is either illegal or inappropriate for you to be reading this, please

stop now. Or at least before you come to the good parts.
 

Author: Miles Naismith

Copyright ( c ) 1998 Mnaismith@hotmail.com
 
 

Distribution Rights: May be distributed freely without modification on

Usenet, Usenet II, not-for-profit web sites, not-for-profit ftp sites,

and news archival services which offer free public access to archived

articles. All other rights reserved.
 
 
 
 

CANNON SONG

By

Miles Naismith
 

Walking toward the particular Gothic arch in a long row of such arches

that marked the entry to Mike's dorm suite, in that Spring of 1969, I

was on a natural high. Trees were greening up nicely after a dreary

Winter, the evening was cool and pleasant, and my former long term best

friend, now my girlfriend, was walking beside me.
 

My girlfriend was a sight to behold. The micromini was the fashion,

and it could have been invented with Karen in mind. At five-ten, she was

as tall as I am and most of her was gorgeous leg. At the same time, in

one of those happy paradoxes so devoutly to be desired, feminists were

burning bras, leaving women's breasts unfettered before the lustful gaze

of men. Karen's breasts were not overly large, but they rode high and

her nipples dented her shirt enough to make it clear there was nothing

underneath. The face that was framed by the flyaway blond hair was not

that of a classic beauty, but she was cute, and I thought she was the

hottest thing on two legs.
 

Life was sweet.
 

"Tell me again who we're meeting tonight? Besides Mike?" asked Karen.
 

"Well, Mike's girlfriend Susan will be there - the one you said looked

like Annette Funicello - and John will be with Wendy, of course."

Wendy was John's fiancee. Mike and John represented two sixths of the

occupants of the suite that was our destination. The three of us were

members of the same eating club, Princeton's closest equivalent to a

fraternity.
 

"Please don't drool over Wendy's boobs tonight, Miles. It embarrasses

me."
 

"I don't drool, and you know I'm a leg man," I responded loftily, then,

grinning, "But I'll try to control the heavy breathing . . ." I flinched

as she punched my shoulder.
 

The other two couples had glasses in hand as we entered the suite. I

envied Mike and John their location. The door opened into a comfortable

sitting room, complete with fancy mouldings and a bay window, that gave

common space to three fairly large bedrooms. The suite accommodated

six, but four of the roommates had gone road tripping to Vassar that

weekend, leaving the place to us.
 

After hellos, Wendy said to Karen, "You can settle something for us.

How do you rate the guys for housekeeping?"
 

I looked around. Hmmm, no dirty clothes in sight, at least some

horizontal surfaces clear of detritus, including all of the cushions of

all of the mismatched furniture and most of the floor . . . Hey the guys

had cleaned up!
 

"No messier than most men, I guess. I mean there is a lot of clutter

around, but no obvious dirt, and nothing in a serious state of decay.

I'd rate them medium."
 

"Pay up," John said to Wendy. Turning to Karen, "She bet you'd rate it

as 'pigsty.'"
 

"Hey! What clutter?" asked Mike. Then sotto voice, "Just don't open

the door to the armoire."
 

"Have a drink," said John, handing us the glasses of fruit juice mixed

with whatever flavor of alcohol that happened to be in stock that passed

for cocktails among us.

We all sat and made small talk for the duration of the drink, then

Susan asked John what was on for the evening.
 

"Well, we kinda figured we could finish the game of Sloe Gin Spades we

started last time, then maybe some Truth or Dare or something." Sloe

Gin Spades was a local rules drinking game, perpetually proposed in

hopes of getting the girls drunk enough for the "or something" part of

the plan. After all this was the Sexual Revolution, and we didn't want

to miss it. With no incurable STDs and the pill popular with most

sexually active students, we were ready to place our bodies in harm's

way to fight the good fight. As a strategy in this revolution, however,

the primary result of Sloe Gin Spades to date had been massive

hangovers.
 

"Maybe a movie," said Wendy, looking at Karen. "Movie," said Karen,

looking at Susan. "Movie," agreed Susan, grabbing her sweater.
 

