I met Polly for the first time in my French class. She was a sophomore and a local who lived at home with her parents, commuting to class each day. We had gone through the whole “introduce yourself to your classmates,” thing, and her voice was very sweet and melodious. However, she was plain; not ugly, but nowhere near a raving beauty. She was very modestly chested, and possessed few curves otherwise. Her face was lightly sprinkled with brown freckles, her hair was sort of brownish-black, not thin, but definitely not thick, and cut straight in a bob that stopped just above her shoulders. Her best feature was her eyes, which were a very clear brown, but she had buckteeth. While not grossly obvious, it was noticeable and did detract from her average face.
Most of our particular group had taken the lower-level French classes at this school, but it turned out that Polly and I had both placed into this advanced conversation class. It required partners, and our instructor did not believe in random pairing, so Polly and I wound up being conversation partners sort of by default. There was no romantic intent on either of our parts, but our choices were limited to a sorority girl and the class idiot. The sorority girl picked first and took the idiot, who wore a large Greek letter on his t-shirt. I distinctly remember that she didn’t look happy, but the withering stare of complete disdain she had launched at me before she picked told me in no uncertain terms that I was not an option.
The first problem we had was that Polly only had a car until three during the school day because she needed to make sure that her younger brother got to and from his extra-curricular activities. This made it difficult for us to get in the three weekly lab sessions required by our teacher. Because of our schedules, the only time I saw her was at the language lab for those hour-long sessions. We managed just fine for the first six weeks, but I got sick the week before our midterm oral exams, and so missed two sessions. Polly, who I had come to regard as an absolute sweetheart, was worried that I wouldn’t do well on the midterm, so she invited me over to her house the Friday afternoon before. “My brother’s away at a tournament all weekend, so I have the car, and we can go over the stuff you missed at my place. He said that he was going to concentrate on the last week’s lessons for the midterm. The only catch is that we have some work going on at the house and the guy’ll be there at 3:30, so I gotta leave right away.”
I was waiting for her at three outside the hall where her last class was, but had to wait 15 minutes because her professor was being particularly long-winded. We hustled to her car and went directly to her place, chattering about class, only occasionally in French, getting there just ahead of the contractor. “Heater died,” she explained as we walked into a nice, better-than-modest, two-story house in a nice neighborhood, “and my mom’s got a late meeting she couldn’t miss. Excuse me for a moment, please?”
I waited in the living room while she took the contractor to the basement, returning after a few minutes. “Let’s go to the kitchen; we can study at the island, and it’s the warmest room in the house,” she smiled. After offering me a glass of wine, which I accepted, she asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?” I had known that Polly was a smoker, because she usually had a hint of tobacco on her minty breath for our eight a.m. lab sessions, but I had never seen her smoke. I said sure, after all, it was her home. She looked in her purse, and said, “Oh shit, I forgot. I’m out.” Polly looked at me with a blush. “I wanted to stop on the way home, but I didn’t have time.” I told her that it was OK if she wanted to run to a store. She said she couldn’t because of the guy working downstairs. “Besides, I can just grab a pack of my Mom’s for now. Be right back.”
I didn’t think it was such a big deal, after all, a lot of people smoked at school, although there weren’t any indoor places where you could. All that changed when Polly reappeared with a long brown cigarette between her fingers. I must have gaped, because she grinned, “My mom smokes Mores. It’s not a cigar, really. Just a brown cigarette. I smoke them when I run out of mine, she smokes mine if she runs out of hers,” with a shrug. Polly’s drag was a natural french-inhale, and she tilted her head up, exhaling a long stream of smoke without a sound. I could only make a squeak of understanding, because seeing her smoking the way she did, and with that cigarette, which I’d never seen anybody near my age smoking, made me feel… strange. It did something that even close contact in our lab sessions hadn’t: it made me notice her as a female. A somewhat desirable female, no less.
Our study session began, with my attention wandering slightly when Polly lit another More about an hour and a half later. I forced myself to concentrate on our lessons, because our sadistic instructor had broached completely new ground, and he was aiming to catch the slackers at midterm. I did pretty well at ignoring the heat emanating from my groin, at least until her mother came in. “Mom, this Al. He’s my study partner in Conversation.”
I stood up and respectfully greeted her with, “Hello, Mrs. Collier.”
