everything out.”

She gathered her equipment, still smiling, already imagining the two of them posed in soft lamplight, bodies intertwined in tight bustier, opaque, thigh high socks and their hair bundle in the traditional Victorian way in the kind of forbidden tenderness that made history feel alive again.

“We do have several questions about the SEF,” Tiffany said, crossing her arms. “Especially the faculty merit points.”

Miki tilted her head. “Alright, what do y’all wanna know?”

“How does the House get around it?” Tiffany asked, her tone half‑curious, half‑calculating.

“There’s a gray area about thirty professors fall into,” Miki explained. “If a pledge wants a prof merit point, the Exec Committee gives her the list of the Grays.”

Teri scratched her head, one brow lifting. “Has any pledge ever… gone after someone not on the list?”

Miki giggled—actually giggled—and her cheeks flushed.

“Not since me and my Econ professor,” she admitted, eyes darting away in a way that said she made him another of SUK’s stable.

Tiffany smirked. “Of course it was you.”

Then, shifting into business mode, she held out her hand. “Miki, would you mind sending me the gray‑area documentation y’all got from the University? Send it to my office.”

Miki passed her phone over without hesitation. Tiffany typed in her number and email, her expression cool and professional—though Teri could see the spark of curiosity behind her eyes.

 

[SueTeri]

Miki, Teri, and Tiffany were still talking when the sharp click‑clack of five‑inch black leather stilettos cut across the backyard—an unmistakable sound anywhere on campus. It was the sonic signature of a SUK pledge, a kind of ritual announcement that always turned heads.

All three women looked toward the house.

Ryleigh emerged first, flanked by Ashley and Scarlet, the trio moving in perfect formation.

They wore their custom‑tailored tartan micro‑mini skirts—Velvet Black, Deep Crimson, and a whisper of Antique Gold thread woven through the pleats. The skirts were engineered to force awareness: every step, every shift of weight, every breeze became a negotiation between modesty and exposure. It marked them instantly as pledges, as women in the liminal space between belonging and becoming. Vulnerability as uniform. Confidence as test.

But the stilettos were the true transformation.

Five inches of black leather that demanded poise. They slowed the pledges’ pace, made them glide instead of walk, made them hold their bodies with intention. The shoes built discipline, posture, and a kind of elevated presence—literally and symbolically lifting the wearer into the chapter’s mythology.

Their blouses completed the contradiction.

Peter Pan collars, crisp white fabric tied just beneath the bust, unbuttoned down to the bow. The fitted shape clung to their torsos, a sharp contrast to the boldness of the micro‑mini. On the left collar, each girl wore the oval emblem—an abstracted, symbolic shape echoing the curves of the vulva—rendered in soft embroidery. Innocence on the surface. Provocation underneath.

The entire outfit was a study in ritualized contradiction, the SUK aesthetic distilled into fabric and posture.

“Alright, ladies,” Miki called out, slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. “Help me get my equipment to the car.”

The pledges immediately brightened. Each one stepped forward to hug Teri and Tiffany—quick, warm squeezes that carried the lingering electricity of the earlier shoot—before gathering Miki’s gear with practiced eagerness.

****​

As Richard walked toward his office that Friday morning, his mind kept circling the week’s oddities. Teri hadn’t taken her usual seat in the front row; instead, she’d slipped three or four rows back, almost hiding.

And the wardrobe shift — no more fitted dresses, no heels, no deliberate presence. Just jeans, Keds, and a polo. It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He’d even stopped by Brain & Brew, hoping to “accidentally” share her usual table, maybe catch her smile over a cup of coffee. But she never appeared.

Approaching his office, he spotted a manila folder in his bin. A slow grin crept across his face — anticipation tightening through him. Maybe another daring note. Maybe a photo. Maybe something that would make his pulse jump the way it had before.

He fumbled with his keys, hands clumsy with expectation. By the time he stepped inside and grabbed the envelope, his breath had already changed. He tossed it onto his desk, locked the door behind him, and sank into his chair, letting the anticipation take over.

