Seneca 1

by Greg Ossog

narrated by Neal Scoville, 33, ex-product manager at Granite 
Corp.

(Story continues from "The Shredder".)

(Author's note: as it turns out, there really is a Seneca 
College in Ontario. This story's college, in upstate New York, 
is entirely fictional.)

Sandy's friend called promptly at 9:05 the next morning, as I 
was checking email and planning my day. "Mr. Scoville? This is 
Sandrine Matlin. I'm a friend of Sandra Bryant, who you 
apparently worked with."

"Yes, she's with Boardman and Carruthers. They did a site 
visit," I said.

"I heard you got her out of a sticky situation."

I was habitually cautious at times like this. "Well, I'm 
certainly glad it turned out all right for her. But I promised 
her I'd keep what happened confidential."

Sandrine laughed. "Don't worry. She told me everything. But 
that's not why I'm calling.

"Our organization is looking for a man to fill a new type of 
position. A little experimental. And we'll need you to keep the 
same kind of discretion you did with Sandy. But based on what 
she told me, I think you'd be ideal for the job, and if you 
accept it, you'll be very well rewarded."

"It sounds interesting," I said. "But can you tell me a little 
more about it?"

"Not right now. I would like to speak with you in person. How's 
your Saturday?"

My Saturday was a bike ride up to the lake if the weather held 
out. "It's ... available," I said.

"Splendid," she said. "Wear summer clothes. Shorts and T-shirt. 
And bring a change of casual clothing for that evening. It'll be 
an all-day affair. I'll pick you up at your house in the 
morning... how does 10 am sound?"

She was a smooth salesman. I hadn't even thought about agreeing 
to meet with her, but now we had an appointment. I saw little 
harm in finding out what this was all about, though. And 
curiosity was getting to me. "Looking forward to it," I said.

Sandrine arrived promptly the next morning in a Jaguar 
convertible with leather seats. She looked about 35, refined, 
confident, and evidently took good care of herself. Her dark 
walking shorts and crisply white plain T-shirt showed off trim 
legs, compact waist, and modest but shapely bust. I imagined it 
was business or evening wear where she would look really 
stunning.

"Hop in!" she said. "Gorgeous day out, don't you think?"

"Beautiful," I said. As we drove away we chatted a bit about my 
neighborhood, her convertible, and other innocuous topics. But I 
wanted to find some things out.

"So where are you taking me?" I said.

"I can't tell you yet," she said apologetically. "In fact, on 
the way up, I need you to fill out this non-disclosure 
agreement." She reached for a leather pad from the back seat.

I was familiar with NDAs from our engineering team and expected 
few surprises. This one was short, distilled down to one page. 
But it still left out who I might be working for, or even the 
nature of the business, and demanded near total secrecy from me.

"You know, if this happens to be government work," I said, "I 
should tell you right off that I don't have a clearance, and 
would probably have trouble getting one."

"It's not that," she said. "It's more like scientific work. 
Behavioral study, in a way. But if word gets out early to the 
wrong people, then a lot of work would have to be started over.

"We'll keep our end of the bargain, too. Your work here will be 
kept confidential. And you'll find out a lot when we get to the 
site. But to protect both sides, we need you to sign."

"No problem," I said, and signed.

By this time Sandrine had taken us out of town onto a state road 
leading toward the Adirondacks. After about ten miles, we turned 
onto a narrower road with no number. If I knew the area 
correctly, this road would wander among the hills and come out 
-- maybe -- on the other side about 30 miles away. There wasn't 
much of anything this direction.

"We are going somewhere, right?" I asked. "This really seems 
like the scenic route to nowhere."

"This is the shortest way," she said. "Anyway, don't worry. 
Whether or not you can figure out the destination won't make a 
difference."

But I couldn't let it go. What was out here? Just state forest, 
Tononga Lake... and then I remembered that PBS documentary. But 
that couldn't be it!

"Seneca College?" I said.

"Maybe," she grinned.

"But that's an all-girl school."

"Yes, it is."

"No men allowed on campus at all."

"That's correct."

I remembered the details from the TV show. Seneca College, 
established in the 1920s, was a highly esteemed yet secretive 
women's college. It was extremely selective, and many famous and 
powerful women had studied in its halls. The private college had 
a huge endowment, and donated generously to many area charities 
and schools. It was rumored that many large anonymous 
foundations also were funded by Seneca.