“Bonjour, Albert,” Polly’s mother smiled, in perfect French, giving me a brief hug and kisses on both cheeks. “Polly m’a beaucoup parlé de vous et votre conaissance de la langue.” Seeing my confusion, she giggled, “I can speak English if you want. I worked in France for three years, and I travel there about every two months for work. Polly and her brother both went to school there.”
I looked at Polly with a grin and she blushed. “I wanted an easy ‘A’, OK? And I’m really happy you’re my partner and not one of those other two because they’re gonna blow it big time.” Now I knew why she seemed to pick things up so quickly, and I couldn’t get mad at her, because I had thought the same thing, but for me, it would have only been an easy “B”. I also knew exactly what she meant about the sorority chick and the idiot. “Mom, can Al stay for dinner?”
“Of course, dear. If he doesn’t mind leftovers,” she replied, reaching for the green pack on the kitchen island, rhetorically asking, “Run out of yours again?” as she withdrew the long brown cigarette and lit it. Her daughter blushed. If Polly had made me notice how one smoked, her mother turned it into a show. There was no natural french-inhale, but the way she stood and handled the cigarette was stunningly—elegant. Looking relaxed, at ease, without guilt or defensiveness, Mrs. Collier’s exhales were a thing of beauty in the lighting of the kitchen, the smoke standing out in the contrast of the surrounding wood décor when it streamed, first from her lips in a directed cone, joined after a brief delay by streamers from her nose. The rising heat in my groin reclaimed my attention.
Polly dropped me off back at my dorm around ten. I sat in my room, wondering what had just happened that afternoon. I’d never felt that way before at looking at a smoker. In fact, none of the girls standing outside smoking as I entered even registered in that way, even though some of them were very pretty. Somehow, Polly and her mother and the Mores held some kind of special attraction for me. I paid more attention to Polly during our lab sessions over the next couple of weeks, but it seemed that she never smoked on campus. I eventually began to forget about my earlier reaction to her smoking. Classes were becoming more intense, and so its importance faded completely.
The week before Thanksgiving, Polly asked me if I would like to go to a party at her house. “My mom is having a get-together with dinner on Saturday night for some business guests from France. She thinks it would be a good chance for you to get some real conversational experience with real French people in a social situation. And you know—”
“—that our final involves the social side of business,” I finished with a groan. This advanced conversation class had proven more difficult than I ever would have thought. Judging by the master class, Polly and I were still the best students in the class, but that only made our sadistic instructor hold us to a higher standard than the others. “How should I dress?”
“Like a college student—just make sure everything is clean. Including yourself,” she razzed.
“I hope smoke doesn’t bother you,” Polly said on the way to her house. “I forgot to tell you, just about everybody from the French group smokes. No smoking in the kitchen and dining room, but those are about the only safe places.” I told her that it didn’t bother me; I wasn’t one of those rabid anti-smokers, even though I was a non-smoker. My previous reaction to Polly’s smoking had been completely forgotten, as I was anxious to see what natives thought of my skill in their language.
Until her mother met me at the door with a fresh More between her index and middle fingers, and a tobacco-spiced hug and kisses. I had little time to dwell on her glamorous drag and free exhale as she immediately conducted me to a nearby couple from Paris, who engaged me in a very lively conversation about foreign language learning in the United States. Somebody handed me a glass of French (of course) red wine, and I met six other French people during the course of that discussion, managing to lose track of Polly and her mother. But I was very comfortable in the company of such strangers, especially aided by another half-glass of wine before dinner. Polly’s mother was in constant motion, and I didn’t want to be obvious about watching her smoke, so I resolved not to chase her around the party, and stayed in one spot.
I sobered up during dinner, a marvelous, half-French, half-American affair. “Polly and Steve did the American part,” Mrs. Collier said, indicating her son and daughter. “The art of French cuisine is just a little out of their range right now.” I finally managed to catch up with Polly after dinner. She was speaking with the three people at the party I’d managed not to meet. The woman asked if I would like another glass of wine, and so I settled in with my conversation partner and her group speaking French as if it was almost my first language. Polly disappeared for a few moments, returning with a small clutch bag. She opened it and removed a pack of Virginia Slims Lights 120’s menthol. One of the French gentlemen in our group immediately lit it with his lighter as soon as she had brought the cigarette to her lips, and then proceeded to admonish me for not having a lighter to light the young woman’s cigarette. Polly protested that we weren’t a couple. Although her natural french-inhale captured my fancy for as long as it lasted, it wasn’t even close to the reaction I’d had before, and I concurred with her assessment of our relationship. We promptly were told that it did not matter, that young ladies should always have their cigarettes lit by a nearby gentleman.