He opened the clasp and slid a hand inside, drawing out the photograph inch by inch.

The face appeared first — but it wasn’t Teri.

It was her daughter.

Ryleigh.

His stomach dropped.

He pulled the photo out farther: Ryleigh seated on a table, posed deliberately, her posture open, her expression unmistakably inviting. Her legs apart, her left hand was by her vagina with her index finger pressing against her inner labia.

Her eyes held a wanting look that made the room tilt.

Richard shoved the photo back into the envelope as if it burned.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, fingers digging into his hair as the realization hit him like a punch.

“FUCK.”

 

[PB26385]

Richard shook his head, thought for a second, and then sprang into action. The first thing he needed to do was get rid of that photo of Ryleigh. He didn’t need anything like that in his office. He’d taken the items Teri had sent him home, so he wasn’t worried about them, but this provocative image could land him in a lot of hot water.

Gathering up the envelope, he quickly made his way down the long flight of stairs to the ground floor of Main Hall and the English Department office, room 34D, with its large round windows. It was Friday afternoon, and no one was around. He went to the paper shredder and inserted the envelope with the photo inside it into the shredder. It was destroyed in seconds.

Next, he went back up to his office and thought about writing Teri an e-mail, inviting her and perhaps Tiffany to the Throbbing Tempo for his jazz concert Saturday night. He could put them on the guest list so they wouldn’t have to pay the cover charge. “Hmm,” he thought, “maybe, but not from my university account or from my work computer.”
It was 3 pm. He had a rehearsal at 6 pm with his other band mates. Best to go home and get in his weight workout now, before he got tied up with anything else. He packed up his papers and calendar in his shoulder bag and walked down the five flights of stairs.

As he exited the Old Main building and headed towards his car, he saw Teri Tytarse about fifty yards away standing near the bistro on the sidewalk. She looked to be waiting for Tiffany and was reading something on her phone. “Well, this is better than me sending an e-mail,” he thought, and he called out her name as he walked quickly towards her. She looked up, saw him, waved back, and watched him approach.

“Hi, Teri, I’m glad I ran into you,” he said, smiling.

“Dr. Duro, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, removing her glasses and noticeably not using his first name again. She waited, gauging his response.

“I was going to send you an e-mail when I got home, but this is much better,” Richard said, doing his best to sound casual and relaxed. “I want to apologize for not doing so sooner – my mind was occupied with practicing for the gig - but I want to invite you - and if she’s interested, your friend Tiffany - to The Throbbing Tempo as my guests for my trio’s concert Saturday evening. I can put you on the list so they waive the cover charge and have them hold a table for you. We’ll start to play our first set around 9 o’clock.” Richard looked at Teri’s body language and eye contact as he spoke; her blue eyes seemed warm and receptive, but her body language was harder to read, perhaps a bit in check and not radiating her usual feminine confidence.

A light breeze blew. Teri brushed her hair back carefully with her hand as she inhaled to speak.

“That sounds lovely,” she said, angling her head in a practiced manner, “but I’m not sure if I can accept.”

She watched to see how Richard responded to that hint of rejection. She regarded how a man handled things going sideways with a woman he was interested in to be most telling of his true character. Would he overreact? She waited a beat to let her words soak in.

Richard didn’t seem to react overtly, so she continued: “I’ll need to ask Tiffany first before I can give you a firm answer.” She paused, then asked, “Have you invited anyone else?”

“No,” Richard added, “although some of my neighbors often enjoy coming and are aware of the event. I typically put them on the list as well. The place tends to fill up on Saturdays, so having a table held comes in handy.”

Teri looked intently at him with her steely blue eyes, then paused for a moment. As she did, a red convertible came around the corner with a striking brunette woman at the wheel. She glanced away from Richard to wave at Tiffany, then turned back to respond. “We really enjoy going to that club. I’ll drop you an e-mail in the morning to let you know one way or another. Thanks for the invitation,” she said, noting that Tiffany’s car had come to a stop at the nearby curb, “and maybe we’ll see you tomorrow evening.” Slipping her sunglasses back on, she turned away, stepped toward the car, opened the passenger side door, and slipped into the front seat, giving Tiffany a brief kiss as she fastened her seatbelt.

