Is this fast enough for you, assholes?

Saturday, January 30, 1993, 1:30pm
33 Briarwood Drive, apartment 4

Most of you probably hear "take home exam" and think, "cakewalk". Obviously, you did not go to my grad school.

Dr. Glenn, my Organizational Behavior professor, is a brilliant man. But apparently, he does not believe we are truly learning anything unless we have carpal tunnel syndrome. One 15-page paper after another. Essay tests. Hour after hour of dry, scholarly lectures. And, worst of all, the dreaded take-home exams.

Taking an in-class test has benefits. The teacher knows that you have filled your brain with reams of information, and that one can only be so successful at regurgitating it. Forget a point here or there? It's to be expected. Take-home tests offer no such luxury.

Forget about copying the answers from a textbook: Dr. Glenn's tests call for numerous reference sources. It's not uncommon to need four books to answer one question, and if your response covers less than five pages, you fear you have forgotten something.

"How about if you work on #1 and I work on #2?" Renee asks, tapping her cheek with a pencil.

"So our answers will match? That'll go over well."

"We share the relevant material," she reasons, "but we write our own answers. Deal?"

"Relevant material?" I mock. "When did you turn into Dr. Fraser Crane?"

"If you make fun of me, I'm not helping you."

"I think it's time for a break," I say, rising from my chair.

"We just ate lunch, Steve!"

"I'm not hungry." I brush a handful of curls aside and kiss the side of her neck.

"Stee-eeve, we have a lot of work to do."

"It'll still be there in an hour."

"An hour? What are you planning on doing to me?"

"You'll find out."

She wheels around in her chair, eyebrow cocked. "You want to do it now?"

"I wanted to do it three days ago."

"You have bad timing," she says, but I can barely hear her. And I can tell by the restless wiggle of her butt and her breathy sigh that she's lying.

I've been to her house every night since Monday. On Thursday, we had The Talk, about birth control (she uses sponges) number of partners (she's had two), and history of diseases (both of us are clean). "Do you feel like you are ready to do that with me?" I asked, and was surprised at my directness.

"Yeah!" she said, and I went stiff. But all I got was a big kiss goodnight before I went home. And jerked off.

I came back on Friday, and nothing happened. But today seems promising.

She stands up, narrows her eyes and looks me up and down, then runs her fingertips across the back of my head. She opens her mouth to kiss me, and I know she can tell how hard I am when
our hips bump together.

"Go get in bed," she whispers, and heads for the bathroom.

I don't like being butt naked when a girl walks into the room. For me, it's better to have boxers on and leave something to her imagination.

She opens the door, and I catch a brief glimpse of her dainty triangle before she snaps the light off. I squint, and see her in shadowy profile, slipping her Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt over her head.

She flings herself on top of me as I frantically pull off my boxers. "Go slow," she coos, her breath hot against my cheek. "I'm really tight. Okay?"

"Okay," I pant.

She lifts her pelvis and rubs the tip of my cock against her, slipping it this way and that, as if to find the perfect angle. I have adjusted to the dark now, and I stare at her face as she stops moving and her eyelids slide closed. She presses against me, and her pussy spreads open as I penetrate her with agonizing slowness. She pauses with me halfway inside her and her eyes flutter open, her mouth ajar, her lips wet and shiny. Is she okay?

"Ohhh my God," she moans.

I slide my hand down her back and across her ass, pulling her harder against me, but it's unnecessary; she is riding me now, her pussy devouring and releasing my cock as I watch unblinkingly.

She is tight, amazingly tight, and I feel every millimeter of her insides as I fight to hold off the orgasm, the pleasure blaring in my head like an air raid siren.

The initial resistance melts and her thrusting grows faster, the wet sounds of our sex drowning out the faint squeak of the bed springs.

I grab her tiny, bouncing breasts in my hands, her hard nipples against my palms, and I am overwhelmed by the exquisite perfection of the moment, the intense euphoria. I shudder violently as the orgasm finally overtakes me, and I relax and let it.

She lays her cheek against my chest as my racing heart slows, and when I can finally breathe deeply again, she props herself up on her forearms and stares at me for a long time.

"I don't feel like studying any more today," she grins.