Two glasses of wine later, I was feeling extremely social, but I also knew that I was getting to the point where being drunk was definitely a possibility. I went in search of Polly to see how I was going to get back to the dorm before that had a chance to happen. Polly happened to be in the same room with her mother and a few other people, and I arrived just in time to see her pull a More from her mother’s nearby pack and light it. Thoroughly unprepared for the sight, the heat returned to my groin instantaneously, especially when Polly opened her mouth and made a big, slow, showy french-inhale, then slowly tilted her head before exhaling very slowly, and for what appeared to be forever. My steps slowed as I approached her, the expression on her face saying that she was enjoying playing with the smoke now as the conversation circled around her.
I stepped to her side, fully intending to ask her how I was going to get back to the dorm, but what came out was a brief, whispered, “Will you go to my dorm formal with me?” in french. Her eyes bulged and she nearly dropped her cigarette. She recovered quickly, only drawing an inquisitive look from one of the ladies who was not speaking with anyone at that exact moment.
“Really?” she whispered, in English. Then, she took another quick drag, french-inhaling naturally, and lifted her head for a brief exhale.
Her action suspended my normal thought processes long enough for me to answer with a definite, “Yes.”
“Sure!” Polly responded, sounding surprised. The French woman smiled at us knowingly. I didn’t care, because Polly was dragging on the More again and exhaled leisurely. “When is it? I may have to make arrangements to have a car that night.” After I had given her that information, and not coincidentally, she had finished her cigarette, I finally asked my original question. She responded that she was pretty sober and would be happy to drive me back to the dorms.
On the way back, she told me how surprised she was that I had asked her. “Well,” I answered, “I really had a good time tonight, and it was fun to hang out with you. We could speak French all night and really confuse the hell out of everybody.” She laughed, and I was doing pretty good at that point, but the next thing I said was completely unplanned. “Besides, you looked really elegant with those Mores.” Damn wine.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I just happened to be closer to my mom’s than mine. But thank you for the compliment anyway.” When Polly pulled up to the dorm, she leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “See you Monday morning at eight a.m., Al!” she cheerily said as I got out of the car, as if our date and my motivation hadn’t ever come up. I stood outside for five minutes wondering exactly what the hell I had just done. Had I freaked her out? Did I sound as stupid to her as I felt thinking about it now? What would her reaction be on Monday? Had I just blown a perfectly good friendship and worse, working relationship?
I worried about it until 8 a.m. two days later, when Polly met me at the lab and we worked together as usual. I was relieved that there was no sign that anything had changed between us. As we prepared to leave, she asked me what I was wearing to the formal because she wanted to be dressed appropriately. She hesitated a moment before asking, “You do still want to go, right? You were a little drunk Saturday night.” Even though she gave me a way out, I thought that it would hurt her if I took it, and I knew that I would feel horrible. I assured her that I did want to go to the formal with her, but made no references to the Mores. I hoped that she would think that it had been the wine talking. We didn’t see each other for a week after that because of the Thanksgiving break. Even though I did not go home for the brief break, for some reason, I was—afraid—to let her know that I was free.
The formal occurred the Saturday night after the break. I stood downstairs in the building lobby waiting for Polly, who wasn’t due to arrive for another fifteen minutes, with a red rose for her and my usual case of pre-date nerves. She came into the dorm about five minutes early. “Oh! You’re already here,” she commented with a little bit of surprise.
“A gentleman should never keep a young lady waiting,” I said in French, imitating the man from the party, which made her giggle. She was nicely dressed in a simple, slightly peach-colored dress, formal and demure. We both looked at the two girls who passed us wearing expensive-looking black dresses that barely had enough fabric covering what would be considered all the wrong places. Polly giggled, but one girl looked at her and, with a toss of her blonde hair, sniffed haughtily as she walked by. Something sad crossed Polly’s face for the barest instant. I chose that moment to present her with the rose, which brightened her face considerably, and suggested that we leave.