We strolled down Nassau Street, full of ourselves as only college kids

can be. The girls looked great and somehow got into a silly contest

trying to outdo each other in parodying the hip swinging sexy walk

stereotype. Heads turned. Mike, John and I were really just average

kind of guys, but we felt like celebrities with all the attention. At

least I did. It was a bit of a letdown when we got to the one theater

the town had to offer and found that the feature was some Swedish "art"

film.
 

"These things are *so* pretentious," groused Susan. "Probably going to

be rife with symbolism, saturated with gloom, and boring as Hell." She

was a math major, but her intonation suggested she'd be changing to the

drama department soon.
 

"Better that than that awful Elvira Madigan stuff," muttered Mike,

fearing we were in for a suffocatingly romantic ordeal.
 

They had both forgotten that there was yet another well known side to

Swedish culture. The movie began with a party, at which one of the

women attending was accused of being a virgin. Following some ribbing,

and derisive disbelief of the woman's protestations to the contrary, the

woman took a dare, stripped, and screwed her date in front of the

assembled multitude. No actual intercourse was shown and there was no

full frontal nudity, but the baring of tits and ass in an overtly sexual

context was pretty advanced for the time, and quite erotic in its way.

The remainder of the film was similarly "shocking". Actually, I was

shocked - or at least embarrassed - to be viewing this explicit fare

with the girls. I was even afraid to try and make out in the theater,

not knowing how Karen was taking this. I hoped it wouldn't put a strain

on the rest of the evening.
 
 

I needn't have worried. When we returned to the suite, the film was

the sole topic of conversation.
 

"Do you guys really get so excited over a few bare boobs and butts on

the screen?" asked Wendy. "They really didn't show much of the men, but

it wouldn't excite me if they did. At least not without knowing

something about the guy."
 

"Superficial," interjected Karen.
 

"Is it better to date a guy you don't really like for status? Girls do

that," said I, realizing my mistake only after the fatal words had left

my mouth.
 

Sure enough, the debate was on. So much for Truth or Dare, or dancing

to the stereo. These newly minted feminists had to defend their

position. The only good result from the male point of view was that it

was thirsty work. I don't think the girls kept track of their

consumption as well as they usually did.
 

Finally, Wendy said that she was irritated with the movie because it

seemed to take an unstated attitude that the Swedish women were sexually

free, while implying that its American audience could never be so

adventurous. Karen and Susan agreed.
 

I laughed and said, "But it * is* true . . . none of us here has the

nerve to strip in front of the others, much less screw. Let's face it,

we're too inhibited to do anything in public."
 

"I'll bet you couldn't find many Swedes who would be comfortable

screwing in front of an audience. The people watching were wearing

clothes, for God's sake," observed Karen drily.
 

I was forced to agree, but still insisted that, aside from a little

more freedom permitted by modern birth control, none of us could easily

free ourselves from the same cultural conditioning that bound our

parents. "It is well documented," said I, "That Swedes have fewer

inhibitions. If the premise is that American women are less free than

Swedish women, it's still basically right, even if they exaggerated."
 

The women angrily protested that it was not so. Not now. They

allowed as to how they were children of a new age who would make their

own rules.
 

"I sleep with anyone I want to," said Susan, "I'm just choosy. I don't

have my Mom's worries about getting pregnant, and that's what produced

the old morality."
 

The debate went on for an hour or so, dealing on an ever more

philosophical level with this most basic of acts (this was college,

remember.) Except for John and Wendy. For them the debate seemed more

personal, almost tinged with unspoken resentment. It was subtle, but

definitely there. Something to do with the loss of freedom that

accompanied the mutual commitment to marriage was my sense.
 

"Well if you're so uninhibited, let's see you strip now," said John,

addressing all the girls, but looking at Wendy. "Put up or shut up,"
 

"Alright, big man," said Wendy, sarcastically, "Just as soon as you

guys do." She sounded serious.
 

I could see that neither Karen nor Susan was comfortable with this.

