Hugh Flungit - Gay-Girl Games

And so, except for what little remained of the school year, I saw no more of Florinda Brokaw. Nor did I have her apartment to look forward to in my second year, no longer subject to the rule that prohibited freshmen girls from living off-campus. And I had pretty much taken it for granted too, figuring on moving in. with her and paying for the privilege with generous donations of my body thus making us both happy. Instead, her good news was my bad news, depriving me of a steady hot-lipped lover and a bunk in a lovely apartment. Alas!

I managed to survive, though, carrying on a few gay flirtations but no big affairs. My sophomore year was interesting but comparatively uneventful. As agreed upon, Lizabeth and I stayed in touch, but neither of us wrote long letters and our correspondence was perfunctory at best. And then even that faded when she found her rich old man-a guy named Greer-and got married. Although she did send me a gift once, an ornately wrapped package that contained a pair of her soiled panties. They smelled ripe. She must have come in them, the crotch was that stiff. I took a sniff and started to chew on it-and then realized that she must have peed in them too oh, such a wicked bitch! But I went right on chewing…

At home that summer, I ran into my old friend Alix, in town on a visit to show off her twin babies, almost a year old. She seemed glad to see me, but we didn't have much in common any more; worse yet, she was already pregnant again, well on the way toward becoming a dumpy little housewife preoccupied with diapers and such-and apparently proud of her part in contributing to the anstocratic Moreau line. The twins had little family crests embroidered on their outfits, imagine! I found it somewhat pathetic, and even felt a certain contempt afterward.

During the next two years at college, I played around quite a lot, always with girls, hoping to get the need out of my system before getting my degree and settling down as a teacher. I became a lesbian flirt and seductress, gaining a bit of a reputation among the underground gay set. In my senior year, Lizabeth wrote and told me about the death of her husband; the guy had died peacefully and left her well provided for, with a big house and plenty of money and some business interests that would bring in even more. Shortly after that, I heard from her again, an invitation to come and visit as soon as possible-some long holiday weekend, perhaps-now that her mourning period was officially over.

The way she put it made me laugh; wouldn't I like to come and console a poor bereaved widow? Reading between the lines, I got the impression that she had probably fucked the old boy right into his grave and was now about to kick up her heels in a different direction-making up for lost time, as it were. My first impulse was to pack a bag and jump on the next Greyhound bus, but I had grown older and wiser over the years, too sensible to go off half-cocked like that. For one thing, I was simply too busy at school then. And for another, well, did I really want to get that involved with her again? I still remembered my submission. Serving her had seemed only right and natural, admittedly, a facet of my character that she had awakened and nurtured to an undreamed-of degree, quite beyond my control; did I dare run that risk again?

Common sense prevailed. I turned down the invitation. Actually, it was the schoolwork that influenced me most; that was my senior year and I was preparing to do my practice teaching, the one important step left toward my degree. Still, it was a tough decision to make, saying no to that remarkable woman. Even after all that intervening time, my memory of her hadn't faded much. The vision of her creamy body, the fragrance, the taste of her flesh-it was all almost as vivid as on that wild weekend. I could even recall the moments, few as they were, when she had seen fit to caress me in obvious appreciation of my youthful beauty. I would probably never forget that, the warmth of her body nestling close to mine, the softness of her stroking hands upon my breasts, my belly, the fingers gentle and yet charged with excitement as they dipped into me with such knowledgeable intimacy, such accomplished ease…

Anyway, even though I refused her invitation, the renewal of those memories had a clearly perceivable effect on me. That was okay around the campus, where I could usually find an outlet for my aroused desires without much trouble. But it became a problem in the town where I was assigned to do my month of practice teaching. The little town of Hagersville, tucked away in the hills; how would I ever assuage my lesbian longings in such a place?

It wasn't that small really, and there were some available women around, more than likely, just going by the law of averages. Even among the other teachers, no doubt. Or perhaps a disgruntled housewife or two, wives grown bored with their husbands enough to give vent to certain long-suppressed lesbian tendencies. Maybe there were affairs going on right under my nose, practically. But in my position, I couldn't afford to take chances. A college girl on a practice teaching assignment had to be on her best behavior, the slightest breath of scandal could mean disaster. Then too, there simply wasn't time to go scouting around, not when there was so much work to do-lessons to prepare, homework to correct, the kind of on-trial work that had to be done perfectly in order to win that precious teaching certificate. So instead of consoling the bereaved widow, I had to try to console myself, lying in my lonely bed in my lonely boardinghouse room. At least that was how the difficult month started.

My job was in the so-called Middle School, rather like a high school setup but even more departmentalized. I taught history and English and had been asked to fill in for the ailing dramatics teacher, mostly an after-school project, a kind of workshop for one-act plays and such to be put on during the weekly assembly period. I liked it, the school, the town, everything-except for the awful frustration of those nights alone in bed. And almost as a form of amusement-for want of something better I began seeing the kids in my classes with an imaginative eye. Only the pretty girls, of course, although I tried to be impartial in my dealings with the entire group, boys included.

All those budding tittles and coltish legs-so near and yet so far; what delicious torture!

That was when I noticed Noelle Chisholm. Or-more accurately-when I first realized that she was noticing me. There were prettier kids to look at, even a few spectacular beauties, so I didn't pay much attention to this one, a kind of run-of-the-mill type. Noelle was on the chubby side, a blue-eyed blonde with somewhat irregular features and a sprinkling of freckles, hardly a standout in any classroom. Just an ordinary youngster, rather shy, as far as I could tell. And yet, despite her shyness, it wasn't long before she started offering her help wherever possible, running errands for me, passing out books, collecting papers, volunteering her services for anything and everything, obviously trying to gain my approval and put herself in the "teacher's pet" role. She even showed enthusiasm in my after-school dramatics workshop, apparently a new venture for her; how could I help but notice?

And still, rather obtusely, I just didn't visualize the kid in a sexual capacity-not until she forced me into it, anyhow. It happened late one afternoon, after workshop was over and the other kids had left the auditorium. I had stayed to block in a skit for the next assembly program, making chalk marks on the stage floor while my little volunteer assistant followed me around and took notes on my clipboard. All very professional. Even after I finished and went into the wings to kill the lights, there was no hint of anything otherwise. Not until I took the clipboard and sat down to check her notes and see what changes might have to be made at that point. I suggested that she go home then, since it would take a while before my mind was made up.