Rebecca Butler: Freshman nymph

Dave couldn't keep his eyes off the blonde in the tennis dress. She sat in the second row and she was lovely in a fresh, almost fragile way. Her face was delicately carved and framed by aristocratically waving golden hair. It was hard as hell to keep plugging at a lecture on the culture of ancient Egypt when his eyes kept focusing on that face-and even more difficult when he let his eyes drift casually across the body so charmingly revealed in her skimpy summery outfit.

The top buttoned modestly, all the way to the neck, but the fabric was white and thin and made no effort at all to conceal the beautiful curves of the girl's small, high-set tits, leaving it abundantly clear to the observer that the nipples crowning those tits were pink and perky, and that the support of a bra was something totally unnecessary to show her at her best. And the hem of the skirt fought a losing battle with a pair of pink bikini panties, scandalously skimpy and really deserving of the display they were getting. Every time she moved so languidly as she took her notes, crossing and uncrossing her legs, the bottom of her short skirt rose, and Dave was becoming very well acquainted with those tiny little panties.

He wished he knew their wearer as well, but alas-such was not the case. This was freshman history, World Civilization 110, and it numbered at least eighty students. To make matters worse, Dave had three more classes just like this one. He was in his first year of teaching at State University-indeed, this was his first semester-and all the faces before him tended to blur together into one heterogeneous mass. He could recall individuals who had done well or poorly in the first exam, just completed, but he couldn't tie one of those names to a specific face.

Not least among the problems Dave had to face was his total inexperience with the technique of delivering a professional, competent lecture while trying to look up the dress of a pretty student. Some day when he had nothing better to do he would ask one of the older professors for pointers on that. Some day. Not now.

The bell rang, punctuating his lecture In mid-sentence. He finished his point, shouting above the clamor of students gathering up their possessions and ready to desert him, then turned and, first one out the door, started down the hail at a brisk clip. He had office hours now, in case anyone wanted to talk to him.

Dave closed the door of his office behind him, sat down at his desk, shuffled aside the litter of books that covered it, and lit a cigarette. Into the space he had cleared he placed the new American Historical Review, opening it to skim over the book reviews. There was a knock at his door, and he said "Come in," without turning.

"Professor Shearing," said a voice behind him.

"It's Mister Shearing," Dave corrected, beginning to turn. "I'm not a professor yet." And his eyes lit upon a pair of slim shapely feet in open sandals, drifted up subtly tanned thighs and calves to the high-rising hem of a short white tennis dress, and sped upward to make contact with the eyes of the lovely blonde from the class just dismissed.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said with a fetching smile, "but my name is Becky Ryan, and I'm in your 1:30 class, and I wanted to ask you-"

"Of course," he interrupted, "Miss Ryan." He flashed an instant memory of a well-done exam paper signed "Ryan, Rebecca M." and life fell pleasantly into place. No longer was this girl the knockout piece in the second row. She was Miss Ryan, and consequently a person who could be categorized and recognized. "You had an excellent exam," he added, thinking, God, not only is she beautiful-she's also smart.

"Thank you," she said. "I wanted to ask you about your lecture today." She shifted from one foot to another, tennis racket under one arm, and Dave thought himself slowly being hypnotized as he studied the alternating positions of her breasts, pink-splotched and definite under the translucent top of her dress.

He weighed and dismissed the odds in favor of his making a successful grab for those fits right now. "Something you didn't understand?" he said, after what ho realized instantly was a very long pause.

"Oh, no," she replied. "Nothing like that. Your lectures are very clear and understandable. I just wondered where I might find out some more about ancient Egypt. You know, about how the people lived? Maybe you could tell me the names of some books and I could hunt them up in the library."

"I'll go you one better than that," Dave smiled. He turned round in his chair and began to shuffle through the piled up books and papers on his deck. Three or four books were selected and he laid them out before him. There was a tiny tapping behind his back and sudden intense body heat glowed near him. And he looked through the books, flipping pages, the heat increased, and his shoulder felt the presence of Miss Ryan, leaning over it to look at the books with him. Unfettered tit points touched his back and loose strands of her golden hair teased his cheek.

Dave cleared his throat uneasily. The fight-muscled lithe perfection of her slim body, so tantalizingly near him, was making his heart beat faster and his face turn just a little red, embarrassed at the ideas that suddenly coursed through his brain. "These are what you want, I think," he stammered, acutely aware of the gentle press of her nipples against him.

She reached across his shoulder to take the books, and her tits lay heavily on him for just a second. He felt their young vibrant warmth, wanted to take them in his hands, squeeze their pliant little mounds, taste the salty freshness of their pink tips. Then the contact broke and he knew she had put the books under her arm. The sound of her shoes advised him further that she was on her way out.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Shearing," she said softly. "I'll take very good care of your books and get them back to you as soon as I can." Her hand was on the door knob.

"Ah," he began, not wanting to part with her but unsure as to how he could keep her with him. "Is that the new style in classroom dress, by the way?"

"Oh!" she smiled. "I'm really sorry. See, I have this date to play tennis and I don't want to be late. So I wore it to class. Do you think I shouldn't have?"

Of course not, he wanted to tell her. If you hadn't, I might never have seen those little strands of cunt hair peeking out your panty legs, might never have known you were nearly as blonde on bottom as on top. That I wouldn't have missed for the world! "It's really very becoming," he smiled, and the reassured grin she gave him brightened the whole day for Dave. Then she was gone, leaving him with the memory of the passing touch of her fine tits. Somehow, Dave sighed, the American Historical Review couldn't begin to compete with Becky Ryan's A-OK body.

Dave was just cooking supper the next evening when the doorbell rang. He turned down the heat on his electric wok and scuttered through the kitchen, into the living room, to the door. "Yes," he said, flinging it open.

"HI," Becky said, sparking clean and pretty enough to eat, in a nearly transparent body shirt that revealed her pale blue bra in stunning outline. Her hips and crotch were covered by a pair of hot pants whose slick glossy stretch flattered, even more than nature had already done, the slim shapeliness of her. Long legs flashed bare and shining above her sneakered feet. "Oh," she went on, noting the preoccupied look on Dave's face as he drank her in. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No, not at all," he assured her. Remembering his manners he invited her inside. Vaguely, dreamily, he thought there had to be a school regulation against young luscious freshman girls' being Inside faculty members' living quarters without adequate chaperonage, but even if there were, he didn't give a damn!