The ride to the formal was quiet; my nerves weren’t helping my conversational skills any, and I didn’t know what Polly was thinking. I was hoping that she had forgotten about my silly Mores comment, and that we were friends going to a social event that required couples. Truthfully, I wasn’t even sure why an in-town sophomore would go out with an average-looking, small, nerdy freshman; surely she had better options on a Saturday night. Mercifully, the ride was also short. When we got out of her car, I circled my arm with a nervous smile, indicating that she should take it. She did, with a surprised, nervous smile of her own in response.
We found ourselves at a table that was on the periphery, one of the outermost. I apologized, “Freshmen don’t rank unless they’re connected or jocks.” She quickly nodded and sat before I could pull out her chair. For the first half-hour, we basically watched everything going on around us without saying anything, except when I asked if she would like a drink. The other couples assigned to our table were not native English speakers, and seemed as awkward with each other as we were, making this an unpleasant situation. Finally, I touched Polly on the arm to get her attention and she jumped in surprise. “Il nous faut parler, ou ce sera une nuit beaucoup, beaucoup ennuyeuse,” I said with a mock eye roll. “Tu peut compter les doigts pour t’amuser mieux.”
She gaped in surprise, then finally smiled and responded in french. That got us talking—although not in English. We tried to break the ice with the others at the table because we thought that’s what we should do to be social, but we hadn’t had much practice at that sort of thing, and so only achieved partial success. At least we got them talking—even if there were conversations in three languages other than English going on at our table. Polly seemed to have relaxed, and she became the same sweet, funny girl she had been at her mother’s party. After dinner, I asked her if she wanted to dance, and so we did, although neither of us was very good at it. Eventually, we headed back to our table to take a break. She picked up her purse and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Al. There’s a lounge downstairs that allows smoking. You don’t have to come with me.” I volunteered, revealing a brand-new disposable lighter that I’d purchased for this occasion, heeding the Frenchman’s words. She laughed and gaily said, “Come on. I suppose you really should use it now that you’ve bought it.”
The lounge was a collection of small tables in a high-ceilinged room. Being underage, we entered unobtrusively and chose a table near the door. Polly sat across from me, reached into her purse, and removed a cigarette case. I didn’t see the cigarette until she closed the case: it was a More. I was so stunned that it took me a couple of seconds to react as she waited for me to light it. Polly took a long drag, and instead of her natural french-inhale, she performed a long, extended, showy one. I could feel the heat appear between my legs. “Like the cigarette case?” she brightly asked, not pausing for an answer before she expanded, “My mom loaned it to me for the occasion. She thinks that formal occasions demand formal accessories.” I nodded blankly, watching her next drag and leisurely exhale and the long brown cigarette between her fingers. “But since this is her case, it only fits her Mores. She said I’d have to get my own case for mine,” she happily continued.
The heat faded slowly after Polly finished her first cigarette, but had left me with a residual warmth down there. The cigarette seemed to make her even more comfortable with the situation, and we began to chatter as we had on several occasions throughout the semester, occasionally switching to French. I finally gathered enough courage to ask her about what she thought about my parting comment after the party. “Oh, I really didn’t think about it too much,” she shrugged, “after all, you were pretty buzzed that night.” Right about then, a group of five freshmen tried to buy drinks from the bartender. Apparently, one of them had a fake ID and bravado, but quickly retreated when threatened with having hotel security summoned. We giggled nervously, but were worried that our refuge had been blown. The waitress stopped by to assure us that we could stay on the edge of the lounge as long as we didn’t try anything like that or call attention to ourselves. In exchange, we ordered two virgin cocktails and tipped her nicely.
Polly smoked another two cigarettes while we were in the lounge, and each time the heat level between my legs increased a notch, and her final drag from her last cigarette was done with a long, slow french-inhale. By that point, I understood that she wasn’t doing it for or because of me, but because she was having fun. It didn’t matter: I was hard, and despite my best efforts at control, could not do much more than keep it from making an obvious tent at the front of my pants. When last call sounded, Polly stood quickly and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, allowing me a little more time to work on concealing the effect that her smoking the Mores had on me. For whatever reason, it had been even more intense here in the hotel lounge than the other times at her house.