For that matter, neither was I. We were none of us ugly, but neither GQ

nor Playboy would have given any of us a second look. I don't mind

being nude with a girlfriend, or in the locker room, but it would take a

bigger ego and a better body than mine to strip in this suddenly tense

atmosphere.
 

As we stared at one another, waiting for something to happen, I finally

said, "Not me. This is too weird and wouldn't prove anything anyway. I

say forget it - let's talk about something else."
 

Everyone looked a little relieved. John refilled glasses in the

ensuing silence. Then Susan, the quietest of us that evening, said,

evenly, "I think we can settle this. There are three bedrooms here,

each with its own door. Suppose you three leave the suite for five

minutes. Each of us will go into one of the bedrooms and turn off all

of the lights. When you come back, turn off the lights in this room.

Then each of you goes into one of the bedrooms. We'll set an alarm for

two hours, and when it goes off, you leave again for five minutes. The

only rules will be that the lights will remain off until everyone is

back out here, and that whatever occurs in the room must be mutual - no

force. Oh, and no one will ever speak about what happens in the room."
 

Never has a speech delivered like a lecture on the proof of a theorem

given me such an adrenalin rush. I also got an embarrassing lump in my

pants. Good thing I was sitting down. I waited for the protests from

the other girls. I couldn't believe it when none came.
 

With consummate sensitivity, Mike said, "But if we don't agree to sex

before we start, we could end up spending two hours just sitting in the

dark. How does that prove this great freedom?"
 

"Well, Mike," said Susan, "Miles advanced one thesis, and we've

advanced another. This is the experiment to determine if either is

true. If we agree in advance, there's no uncertainty." I just love a

mathematician who can also do empirical. So rare.
 

"I can't tell you how turned on I am," I said, "But Wendy, you and John

are *engaged*. Do you really want to do this?" I looked at Karen when

I said this, silently asking the same question.
 

Wendy smiled, "I'm not going to change who I am just because I'm

getting married. We'll just have to see whether John can accept me even

if I don't conform to the 'little missus' image. In fact, I just

thought that John might end up with me. That'd prove nothing. I want

to change the rules: we set the one alarm for one hour, set another for

two, and then you guys change rooms after the first hour. That way we

can be sure that each of us will be with at least one person other than

our own date. We should also ban talking. It'll be more of an adventure

if we can't be sure who we're with."
 

Mike, analytic as ever, noted that if sex were a possibility and if

anonymity were desired, then the men's clothing would have to be left in

the sitting room. Otherwise, the odd piece left in the dark would let

the women know who had been there.
 

Karen and John looked a little uncertain, but after a few glances back

and forth between the girls, Karen finally whispered, "Leave now before

we change our minds." The three of us walked out with our fists balled

in our pockets, a little hunched over. I was glad we had decided not to

strip. That walk out was embarrassing enough.
 

The three of us stood in the courtyard outside the entry, almost

shaking with excitement. John finally broke the silence, "This is

stupid. They'll never do it. Wendy, for one, is too straight. I'll bet

we go back and find that they've cooked up some joke to embarrass us."
 

We all laughed and agreed. We decided to wear our jockeys so the girls

could not catch us completely nude if this was a trick. We talked about

what we could do to retaliate, but underneath we hoped against hope.

After the five longest minutes of my life, we went into the suite.
 

Amazingly, there was no one in the sitting room. My heart beat faster,

even as I told myself to expect a glass of water in the face when I

opened a bedroom door. We stripped to our underwear and each of us

stood by his chosen door. I was closest to the switch, so I shut off

the lights and opened my door.
 

The room was black. I took a couple of steps and promptly hit my shin

on a bed. I felt around, but the bed was empty. At first I thought the

girls had tricked us by leaving, but then I remembered that the suite

held six, two beds to a room. I continued into the dark, feeling my way

past desks and chairs to the other bed. It was not empty.
 

Hearing the breathing of my anonymous companion, I felt for a clear

spot on the bed and sat down. Slowly I explored the remainder of the

bed until I found her, sitting on the edge at the head. A delicate

exploration found her leaning forward with her arms clutched around her

chest. She was fully dressed. Not promising body language, I thought

to myself.
 