The spacious campus was set in the woods, a dozen miles from the 
nearest town, for privacy, so girls could grow up and learn free 
from the eyes and influence of men. The students left campus 
frequently to interact with the outside world, but Seneca was a 
haven they could always return to. The last men to set foot on 
campus were the carpenters and bricklayers who completed the 
main building in 1928.

Ingenious ideas were employed to maintain security and privacy 
without making the students feel confined. The school property 
included about four square miles of forest, and the perimeter 
was constantly patrolled. All windows had one-way glass to 
prevent peeking inside. The most impressive features were the 
giant solaria extending from the newer buildings: high, arched 
ceilings of one-way material that allowed students to enjoy the 
sun and fresh air in privacy from those who might want to take 
photos from the air.

All faculty, staff, carpenters, cooks, and so on were women. 
Even the film crew for the PBS documentary was all female. Men 
were simply not allowed on campus, ever. So how could it be 
possible that I was going there?

Sandrine turned onto an even smaller side road, marked with 
"Private Property / No Trespassing" signs on both sides. About a 
mile in, as we approached a gate, there was no question where we 
were. "Seneca College" was etched on two granite stone faces 
bookending the gate.

"You *are* taking me in!" I said. I still couldn't believe it.

There were two women in the large guard shack, both with 
khaki-colored shirts and dark visor caps, like mall security. 
One remained inside while the other stepped out. She wore 
matching shorts and looked to be about thirty. No doubt she knew 
Sandrine, for they exchanged a few pleasant words, but she still 
walked to the back to inspect the trunk. "She'll need to see 
your license," Sandrine said to me as the guard inspected the 
compartment. Within a few moments, the gate opened, and we were 
waved through.

After all that, we were back in the forest. "The campus is about 
a quarter-mile from here," Sandrine said. An overhang of oaks 
and maples let spatters of sunlight through, and the scent of 
rich earth and pine needles tickled the nose. The road continued 
up a slight hill. Soon the open sky ahead implied we were 
reaching some sort of clearing.

As we crested the hill, the Seneca campus unveiled itself before 
us. It was hard to imagine an entrance more deliberately 
dramatic. Verdant lawns surrounded brick and stone buildings. 
Students played frisbee or lay down on blankets, reading. The 
road approached what looked like the main building (probably 
administration, if this was like most colleges) with an 
ostentatious circular driveway. But we continued past, as our 
lane curved around, and down, leading to an underground parking 
garage.

The ceiling was high and well-lit, a welcome contrast from most 
such garages, and it seemed to go on and on. We passed one pod 
of elevators and stairways after another. "We didn't want the 
campus to be covered with asphalt," Sandrine said. "As we 
expanded, we included these underground lots for each building, 
and connected them all. With no men, there's not the same sort 
of security problems with underground parking, so it's a good 
solution for all."

I'm not like those guys, I wanted to say, ready to resent being 
tarred with such a large brush. But she didn't seem to be 
editorializing.

Finally we pulled in near a stairway labeled POOL/GYM in gold 
lettering. It didn't even smell like a parking garage here. The 
slight breeze was probably circulating the air. A wide, curving 
staircase brought us up to a lobby, then a hallway to the right. 
Two cute coeds passed by, surprised to see me, but I guess I was 
OK as long as I stayed with Sandrine. My presence here had to be 
some sort of experiment or trial. Had she told anyone about it?

She paused at the door to her office. "I have to make a couple 
calls. Meanwhile, I think you could talk to our swim instructor. 
Her name is Lorraine Hugo, and you might be working with her. In 
any case, you'll see her if you use the pool. Her office is 
third door on the left, down the hall."

Well, if Sandrine said it was OK to walk here alone, that was 
the best information I had. The hallway was empty, anyway. Ms. 
Hugo's door was slightly open, and she answered a firm "Come 
in!" to my tentative knock.

I eased the door open, and it was apparent the swim instructor 
was not expecting me. Or any man. She was reaching for a binder 
on the top shelf, standing on her toes, her side to me and the 
door; and she was naked. Not a stitch of clothing.