The dorm formal had been forgotten; indeed, the event was over and the room was pretty much deserted as we left the hotel for her car, talking animatedly between ourselves, not holding hands or anything like that. The ride back to the dorms was a stark contrast to the nervous silences of the trip out. When she pulled up in front of the building, I thanked her for being my date. “No, Al, thank you, for asking me. I had a lot of fun,” Polly smiled. A few seconds later, she looked shyly away, and softly added, “And it was—nice—the way you looked at me. It made me feel—special.” The car suddenly became dead silent. Polly raised her head to look at me with her lips slightly parted, her eyes slightly lidded and nervous expectation on her face.
I’d heard of the expression “a kissing cast,” but had never seen it until that moment. I understood what she was silently asking, and I slowly, but without hesitation, leaned to Polly’s face and our lips met. Then our tongues began to dance, and Polly placed her hands on the side of my face and the back of my neck and I gently cradled her face as our kiss became more passionate, and we broke long enough to breathe some air before resuming our embrace. There was no heat in my groin when we stopped a second time, just an iron bar that threatened to rip my pants. I couldn’t quite read the expression on Polly’s face, but it became unnecessary when she urgently panted, “Do you really want to go back your room and roommate tonight?”
“No,” I replied, matching her urgency.
The brief ride to her house was eerily silent, but this time, there was no trace of nervousness in the air. Her mother and brother were forgotten as she quietly opened the front door and we headed directly to her room. Once the door had closed behind us, we were kissing hungrily, and she ground her pelvis against mine, feeling my erection redevelop in seconds. The air was charged with sexual tension, and the only sounds in the room were of heavy breathing between kisses. It had been silently, and mutually agreed what was going to happen between us, and so there was no mad rush to lust. We undressed carefully, mindful of our dressy clothes, and as she revealed her body, it never occurred to me to compare Polly’s lack of physical assets with those of other girls. I gently took one of her small breasts in my hand, and began to suck on the erect nipple, making her sigh dreamily.
She pulled at my head, bringing it back to her face, and we were kissing again. Her free hand wrapped around my hardness, and Polly cooed in surprise and pleasure. She lay on her bed, inviting, and the buckteeth and average face were not important now. I entered her easily. Polly was wetter and warmer than any girl I’d ever been with, and I sank myself completely into her as she uttered a soft, happy cry. We moved slowly, our limbs sliding along each other and each thrust of mine went completely into her as she would arch her back and cock her hips in perfect rhythm with my movements. Our lips met again and again, and suddenly I squeaked into her mouth and began to moan and sigh. Polly’s breathing became a little louder, she wrapped her legs around my hips, and pulled at my butt. “Ohhhhhh,” I happily sighed as I began to fill her, drawing an answering happy groan from her. I moved and the sensation made me jab ferociously at her with a snort, and it was her turn to squeak loudly. I felt her close even more tightly around me and the delicious burning consumed my mind and body until all I could see was a bright, bright light.
When I came back to earth, Polly was on top of me, kissing me, and I was still inside her, although softening. We kissed until I slipped out of her, and she rolled onto her side purring, “Mmmmmmm. That was wonderful, Al.” We kissed some more, and then Polly reached onto her nightstand and picked up the cigarette case. She didn’t bother to wait for me to light the More, and took a long, long, deep, luxurious drag. The sight of her naked and smoking the More shortened my refractory period. She had barely gotten halfway through it before I was hard and reaching for her with desire. This time, I was a lot less gentle, Polly was a lot less quiet, but even more enthusiastic, easily matching the urgency of my thrusts, her brown eyes sparkling despite the darkness of the room. I filled her for the second time that night, and she greedily accepted it, her eyes wide with delight and joy, squeaking in her own orgasm. Panting and gasping filled the room, and, at four in the morning, we cuddled up, kissed for a few minutes, and then sleep claimed us.
I woke up before she did, and snuggled against her warm body for a while before starting to give her little kisses around her upper back and neck. Polly stirred, stretched, and rolled over, greeting me with a deep kiss, which turned into several, and suddenly she was on top of me, with me hard and inside of her yet again. Polly bounced on my hips, yipping happily and suddenly, her eyes rolled up, and she pressed her hips down hard against me, grinding and rotating. “Ohhhh… myyyyy… ARRRGGGGHHHH!” Her throaty, grunting cry was followed by loud, squishing sounds, and suddenly, Polly’s body froze, locking her upright as she quivered and her insides rippled and clutched along my hardness. “OHHH!” she yelped, and her body melted onto mine and we were kissing again and I was thrusting up at her and then… I screamed. Loudly. I couldn’t stop it as my own intense orgasm exploded, and was barely aware that Polly was making loud noises of her own.