Putting my hand on her cheek, I tried to gently turn her toward me, but

she resisted. She was obviously having second thoughts about the whole

thing. No more than I expected, I thought. I was disappointed, but

relieved at least that I would not be the butt of a humiliating joke. I

moved into the interior of the bed and sat against the headboard to wait

out the hour. I began to consciously control my breathing in hopes of

attaining a meditative state that would allow my erection to subside.
 

After a few minutes, I heard her turn and felt a hand on my thigh. She

started when she realized it was bare. In a moment, the hand was back,

moving up to my face. I heard her move again, and smelled some floral

perfume just before I felt her lips on mine. We kissed, but when I

started to move my arms, she took my wrists in her hands and put them at

my side, telling me as clearly as with speech to keep them there. She

moved away, and I heard some rustling which I hoped meant she was

disrobing. When she returned to our kiss, she pressed against me. She

felt bare except for a bra. A shiver of excitement passed down my

spine. Karen had not worn a bra.
 

We continued to kiss for several minutes, and she did not object when I

moved my hands to her arms and back. I confirmed that she was wearing

her bra and panties.
 

As we continued kissing, I tried to move my hands around to her

breasts, but each time she clamped down before they reached their

objective. After what seemed an eternity of this frustration, I

expected the alarm to sound at any minute. I decided that I would find

out whether our intimacy had peaked. I took one of her hands in mine

and placed the palm on my face. With my other hand, I plucked the strap

of her bra. Then slowly I smiled.
 

In context of the debate, the meaning was clear. As my smile

registered on her hand, she knew what I was saying. We sat for a few

seconds, then she moved away. I felt hands take mine, one to her face,

and one to her now bare breast. Then she smiled just as I had.
 

Mentally I was happy to concede the argument. My erection hardened

beyond what I had thought possible as I held in my hand that breast that

couldn't be Karen's. We fell to kissing again, and this time there was

no objection my caresses on those exciting strange breasts. Slowly I

kissed my way down to them, and took a stiff nipple in my mouth.
 

Kissing and licking both breasts, I moved my free hand up and down her

body, slowly coming closer to her center. While she pretended she

didn't know what I was doing, I snuck up on her mound, and let my thumb

graze her panties, as if by accident. She shuddered, but did not

protest. I moved back up to kiss her lips as my fingers became more

purposeful in their caresses. The silk of her panties felt glassy

smooth, and eventually hot and wet above her vagina. Her hips were

making tiny, involuntarily jerks as my thumbnail lightly traced the

furrow of her sex, bumping gently over her clitoris.
 

I took one of her hands and placed it on the lump in my underwear. She

grabbed me painfully hard, and then slid her hand under my waistband to

take me in hand.
 

With her hand under my pants, I slipped my fingers under the elastic at

the leghole of her panties, and began to rub her wet folds. Moving my

index finger to her little nubbin, I stroked it with only the most

delicate pressure. Her hips immediately began to spasm and she let out

a moan. I almost came then, for I was sure that moan had come from

Wendy. Visualizing her face and body made the whole experience even

more viscerally exciting, if that was possible. Any worry about coming

prematurely evaporated a second later, for as her body rocked in a

sudden orgasm, she squeezed her nails into my penis so hard I was afraid

I would bleed. Caught up as she was in her orgasm, however, I doubt

that she heard my cry.
 

As she calmed down a little, I took her hands and put them on the

pillow, above her head, with her wrists crossed. She started to lift

them, but I gently pushed them back. After several repetitions, she

left them where I had placed them. I then began to kiss and caress her

again, slowly working my way down her body. This time I did not stop at

her breasts. When she realized where I was headed, I felt her tense and

felt her hands on my head. Gently but firmly I returned them back over

her head. With a ragged breath, she left them there as I resumed my

journey. I was sure she had never been eaten before.
 

As I approached her mound, I raised myself up and slipped her panties

down and off her legs. Her hands suddenly hit my shoulders, but they

had returned to the pillow even before I could reach them. She did not

resist as I spread her legs and covered her with my mouth. Slowly and

gently at first, I licked and explored with my tongue. Slowly but

surely my tongue began to center its explorations on her clitoris.