I'm more a fan of larger breasts, a C or D cup; and this morning 
I had woken up rock hard, dreaming of Sandra Bryant's lusciously 
ripe breasts, one nipple in my mouth. Lorraine was a lot more 
streamlined, which probably suited her for a swimmer, with toned 
legs and ass. Stretching up as she was doing, her breasts seemed 
quite small, almost not there, the most prominent feature the 
brown nipples the size of the tip of my little finger. She 
turned slowly to me, still expecting someone else, and then gave 
a little shriek of surprise, dropping the binder. Her arms 
crossed, covering her breasts; and then it occurred to her to 
bring one hand down, concealing the small thatch of pubic hair 
between her legs. "I- I'm not ready to see you right now!" she 
said.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Matlin sent me down here..." as I turned 
around and closed the door behind me. I heard her parting words: 
"She should have known better!"

Back at her office, Sandrine was grinning. She had changed into 
light blue sweat pants and a white Seneca T-shirt. I was shaken 
and felt set up. "You didn't tell her I was coming, did you?"

She folded her hands and thought for a second. "Neal, you're 
going to be the one man here in a place that's not used to 
having any men around. Not many, not all, but some of the 
students here are going be in public, or our version of public, 
with not much clothing on.

"We're not a naturist colony," she continued, "but there has 
always been a policy of clothing-optional for most places and 
activities. The privacy here help bolster feelings of safety and 
self-confidence. For a long time, we've always had a few 
students who enjoy sunbathing or swimming naked, and even those 
who like to walk around wearing nothing but sheer panties or 
cut-off jeans."

I said, "I was surprised to see a teacher doing this, though."

"This was still rare, up until about a year ago. Since then, 
we've had more students wearing little or nothing. And what's 
really caught on is swimming. If you don't wear a swimsuit, 
there's nothing to carry around, rinse, launder, or dry. You 
still dry off with the towels, but our staff can take care of 
those, and wash dozens at a time. So swimming naked is a lot 
more efficient.

"Last year, there were enough students wanting to do this that 
we added a nude swimming class, where all students as well as 
the instructor were naked. The second semester, we added another 
one; and now there are four. Now Lorraine's naked for all her 
classes, and lately she's not been bothering to put on clothes 
in between."

"She seems pretty angry at me, though."

"If you're going to work here, you'll need to get used to seeing 
almost random women naked or partially naked. Part of this is 
getting you accustomed, and part of it is evaluating how you 
respond."

We talked a bit more about the history of the college, and the 
tasks I might be doing. One of them was to teach a 
general-purpose phys ed class. I reminded Sandrine that I had no 
experience here; but she countered that the college had no 
experience with male teachers, either. So if I could innovate 
and adapt well, who would know any better?

In fact, it was time now to meet some prospective members of the 
class. On the weekend, some students had traveled off campus, 
but a fair amount had stayed. Sandrine escorted me to a 
gymnasium where about thirty girls, all college-age, were 
already waiting. They had an assortment of gym wear, none of 
them indecent. As I looked them over, I realized they were all 
really cute. Not a plain one in the bunch.

"This is Neal Scoville," Sandrine announced. "He'll be teaching 
a gym class starting two weeks from now. I know having a man 
here is new to all of you, so we wanted to have this orientation 
session so you could get to know each other."

Talk about being put on the spot: the girls then started asking 
questions about what the class would entail, when minutes ago I 
hadn't even known I would be teaching it!

A petite blonde named Tina asked what we'd be doing in the 
class. I responded the best I could: my class would value and 
instill conditioning, flexibility, strength, teamwork, focus, 
and recreation. Probably some volleyball, running, stretching, 
and so on.

An Asian girl with long, straight hair asked what sort of sports 
I liked. Cycling, rock climbing and basketball.

Then a girl named Claire asked what experience I had as a gym 
teacher. She had short satin hot pants and a pink tight T-shirt 
with no bra, showcasing large, round breasts. Where many of the 
students were just cute, and some innocent-looking, Claire 
looked flat-out sexy. Bright eyes and jet-black hair accented a 
pretty face with a skeptical, almost devious look.

I had to flatly admit that I had no experience at all. I would 
be learning as they did.

I was starting to get a little heated by talking with all these 
attractive young women, so it certainly didn't help what 
Sandrine did next.