A blissful, mindless eternity later, we lay in her bed, softly giggling about how much noise we had made. Polly reached for another More, and when no heat arose, I knew that I was finished for now. We kissed and snuggled for another hour or so, finally getting out of bed and getting dressed to go downstairs. It was almost two in the afternoon. We headed for the kitchen, and I stopped short at the sight of her mother sitting at the island, having a More and some coffee while looking at a laptop. “Polly,” she said without looking up, “your brother’s game should be finished around three. Would you mind picking him up?”
“Ummm… well…” Polly hesitated.
“I took him to the game because I figured you’d like to sleep late after the formal,” Mrs. Collier continued, seemingly unmindful of what her daughter had done, let alone of my very presence, an illusion which was shattered with, “Good afternoon, Al.”
I cleared my throat, but my answering, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Collier,” came out sounding much more high-pitched and scared than I had intended.
“Well, I have a lunch ready for both of you. You must be hungry by now,” she evenly answered, still without revealing any hint of what she was thinking.
“Mom, I have to take Al—back to the dorms,” Polly protested.
“He can wait. Remember, we only have one car right now, and your brother’s got to get to work on his class project,” her mother firmly replied. “I’m going to have a hard enough time getting him to focus as is. The sooner I get him away from the gym, the better. Now eat your lunch. I made your favorite soup.” Polly and I nervously regarded each other; obviously her mother wanted to talk to me alone. When Polly left, she shot me a nervous grin, and I began to get scared.
“Help me clear your lunch dishes, Al,” Mrs. Collier requested as soon as the door had closed. We made small talk during the few minutes it took for us to finish that task. “Have a seat,” she said. “Now that Polly is gone, let’s talk honestly, you and I.” I swallowed hard. She lit a More, and I was so scared that it didn’t even register. “First of all, I do want to let you know that I appreciate you asking my daughter out on a date. Polly was very excited, even if it was just two classmates who were friends going out. She doesn’t get asked out very often.” Mrs. Collier paused to drag on the long brown cigarette, and there was ice in my groin, indeed, throughout my whole body, despite her leisurely, head-tilted exhale though both her lips and nostrils. “Obviously, things went a little further than just friends,” she said, her voice flat. She must have seen the panic on my face, because she continued, “Calm down, Al. You’ll find that I’m much more—European—in many of my attitudes. I won’t ask you to, nor do I think you should, apologize for making my daughter have a massive orgasm this morning.” I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole just so I could get away from the woman who was killing me slowly with embarrassment. “Passion is a wonderful thing, as long as the couple involved takes appropriate—caution,” Polly’s mother continued. “Did you? Please be honest.”
She was treating me like an adult, and I had been taught responsibility when it came to sex. However, neither Polly nor I had spent even a moment to consider the issue of protection. Nonetheless, I felt that I had to own up to my part of our irresponsibility. I swallowed hard and quietly admitted, “No, Ma’am.”
Mrs. Collier raised an eyebrow at that, but all she said was, “Honesty. I appreciate that. I believe that Polly has taken adequate—measures—against pregnancy, but there are other issues that surround this. I think I know the answer to this question, but I still have to ask, and once again, I want you to be honest with me.” There was a silence in the kitchen, and I shifted uneasily in my chair. “Al, are you—promiscuous?”
I almost laughed out loud at that, and couldn’t quite completely suppress the chuckle. Polly’s mother gave me a funny look, and I felt compelled to explain, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Collier, it’s just that the thought of my being attractive enough to be able to be promiscuous is a completely foreign concept. Let alone my acting on it.”
She sighed, obviously relieved. “I had that impression. Your French is very good, but your ease in social situations isn’t—as mature as the rest of you.” She put out her cigarette. “As I said earlier, I’m much more European, not to mention realistic, in my attitudes about such things. As long as my daughter is safe from the possible dangers in your behavior—and I recognize that it takes two to tango—then I’m not sure that I should stop you,” Mrs. Collier said. “And frankly, I’m honest enough with myself that I’m willing to admit that I don’t know if I could stop you.” She reached for another More, but decided not to light it. “I plan on having this same discussion with my daughter, and then I don’t want to hear any more about this,” she resumed. “I would, however, ask that you both consider some discretion regarding time and place. It would have been very awkward to explain this morning’s noises to my son had he been home.”