Richard watched her as she entered the car. She turned to Tiffany to say something softly. Just as he was turning to go, Teri looked back his way once again. “Richard…” she called out, letting a smile creep into her lips, “have a good evening.” And with a wave, they drove off.

 

[PB26385]

Helen Duro walked up the driveway to her small cement block home in the outskirts of San Juan. It was approaching sunset, and she had just finished walking back the two miles from the little village in the hills where she did her mission work. Weather permitting, she walked to and from the village to center her mind for her work and to get some exercise. There was a wide shoulder to the road that wound up the hill where Helen felt safe walking, and the car and truck traffic was negligible. That commuting on foot combined with her daily practice of yoga while saying her morning rosary kept her in excellent shape. This evening, there was a nice breeze, and the humidity that normally hung over the island was less noticeable. Coming in her home, Helen’s clothes were only slightly clinging to her skin.

Helen wanted to talk to Richard tonight, and had left him a text message saying to call when he arrived home. She only had three more months in Puerto Rico, and was trying to discern which of the four possible new assignments she might want to accept. One was in Costa Rica, one was in Belize, one was in an Inuit fishing village in Alaska, and one was in El Paso, caring for migrants caught up in the web of confusion and turmoil created by the federal government’s immigration policies. Talk about a variety of climates! Her facility with languages was an asset her lay order liked to capitalize on in suggesting assignments, and with three of the assignments in Spanish-speaking locales, she doubted the Alaska option was a good fit. She thought talking through the assignment options with Richard might help her decide – knowing of course that while she might accept one assignment, the order might need to place her somewhere else. She also had a bit of personal time built up that she had to take, and wanted to discuss coming back to Magnolia for a week if Richard didn’t have other plans lined up.

They were divorced but still had a strong emotional connection between them; she considered Richard to be her closest friend. This wasn’t the first time Helen had planned to come back since starting her mission work; she had been ‘home’ between assignments about eighteen months before.

Helen stepped into her bathroom, turned on the light, removed her clothes, placed them in a basket under the sink, and turned on the shower. She looked in the mirror before stepping into the stall. “All the walking and work is keeping my figure, thank goodness!” she thought.

The water felt wonderful on her skin. Because her hot water tank was small, Helen wet herself down, turned off the water, then grabbed her soap to lather up before rinsing off. As she ran the bar of soap over her body, Helen’s thoughts returned to her previous conversation with Richard about their passionate evening at the Velvet Veranda. The more she ran her hands around her firm breasts, the more the memories came flooding back. Seeing all the couples and groups having uninhibited sex…feeling the excitement of the ‘taboo’ nature of it all…meeting that beautiful young woman there, the one with the steely blue eyes she would never forget, and what they did together…her only experience with another woman…then sharing Richard with her and watching…seeing her make love to his cock with her mouth…then watching her ride him in cowgirl – how powerful he looked, and how organic of a physical connection he and the young woman seemed to immediately have…watching her have multiple orgasms while riding Rich, then seeing him climax, too…her mind wandered faster and faster as her soapy hands rubbed her breasts and the firm button between her legs. She remembered taking Richard in her mouth after that, tasting the woman on him, feeling him explode in her mouth (something she had never experienced before)…all the memories washed over her as she neared an intense climax. The young woman’s face and breasts came into her consciousness – her one-of-a-kind blue eyes, the teardrop shape of her perfect, full breasts, the feeling of her kissing along her neck, the first instant when her tongue reached her clitoris, how she knew just how Helen wished to be touched and caressed and pleasured. The images flashed through Helen’s mind – watching Rich with the young woman – taking Rich’s cock in her own mouth – feeling the young woman’s soft touch on her body…then suddenly she was coming hard and moaning aloud, crying out from the mix of memories and images and what she was doing in the moment.