"Since we don't have male locker rooms, and most of our 
facilities are open-air, Mr. Scoville will be seeing a lot of 
you, and you will probably see a lot of him. To get acquainted, 
I'm going to remove his clothes for you."

This was a shock, and I had no idea how to respond. Sandrine 
stepped behind me, whispered "just play along" as she stripped 
off my shirt. There was murmuring among the girls, and I had 
their rapt attention, but they were very polite: none of the 
whoops or cheers you hear at a Chippendales show. Then she 
pulled down both shorts and undies, to assorted gasps, and I was 
nude. My erection was already half-hard before she gave it a few 
strokes, making it rigid.

What could I say? "This is, ah, a little out of the ordinary for 
me, too," I said, to some laughs. "All I can say is, our gym 
class will be run clean, with our clothes on. We'll be out here 
to improve ourselves and have a little fun." Then I said, "Thank 
you," hoping to signal a close to this very strange ceremony.

"There is one thing left," Sandrine said to the students. "Dress 
code. And since you've already seen him naked, and he can't 
demand the same of you, you've already come out ahead.

"The way it works is that Neal will choose what you should wear 
to gym class. It has to be appropriate for physical activity, 
and it must cover you with a top and bottom. If you show up with 
wrong clothing, those items will be taken off, and it counts as 
an infraction. Being late or missing a class is another 
infraction. For each infraction an article of clothing will be 
taken away. Now if you still have infractions but have no 
clothing left to take away, you'll be subject to a punishment of 
Neal's choice."

Now it was time for me to choose what they should wear. Gym 
shorts and t-shirts would be fine; but I was naked, and they 
were staring at me, and that gave me another idea. What I 
decided now could benefit me all year. I took a few more moments 
to think.

"Bikini-style bottoms," I said, "straps no more than an inch 
wide. Material is your choice. And then a crop top T-shirt or 
tank, where the material should reach no lower than four inches 
above the inside of the elbow. This uniform should allow for 
maximum freedom of movement." I figured that would show a lot of 
midriff without being obscene. "That's it, just those two 
items."

This was acceptable, and so it was done. The girls filed out, 
some of them catching a last glimpse over their shoulder, and I 
put my clothes back on. "You're going forward as if I've already 
accepted the job," I said. "We haven't talked about terms or 
anything."

"I'm not worried about that," she said. "$180,000 a year, 
on-site room and board, a company car, and many other perks. I 
think you'll be a great match here. We can sign paperwork 
later."

As we walked back to her office, Sandrine had more on-the-spot 
questions. "Those girls in the gymnasium... did you think they 
were pretty?"

"Well, as a gym teacher, I'm not going to do that sort of 
conduct, so it..."

"I know you're not," she interrupted. "Unless someone invites or 
accepts it, and then that's between you and should be done 
discreetly. But answer frankly: if there were opportunities, 
would you want pursue them?"

Frankly? "Well, yes. Each one of them were, um... hot. Cute. I 
don't know any of them as a person, but it seems you only enroll 
good-looking women here."

"That's true," she said, "even though it's not wise to admit so 
in public. But this is a unique institution, and homely or 
poorly socialized girls just don't work out. So we do select 
based on that."

Her office was a suite of sorts, with two rooms. One had a couch 
and television/video area, with shelves of books. She led me 
here, and gave me a stapled set of papers to read. They still 
felt slightly warm; just recently printed. If I agreed to work 
here, and it seemed like all of Seneca was presuming I would, 
then I'd be rewarded quite handsomely. This day had been filled 
with bizarre events but good fortune. I had been reading for 
about 10 minutes when Sandrine stepped through the door in an 
outfit that took my breath away.

"I believe this is the gym uniform you picked out," she said, 
looking herself over. Her feet and legs were bare, and she wore 
a deep-cut Brazilian-style dark blue bikini. Above her bared 
midriff was her T-shirt, but by knife or scissors she had cut 
much of the bottom off, leaving a ragged lower edge ending just 
above the lowest parts of her breasts. Her nipples poked the 
fabric like small tent poles, and in front the shirt dangled 
straight down from her breasts.

"It seems a little skimpy, don't you think? As if you were 
taking advantage of the situation. The students see you naked 
once, and you see them like this all semester." Her face 
frowned, but there was a smile in her eyes she couldn't conceal.

"Freedom of movement," I said. It was a white lie, and I was 
sticking to it. "Besides, we all agreed on it."

