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by Chloe Dare

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by Chloe Dare

Smashwords Edition May 2018

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, trademarked products, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental. All characters are over the age of 18.



"You've stared at my tits since the first accounting class, right?"

I nodded.

"You dream about my tits. How they'll taste. How they'll feel when you squeeze them in your hands. Tell me."

I felt a compulsion to confess. "Yes, I dream about your tits. I want to suck on them and make love to them."

"Come here. Lick them." She put her hands under her breasts and presented them to me. They were big and beautiful, with large pink areola and nipples. The glossy white skin beckoned me.

I couldn't resist. I hungrily sucked on her nipples, tasting another man's cum along with her delicious flesh.


It was my junior year of college. It was our first day back.

Fall in the Northeast was heaven. I watched my breath curl in the air in the early morning as I walked to the School of Business, tucked away in a corner of this Ivy League college's campus. I'm not going to tell you the name of the school because I'm not a braggart. To the contrary, I've always undersold myself. But as I learned later in life, under sell and over deliver.

But I digress. The School of Business bore the name of the person that donated $50 million to build this magnificent structure. I opened the heavy glass front door of the building's atrium, walking over to the directory to locate room 316A.

Third floor, three doors down from the elevator on the right.

There was a throng of students around me, all craning their necks to look at the directory, the same as me. I politely pushed my way through the crowd to get to my class, the buzz of excitement on the first day infecting me as well.

I entered the classroom for the first time. It looked like it held about 80 students in stadium type seating, with four semicircular rows of seats. I was one of the first to arrive so I staked out a seat in the last row with a good sightline to the professor, but also to check out the women that would be in my class.

Ahhhh, women. Now there's a short subject for me. I was sort of the brain in high school, graduating valedictorian and all that other honor society bullshit. But my average looks and possibly intimidating intellect (I didn't think so, but so I've been told), discouraged any sort of prospect of scoring heavily in high school. I watched as a bystander as the hot women in my high school were scooped up by the better looking males.

My sexual resume was short. My first stirrings regarding the fairer sex were in eighth grade, where Mary Jane Johansson didn't remember her mother's instructions to keep her knees together. It was always a treat in my English class to see what color panties Mary Jane was wearing that day. I got a thrill seeing the inside of her thighs and the thought of what lay beyond her pastel colored panties.

Then there was the heart stopping moment. I was in tenth grade. My sister Gina was home on summer break from her junior year in college. She was always such a fucking creep to me. She used to giggle with her pimply faced girlfriends as they slammed her bedroom door in my face. I have to say though, that my sister was a looker, and it also, but shouldn't have, caused stirrings deep within my body when I saw her bras (34DD) hung up in our shared bathroom off of the shower curtain rod or her soiled panties absentmindedly tossed on the floor. I'm ashamed to say it but I did sniff her unwashed bras and damp panties while masturbating to get a thrill, imagining her being banged by some well hung guy with her big tits flopping about.

So anyway, it was in early June, just after my last day of school, when I went into my room and noticed that some of my hidden whiskey stash (behind my baseball gear in the back of my closet, if you must know) was missing. There was only one person who knew about this stash and that was my sister.

I ran down the hallway and flung her door open, ready to accuse her of stealing my whiskey. But my mouth opened and nothing came out. Laying on the floor with his pants and tidy whities down to his ankles was her then boyfriend Rafael, who was receiving apparently satisfying oral worship from my sister. She was on the downstroke with her glorious snow white tits hanging down, when I became an unintended audience of one. Rafael was pretty well hung (though I must say not as well as me) and every inch of what he had was on display. Instead of screaming, my sister calmly pulled off his rock hard cock, wiped her mouth off with the back of her hand, and said, "Get the fuck out of my bedroom."

I did, but I guess if it was any consolation I did see my whisky bottle (empty) on the floor amid all of their clothes.

I beat off to that scene for at least two years.

I did rack up three and a half girlfriends in my life, the girl I took to senior prom who was in my AP English class and who was relatively attractive and had the same issue I did, an intellect that scared others away. We liked each other but there wasn't a deeper attraction, to the extent there can be a deeper attraction when you're eighteen. She only counted as a half since we never did consummate our relationship. One day when we were exploring that possibility she pulled my underwear down, looked at my equipment, sized up her pussy, and said no thank you. I guess I should have taken that rejection as a compliment of sorts.

In my first two years of college I had three girlfriends, if you count a one night stand. I finally lost my virginity my freshman year, sometime between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. in an absolutely drunken stupor. I'm actually not sure I got my cock in her but she assured me the next day that I did and that I was "fine."

The other two times I actually had multiple dates. In each case there wasn't that vital spark (at least that's what they told me) and we went our separate ways. I did discover that I enjoyed sex but didn't understand the overwhelming urges that other men my age were feeling. Perhaps, I thought, I hadn't found my true calling.

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