Helen’s breathing took a long time to return to normal. She hadn’t climaxed like that in months. She reached for the faucet to rinse herself off. Yes, going back to Magnolia for a visit was essential.

 

[PB26385]

Richard loved playing jazz with his trio mates. He played piano, Ivan was the guitarist, and Drew played string bass. Together, they went by the humorous name, The Loose Strings. From time to time, they were joined by other musicians – Steve was their go-to drummer on some gigs, and Richard’s long time triathlon racing friend, Paul, who lived in San Antonio, would drive up to Magnolia to sing some standards with them. Rich loved to hear Paul’s baritone voice singing classics like “Tenderly.”

Saturday’s gig at The Throbbing Tempo was just a trio performance. As Richard had a large living room with a grand piano, they often rehearsed at his house. This evening was no exception, and when Richard’s phone vibrated with a text message from Helen, they were in the middle of running through the last number of their set, “Lullaby of Birdland,” with Ivan playing the vocal line on his guitar. Richard loved the back and forth of jazz, with each member of the trio taking turns embellishing over the harmonic progression of the song.

Richard felt his phone vibrate but waited until they had finished the song to look at it. He tapped a quick note back to Helen that he’d call in about ten minutes then wrapped up the rehearsal. As Ivan and Drew packed up, Richard asked them if they had any guests to put on the list – he was going to contact the club in the morning about reserving tables. Richard couldn’t help thinking about Teri and whether she would come to the gig…

Soon Ivan and Drew were out the door, and with them gone and rehearsal over, Richard turned on his computer and clicked on the Zoom link he and Helen always used for their calls.

Helen appeared on Richard’s laptop screen. He thought about how lovely she looked – more refreshed than she’d seemed in a long time. Often during these late night calls she looked tired from working all day, but tonight her hair was full and down around her shoulders and her face was relaxed and warm with a smile. She was wearing a silk robe Richard had given her years before. Still has that sexy figure, he thought….

“Rich, I am so glad to see you,” she exclaimed.

“You look beautiful, Helen – how are you?” he answered. “I am sorry I didn’t immediately pick up – I was wrapping up a rehearsal with Ivan and Drew for a jazz gig tomorrow night.”

“At the Throbbing Tempo?” Helen asked. “I always loved going there.”

“Yes, that’s where we are playing – both guys say hello. I told them you’d texted. Ivan asked if you were coming this way any time soon.”

“Well, actually that’s part of why I needed to talk to you tonight. I have gotten my assignment options for my next job, and wanted to get your advice about them,” Helen said, “And I wanted to talk with you about coming home for a short visit, too; I have some leave that I have to take or I will lose the days, and thought it would be great to catch up with you if you’re open to that.”

“That’s wonderful news, Helen – of course, it would be fantastic to see you. Anytime, always, love. You know that,” Richard answered.

“Great! More on that in a minute,” Helen said. “Let me tell you about the options the order has given me for my next assignment.”

Helen described each of the locations, and asked Richard’s opinion. She indicated her heart was pulling her towards asking for El Paso, as she wanted to make a difference in the migrant situation during this troubling time. Richard listened carefully to her and asked her lots of questions about her responsibilities at each option. They talked about the difficulties of the political climate in the US and how El Paso would be a place to make a meaningful difference in the lives of marginalized people, something Helen felt strongly about.

“It would be a challenge, Helen, as that’s ground zero for the fight that’s going on, but it would be a place to make a powerful impact, too – and it’s within driving distance, so we could stay in closer touch,” Richard said. “You know I will support whatever you want to do, regardless – but it sounds like that’s where your heart is leading you, and if that’s the case, follow your heart.”

Helen agreed. “OK, love, thanks so much for helping me talk through it. I so appreciate your support. I’ll notify my supervisors tomorrow.”

She sat back slightly and ran her fingers through her hair. “So about coming home. My work here has been very fulfilling spiritually, but it’s really been a drain on my battery personally. I feel like I am giving a lot and just need a brief time to recharge and reconnect before wrapping things up here and moving to my next job.” She paused for a moment, biting her lower lip and wondering about telling Rich more.