I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I had been holding, and trembled with relief. “Polly is going to think very much more of you because of this,” Mrs. Collier noted. “And although you seem to be an intelligent, personable, and honorable young man,” she pleasantly continued, “if this is all a farce and I find out that you really were just out for a good time, if you wind up hurting my daughter, I promise that I will personally cut your balls off. Are we clear?” The steel beneath her the lightness of her tone left me no doubt that she would find a way to make good on her threat.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I soberly answered.
“Good. I’m glad that we understand each other.” After another wordless silence where we looked at each other, she asked, “Will you be staying for dinner, or would you like Polly to take you back to the dorms?”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Collier, I think I would—feel awkward—tonight, in light of our discussions,” I replied.
She accepted that with a nod, and said, “I am having a party next Friday, then. I will definitely let my daughter know that you are welcome to accompany her.”
After our lab on Monday, we cut our next classes in favor of sitting in a quiet corner of one of the campus coffee houses. “So what did my mom talk to you about?” Polly asked. “She seems to like you a lot, and she told me that I could bring you to the party if you were free.”
In light of the threat Mrs. Collier had left me with, that was somewhat of a surprise. “She basically told me that she knew what we did—we were pretty loud—and just asked me to consider being more discreet in the future.” I didn’t want to tell Polly everything that had been discussed.
“Yah,” Polly rejoined, “pretty much the same here. I got the responsibility lecture again, and she wanted me to make sure that you were—safe.” Sometime during her response, our hands had found each other. “So do you want to come over Friday night? And be my—date?” I could see in her eyes the hope that I would say yes, and simultaneous fear that I would say no. The fact was that having her hand in mine felt—good, and I liked it. It suddenly hit me that I liked her. “My brother’s got another tournament, so I’ve even got the car all day.”
“Of course! When should I be ready?” I smiled. She virtually launched herself across the table to kiss me. I didn’t care that it raised a few nearby eyebrows.
“ Maybe a couple of hours before the party—like right after your last class,” Polly whispered in my ear. “I know a place,” she panted, then impulsively, awkwardly, licked my earlobe. I trembled, and the heat arose in my groin without any cigarettes or smoke in sight.
Friday arrived, and we left campus at two because Polly ditched her last class. The place she knew was a “no-tell motel” with clean sheets near the airport, one where the clerk did not care as long as we could prove that we were both over eighteen and paid with cash, including a decent deposit. She nonchalantly handed the money over and took the key without hesitation or any sign of nervousness. At least until we were safely in the room with the door closed behind us, and then she started to tremble. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Polly, do you want to do this? I mean, it’s OK if—”
“No,” she very quickly interrupted. “I really want to do this—I’m just—so—excited and nervous at the same time,” she breathed. “Do you mind if I have a cigarette first to calm down?” I told her that I didn’t. I was half-hoping that she’d be smoking a More, but she pulled out the Virginia Slims 120’s instead. I was also very surprised when her natural french-inhale and nervous smoking began to have an effect on me. Polly stopped smoking nervously about halfway through, and obviously relaxed, began to lift her chin for her long, silent exhales. She finished the Virginia Slim with a big french-inhale, and turned to regard me gaping stupidly at her with a bulge in my jeans. “Oh, wow,” she whispered. “C’mere.”
She wrapped her hand around my erection and I gasped as she tentatively stroked it. I leaned forward to kiss her, hungry, not caring about the taste of smoke in her mouth, and she moaned. She frantically undressed, and as our lips met, she grabbed me, and rolled us over into the missionary position. I hesitated for a moment, remembering the rubbers I had sitting in my jeans heaped on the floor. “Polly,” I gasped, “wait a minute—I’ve got rubbers this time.”
She tightened her arms around me, looking deeply into my eyes. “No,” she countered. “I really like it when you shoot in me.” That simple statement almost made me lose it, and I didn’t last very long this time, in contrast to our first few times. Polly seemed very happy to kiss me and silenced every attempt at apology I made, shushing me and kissing me aggressively whenever I tried to say anything. I became very hard, very quickly at her insistent attentions, and then she slid herself along my body, spreading her legs from above, reaching behind her, and placing me at her portal.