Again her hips began to buck, and I used both hands to hold her while I

flicked my tongue as fast as I could.
 

Again her orgasm came with sudden intensity. Unable to control my own

lust any longer, I moved up and slipped into her while she was still in

the throes of her orgasm. My entry seemed to precipitate a new series

of shudders in her. She was a tight, warm pressure around my erection,

squeezing on every inward thrust. The sensation was almost too intense

to be pleasurable. Although I prided myself on my ability to defer

ejaculation to prolong the pleasure, no mental discipline in the world

could have stayed me from those few compulsive thrusts to orgasm as soon

as I was in her.
 

As I virtually collapsed on top of her, I felt her shudder again as my

softening member slid from her. We were languidly kissing when the

alarm went off.
 

I pushed myself off of her and off of the bed. I felt around for my

underwear, which I had managed to get off at some point. As I found it,

I felt something soft and fuzzy, like a sweater, although it could have

been a blanket. Only as I left the room did I think that Susan alone

had worn a sweater that night.
 

I'd been sure I'd been with Wendy, wondering what John would think when

he arrived by prearrangement at this room next to find his fiancee nude

and wet. Now I was not so sure.
 

As we had agreed, I stumbled through the darkened sitting room to my

next assigned bedroom. I blushed with embarrassment when the erection

of one of my friends grazed my hip as we passed unseeing. But then I

was in the new bedroom, and my penis was miraculously hard again.
 

More confident after the last encounter, I stripped off my underwear as

soon as the door closed. I felt my way to the far end of the room and

found the occupied bed. An exploratory hand found my nude adventuress

stretched out on her stomach. I slipped in beside her and lay down.
 

At my gentle tug, she rolled to her back. My hand caressed her breasts

and then moved lower. She limply let me spread her legs and rub her wet

vagina. With a resigned sigh, she began to pull me between her legs. I

began to sense that something was not quite right, a feeling that

intensified as I heard an almost silent sniffle while she reached to

guide me in.
 

At the sound, I moved back and sat on the foot of the bed. I wasn't

hypersensitive about political correctness or the absurdly strained

definitions of sexual harassment and rape that it spawned (they hadn't

been popularly reported back then), but I'd long ago decided that

recreational sex was only worth the potential hassles if the girl

appeared to actively enjoy it, not just tolerate it.

With my retreat, the sniffle evolved into active crying. I stretched

out and embraced my bedmate as best I could, considering that she had

drawn up in the foetal position. I also broke the rules and spoke,

trying to comfort her.
 

After a few minutes, she cuddled to me a little and the crying

subsided. When she spoke, it was Wendy.
 

In fits and starts, the cause of the crying began to emerge.

Apparently her first partner had been John, recognized by a mole on his

back. She was sure that he had not recognized her as she willingly

engaged in sex with him. She was sure he hadn't cared who it was. As

best I could tell, she was upset both because he had not recognized her

and because he had been so willing to bed a stranger. Words like "just

like a goddamn man," "can't think of anything except his dick," and "if

he really loved me he would have . . ." came through the sobs. And

then, after she had decided to get back at him by fucking the brains out

of whoever showed up next, I had rejected her. Or maybe it was

something else . . . coherency was not at a premium just then. I

suppose I could have defended John, pointing out that anonymous sex in

the dark was just what had been proposed and agreed to, by her, no less.

But by some sweet miracle of dumb luck, I did the right thing. I just

kept quiet and held her.
 

A few minutes of silence followed her torrent of words, and then I felt

a small fingers on my penis. It had drooped, but now fought its way

back to full staff. "I haven't been very fair to you, have I," she said

quietly.
 

"You don't have to do anything for me," I said. "You have proof in

hand that I find you sexy, but you've always known that anyway. Hey, no

obligation."
 

She kept her hand there and whispered, "Uncle Miles?"
 