“Are you ok, Helen?” Richard asked. “You look refreshed and relaxed tonight – more so than I’ve seen in a long time. What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” she began, hesitantly, “tonight I was able to let go of a lot of stress.”

“Let go of stress? What happened?” Richard asked.

“Well, to be honest, Rich, I was in the shower, and my mind wandered a bit. I started thinking of you, and since you’d mentioned that night long ago at the Veranda, my mind went back there, too. I remembered how exciting it was for us to be together, and then that woman we met…her unforgettable eyes, her body, her perfect breasts, how she knew just how to touch me, how she was with you…the memories came back as I touched myself…I don’t need to explain to you that I haven’t been with anyone at all, and….”

Richard looked at her, and his thoughts swirled. He remembered aspects of that night, especially the time with Helen, but his memories of the woman they both enjoyed being with were hazy. She had a mask on, and though he remembered the undeniable sexual chemistry he had with her, he couldn’t pull up much more. He’d had some wine, and his memories were more of he and Helen together that night than the other woman.

He looked at Helen and how beautiful she looked as she talked. He could see through her robe that just talking about her experience in the shower was exciting her again – her nipples were pressing against the silk prominently.

“I let go of the stress by climaxing in the shower thinking about us and that young woman and that night. I just haven’t been in touch with myself physically like that in so long. It’s something I need right now. It’s something I want right now.”

Helen looked down and saw how hard her nipples were. “Gosh, Rich, I am getting all horny again just talking about it….”

Richard had to admit he was feeling pretty horny himself looking at Helen now. He could feel himself getting hard at the thought.

“I want to come home to recharge, Rich, to be a woman for a few days. I need to feel a human touch.” Helen looked at Richard to see his response. “Can we have that kind of time together again, Rich?”

“You know how great we were together, Helen. You know I have never stopped desiring you,” he said, adjusting how he sat to accommodate his now rigid cock straining against his pants.

Helen smiled. “Ok, I am so glad to hear that. I will look into some flights and be back in touch. Don’t you have a break in classes coming up?”

Richard replied he did and gave her the dates.

“Um, before we hang up, Rich,” Helen began, “since we’re on the topic, I wondered if you could do me a favor.” She subtly loosened the tie on her robe.

“Sure, what’s that?” Richard asked.

“Well…” Helen said, softening the tone of her voice and loosening her robe more, “I was hoping maybe I could see an old friend for a few minutes…to help keep me relaxed and refreshed until I can get home.” She gave Richard a wink. “A friend I haven’t seen in years, a long and fit friend….” She let loose of any pretense and let her robe fall open, exposing her firm breasts and hard nipples. “Let me see that cock of yours, Rich. Let me see what I was fantasizing about in the shower.”

Richard looked at her with a mixture of surprise and desire. Without saying a word, he stood and unzipped his pants and pulled down his underwear. His cock sprang out. He looked at Helen’s response.

Her eyes widened and her hands began to glide over her body, especially her breasts. “Oh, God, Rich – better than I remembered. I can’t wait to feel you in me again.”

“You look so amazing, Helen,” Richard said huskily. He, too, began to touch himself as he watched her. “I want to take those nipples of yours into my mouth as you ride me….”

Helen let a hand slide down between her legs. She pushed her chair back from the computer so Richard could see her now naked body in full. One hand pinched her nipples while the other stroked her clit. Richard moved his chair back and sat so that Helen could see him stroke his firm cock in time with her hand movements. They urged each other on, oblivious of their surroundings, delighting in the sensations and turning each other on.

“I want to sit on that hard cock of yours again, Rich,” Helen moaned. “I want to feel you grab my ass and thrust against me.”

“I can’t wait to fill you up, Helen,” Rich grunted. “I want to come in you now…”

They both had noisy, intense climaxes, eyes locked together at the final moments.

As they eased to a stop, Helen sighed. “Soon, Rich, soon. I can’t wait…to see and feel my old friend again. That was so wonderful just now. I know I am going to have sweet dreams….”