A very distinct, wet, sucking noise sounded in the room as Polly settled onto me with a loud, happy moan, and I began to truly appreciate the sounds of a woman in heat having passionate sex. I didn’t need to move very much, nor did I care to, enthralled by the experience and spectacle of my girlfriend’s orgasm, and as she came down, Polly regarded me with incredible tenderness and joy, accompanied by little orgasmic eye rolls during aftershocks.
Eventually, the tingle in my own cock reclaimed my attention, and I tentatively began to move beneath her. Polly moaned again, very loudly, leaned over and poured her tongue into my mouth. My hips gained speed, and she arched backwards with a cry as I popped out. She was huffing and panting in high-pitched cries and whimpers as her body shook. I mounted her missionary-style again, feeling larger and longer than I ever had in my life. “AWWWOOOOOHHHH!” she cried into my ear, her arms and legs wrapping around me, echoing her inner depths’ reaction. She held me so tightly that I couldn’t raise my hips very far and so I could not pound at her. However, the constant wet friction quickly brought me to the brink. I gulped and hoarsely whispered her name. Polly moaned and grabbed me more tightly, and then I came. She cried out with every pulsing burst, burying her mouth into my shoulder when she could to muffle her joyous noises.
We arrived at the party arm-in-arm about an hour after it had started. Polly's mother gave me a knowing smile when I was separated from her daughter for a few minutes, and I blushed. Her daughter rejoined me shortly thereafter, and Mrs. Collier gave me a second, genuine smile as she saw the happy expression on her daughter's face. Polly linked her arm with mine as the conversation turned to us. The Frenchman who had given us the lecture also smiled as we explained that we weren't involved at the time of the last party, but that we were now. He laughed that he had known by the way I was looking at Polly towards the end of the night.
As the party was winding down, we found ourselves temporarily alone in the foyer after Polly had said goodnight to a family friend. “So he knew about us,” she said, giving me a playful nudge, “by the way you were looking at me at the end of the night, huh? Yeah, right.” I shrugged with a stupid grin and followed her into the living room. Suddenly, Polly stopped and began, half to herself, “I wonder…” before turning to me with a bright, “Be right back!” as she ran off. Polly returned a minute later with a More between her fingers and took a big drag, accompanied by a big, showy, french-inhale, while posing with the long brown cigarette held at the end of her gaily extended arm. “Al, did it have anything to do with my… elegance?” Her voice was soft and throaty. After another long french-inhale and slow, head-tilted exhale into the light, she looked at me purposefully, smiling, and her eyes were shining. This time, Polly was doing it for me.
My pants began to feel a little tight as she seductively swayed over to me. Her free hand dropped, brushed the front of my pants and Polly grinned even more. “You weren’t that drunk that night, were you?” My voice seemed to be held captive by her intentionally sexy way and appearance with the More. I shook my head. “Guess I’m going to be changing brands, then,” she breathed into my ear, and then quietly sang, “We still have a room until noon tomorrow, and I’ve got almost a full pack of Mores. Let’s say our goodnights.”
Polly and I dated for the rest of the school year, and true to her word, she only smoked More menthols around me from that night on. We would spend a night at our sexual refuge every other week, except for spring break. We had two separate two-night stays at the beginning and end of the week, both times leaving the room full of the scent of smoke and sex. “Do you have any idea of what it makes me feel like, the way you look at me when I smoke?” she asked one evening in my dorm room as we prepared to go out. “Other guys—never ever look at me like that. It’s like with you, I feel pretty—no, sexy—for a while.”
“Only for a while?” I asked.
“Well,” she purred, taking my arm, “you always make me feel special. Like I’m the only girl in the world for you. But the other thing it’s—well—I just like feeling—sexy.” Polly trembled on my arm, complaining, “I wish we could go to the motel tonight instead of just out to dinner, but I can’t—not this week. But just thinking about it makes me horny.”
I didn’t leave for the summer until two days after my last final exam. Polly and I spent a day-and-a-half after her last final having sex in the motel, not even leaving the room until she took me straight to the airport for a lingering, tearful goodbye at the departure area. We promised to e-mail each other daily, and call as often as we could. As I got on the plane, I wondered if anyone else would notice her newfound sexiness, and if Polly would still be waiting for me when I came back in three months. She still had more chances for romance than I did; after all, she would have the opportunity to meet and be with other guys who lived there as she did, and so school didn’t have to bring her summer fling to an end.