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From: John Jameson <j_jameson1780@my-deja.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Donna [3/7] {Jameson} (MFF Rom Oral)
Date: Sun, 6 Feb 2000 07:10:03 -0500
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Donna
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Copyright 2000, John Jameson. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction, and all characters and events are drawn from
the author's fevered imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living
or dead, is unintentional. If you think you recognize yourself here,
it's no doubt a matter of projection on your own part. (Unless, of
course, you happen to be female, are not offended by what you read, and
find middle-aged would-be authors of erotica irresistible. But we'll
save that discussion for some other time.)
Please do not reproduce this work in any form without the express
consent of the author. If you want to archive this story, you may
contact me at Jameson1780@altavista.com.
If you are offended by explicit depictions of human sexuality, you may
want to look elsewhere for entertainment (after consulting a competent
therapist). If it is illegal for you to read such materials due to
age, local laws, or other considerations (and you know who you are, so
let's not kid each other), then please go no further. Not that I can
stop you, but at least my conscience is clear now.
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Part Three -- Passionate Persistence
The next morning was a lecture hall day for Foundations of Western
Civilization, so Donna and I sat in the cavernous auditorium and
scribbled notes as we tried to keep up with the rambling lecture from
the professor who "taught" the course. Though neither of us had yet
spoken to him face-to-face, it was unlikely we ever would. Full
professors didn't deal with freshman in survey courses--that's what
teaching assistants were for. We both had an open period after the
lecture, so we decided to walk the two blocks over to The Shack and
examine the names and initials carved into the booths by prior
generations of Mizzou students, while we munched their famous burgers.
"Holy shit!" I exclaimed, when she commented that one of the names was
the same as mine, except it was followed by the date 10/10/47. "That's
my dad's inscription; he was a student here in '47 after he got out of
the Navy!" Donna laughed delightedly and kept examining the records
left by the penknives of countless students over the decades. The
Shack had been the University's landmark eatery in its location just
across from Jesse Hall and the Columns.
"Why does the name Mort Walker ring a bell?" she mused quietly at one
point. She showed me the inscription, and I laughed.
"Did you ever read `Beetle Bailey' or `Hi and Lois' in the newspaper
comics?"
"The local paper carries `Beetle Bailey' . . . Oh, God; this is the
Mort Walker who writes that?"
"Yeah," I explained, "he was a student here, too. In fact, Beetle was
a freshman at Mizzou before he joined the Army."
We took our time over lunch as neither of us had a class until two that
afternoon. While we sipped thick, rich malts for dessert, we looked at
other old inscriptions carved into the table top, benches, and back
wall of our booth, making up little stories to go with some of them and
laughing happily.
When we reluctantly parted, it was with the agreement we'd meet as
usual on the third floor of the Library after dinner.
When I got to our accustomed study table, Donna was waiting there for
me with a frown darkening her normally happy face.
"What is it, baby?" I whispered, stepping around behind her to massage
her shoulders. She leaned back until her blue eyes met mine.
"Delay of game," she answered sadly. "I could tell at dinner tonight
I'm gonna be starting my period before tomorrow."
"Oh, fuck!" I growled quietly as I dropped into my chair opposite her.
"And here I thought I had good news for you: Alfred's going home for
the weekend." I held her hand gently in both of mine while she tried
to decide whether to laugh or cry at the irony.
"Doesn't it just figure?" she giggled, obviously opting for the
humorous interpretation rather than the tragic. I still wasn't so sure
it was funny, but I smiled back anyway. What the hell, I thought,
she's gonna feel bad enough the next few days without me pouting about
something we can't control.
"I don't suppose he normally goes back to Independence two weekends in
a row, huh?"
"Nope, every other weekend, like clockwork."
"Shit, and my folks are coming up for Parents' Weekend the week after
next," she sighed.
We went to work and got our homework out of the way, then strolled
quietly from the Library to Donna's dorm. There was no groping in the
bushes this night, just our usual kiss good night at the door. The
next several days it seemed as though even the weather was laughing at
our frustration, with a brief resurgence of Indian summer bringing
daytime temperatures in the 70s, falling into the low 60s in the
evenings.
That next Tuesday morning when we met at the door outside the seminar
room where our class section met with the TA twice a week, Donna asked
me what I was grinning about. Rather than answering directly, I asked
how she was feeling now that her period was over.
"Wonderful, thanks; now what's so fucking funny?" she whispered.
"I'll tell you after class."
All through the discussion of the assigned readings from Plutarch, I
kept grinning, Donna kept kicking my ankle under the table, and the TA
kept giving us dirty looks. As soon as the class ended, she grabbed me
by the arm and dragged me out onto the sidewalk.
"Okay, Mr. Smartass," she demanded as she melted into my embrace,
"what's so damned funny?"
"What plans do you have for Saturday?" I asked, hugging her tightly.
"I thought maybe we could go see `Catch-22' over at the theater on
Broadway," she mused, "unless . . ." I saw comprehension dawn on her
face just before she dug her fingers into my ribs. "You sneaky
bastard!" she giggled. "You've found something, haven't you?"
"Some of the folks from the counseling center have gone in together to
rent a huge, old pre-Civil War farmhouse outside of town," I told her.
"If you're interested, we've got the use of one of the bedrooms
Saturday night if we're willing to help with cleanup and painting
during the day. We can stay through Sunday, and someone will give us a
ride back into town before Sunday night curfew at the dorms."
We caught a few amused looks from passers-by as Donna leaped from the
ground and wrapped her legs around my hips, kissing me passionately
enough to raise the surrounding air temperature by a good ten degrees.
"Let's go get lunch," she whispered as she nibbled my earlobe. "You're
gonna need your strength."
The rest of the week dragged on, with classes and our evening study
dates in the Library and the usual demands of a full course load never
enough to keep our minds off the weekend ahead for very long. Somehow,
though, we survived. When I left her at the entrance of her dorm on
Friday night, we agreed I'd meet her in the same spot at seven the next
morning and we'd walk together to where my friend Donny would pick us
up in his VW microbus to drive out to the farmhouse.
--
New story "Donna" is posted to my Web site
----
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/John_Jameson/www
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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