I winced. I had known this was an "Uncle Miles" moment from the

instant I heard Wendy's voice, but I didn't want to hear the words. Not

now. Not with her hand *there*.
 

Wendy and I had a relationship no one else knew about. It started

years ago when she thought she needed a male friend to confide in over

some problem with John. A Dutch uncle. Uncle Miles. As the trust

between us grew, so did something else. A special love. Not the kind

she felt for John, nor the kind I was coming to feel for Karen, but

special. Intimate. Neither John nor Karen would ever have understood

without feeling threatened. The words "Uncle Miles" had come to be the

key to that special room where we admitted our vulnerability to each

other, allowed ourselves to admit our feelings. It also invoked the seal

of the Confessional. Nothing said there was ever mentioned outside,

even between us. She didn't turn that key often.
 

"Uncle Miles?" This time it was a plea.
 

"Uncle Miles," I agreed.
 

"You know I'm going marry John."
 

"I knew before you did, I think."
 

"You know I'm going to be that little missus. Faithful and loyal just

like my Mom."
 

"It's the only way you could be."
 

"Miles, I was ready to fuck whoever came through that door. But I

don't want that any more."
 

"I know. No obligation."
 

"That's not what I meant. I want you to make love to me. Just this

once."
 

For the briefest instant I wondered whether this was going to be wrong.

No more adventure, no anonymous sex in the dark. Something that could

kill our relationship forever. Something that could kill my friendship

with John. But I had to do it.
 

The words had been tender; the sex was not. It turned out neither of

us was into foreplay. She quickly pulled me into missionary position

and guided me into her. I almost came immediately, but fought it off

and stayed hard. I continued to thrust until she moaned and came. As I

started again to thrust, she pushed me off, saying she had to move.

Quickly she was on her hands and knees. Doggy style was new to me, but

I figured it out.
 

I wanted it to last forever. Thanks to a forced mental recitation of

Horatio at the Bridge (the only poem I had memorized in high school,) I

was not even close to coming when she had her next orgasm and fell

forward on the bed. I followed her down and continued to thrust as she

tilted her hips up to help.
 

Suddenly we were startled by the alarm, and I disengaged. Wendy

quickly sat up and pulled me back to her as I stood up by the bed. One

hand went around to my back, and the other encircled the base of my

erection. Then I felt soft lips parted by the head of my penis. Her

warm, wet mouth moved down my shaft while her hand moved up. I felt her

tongue on the underside of my glans, following the ridges. Although I'd

performed cunnilingus on some of my dates, this was my first time on the

receiving end of oral sex. The physical sensations were exquisite, but

very idea of me in Wendy's mouth was even more overwhelming. In less

time than it took to describe it here, I came. I think it surprised her,

but she gamely held me inside until the last spasmodic quivers had

ended. Then it was over.
 

I quickly donned my underwear and left the room. I heard the other two

guys already there, getting dressed as I pulled on my own clothes. We

slammed the door to let the girls know that we were gone.
 

For five minutes we stood in silence in the courtyard, scarcely

believing what had happened, and, more bizarre yet, that the *girls* had

talked themselves into it. I spent the time wondering whether I had

just made a big mistake. When we returned, the girls were dressed in

the living room. We quickly parted company, and Karen and I walked back

to my dorm room.
 

On the way, I asked her if she had been able to recognize who she had

been with, half hoping that she would reveal what had happened to her.

Strangely, being with Wendy had made me feel even closer to Karen. I

truly cannot tell you whether I would've rather been assured that

nothing had happened in Karen's room, or whether I wanted to hear that

she had shed her inhibitions with strangers in the dark. I never knew,

though, because she never said a word about what happened for the

remainder of the time we saw each other. But then, neither did I.
 
 

*******

Credit where credit is due - This story read rather like a lecture in

first draft. I needed help. Janey Urquhart graciously agreed to do

some editing and to give me advice. She helped me figure out how to fix

it, and I did the best I could. Thanks, Janey. BTW, I was not so crass

as to ask her to proofread after she had given me so much time on the

important stuff; the credit for proofing errors must go to me.
 

Miles Naismith