Spring Semester

Towards the end of each time we fucked, Brie had a habit of clutching my neck. Her face, too. She was a physical person; she did stuff with her head. Suddenly I might feel her nose bearing down on my adam’s apple, so maybe she was just didn’t know what to do. She was a tough chick; an aggressive, independent chick with freckles and perfect curly black hair and a down-to-earth hotness. But I could always tell when she was losing it and didn’t know what to do.

There was this one time in my dorm room, during a bout of midday horniness that needed some relief. This time was sexy as shit because she sat on top of me and I bounced her up and down and felt my thumb digging in to her belly button and watched her moan up at the low hanging light that she could have bonked her head against if she leaned much closer. As if she were practicing modern dance choreography (and she had been a dancer, which she’d given up for studying painting and banging me), she curled her head down so she was looking straight down at my lower belly. She turned up the volume of her moans as if the hairier part of my stomach made it so much sexier. And she dipped downward and buried her face in my neck, while at the same time, amazingly, reaching back with one hand and grasping my cock to make sure it stayed inside her. This time I was being responsible and wearing a condom.