"Look at what happens when I do this," she said, reaching for 
the ceiling. The shirt rode up, exposing her bare breasts to 
above the nipple.

"It's not necessary to crop it that high," I admonished.

She sat down next to me, her expression still absurdly grim. 
"And if one of those girls is a second late to class..." She 
pulled the shirt over her head, then leaned back to let her hair 
waterfall over her shoulders. She was topless, right there next 
to me, arching her back. Was she teasing, or was she offering 
herself? I wanted her even more than I had wanted Sandy or 
Lorraine or Claire or anyone else I had seen. Sandrine, like her 
name, was a more refined Sandy. But she stood up; perhaps the 
game was over.

"And just one more infraction," she said, hooking her thumbs 
into the narrow waistband, "you've got your poor student 
completely uncovered." She peeled down the bikini until it was 
loose enough to drop to her feet. "And if she breaks one more 
rule -- and you can make up all sorts of rules -- you can do 
anything with her you want." Her hands were on her hips, 
standing there naked, almost daring me. My mind was reeling with 
possibilities.

"Here's what I want," she said, extending a hand to me. I stood 
up. "There have never been a man and woman having sex on these 
grounds." She brought herself to me, hands at my shoulderblades, 
her pelvis lightly grinding into mine. "I want to be first," she 
said, kissing me. I had no quarrel with this at all.

The couch folded out into a futon. We did it twice. Even if I 
never saw Sandy again, I gave her profuse but silent thanks. 
What wonderful women these two were. Now it was sometime in the 
afternoon, neither of us had eaten, so we dressed and went to 
the dining hall.

Even in foodservice Seneca was like no other college. The food 
was varied, delicious and fresh. The tables were in the open 
air, under a solarium that guaranteed pleasant weather every 
day. Although I was content to take Sandrine back to bed, she 
had some business to take care of. First she showed me to my 
on-campus quarters, backformed from an office in a staff area. A 
window overlooked the east grounds. The king-size bed was 
comfortable, and the closest stocked with casual and gym 
clothing in my size. Obviously they had planned this far ahead. 
But the incident with Sandy had only been a few days ago! This 
was all strange.

Sandrine recommended I go for a swim if I liked (there were 
trunks in the drawer), and that gave me an idea. I would take 
the initiative to fix things up with Lorraine.

The pool area itself was a little dark in spots -- the overhead 
lights were off -- but to one side an upsloping roof opened to 
another solarium, affording enough light to see fairly well. I 
heard one person in the pool, and then saw her swimming to the 
opposite end. She turned quickly and continued in my direction, 
not having seen me. I guessed it was Lorraine. In any case, she 
wore no swimsuit.

I crouched down to meet her as she broke the surface. This time 
she wasn't quite so surprised. "You again."

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," I said, "and I didn't 
mean to make you uncomfortable. So I'd like to talk with you a 
little bit, since it looks like I may be working here."

"I'm almost done," she said, "so you could come in." I wondered 
if it would be more or less polite to strip naked since she was. 
"No, wait, I'll come out," she said. Water dripped off her body 
as she climbed out. The air was a little cool for her and she 
broke out in gooseflesh. "I'll shower and join you in a few 
seconds," she said, covering her breasts with an arm, and padded 
over to the shower area.

The showers were open-air as well, and I could have simply 
turned around and watched her rinse off; she was never out of 
sight. But instead I gazed at the grass and trees outside until 
she was ready. She was in a white bath towel, knotted just above 
her breasts, and reaching halfway down her thigh. Her shoulders 
were bare and dry, and her short hair was wrapped in that towel 
turban all women know how to make. She took my arm and led me 
outside.

It wasn't really outside, of course; one-way glass high above 
protected us from UV rays and prying eyes. "On the weekends, 
this is my own private area," Lorraine said. "Very peaceful." 
The walkway was some sort of rubberized compound that felt soft 
to the foot. She was barefoot and apparently had no complaint.

As it turned out, Lorraine said she had been surprised, not 
really offended, and mainly miffed at Sandrine for employing her 
in the snare. Things had really changed around here in the last 
year, and she thought she knew why: a part-time instructor from 
Astoria College named Sandra Bryant.

Sandy - a student? Lorraine hadn't exactly said that, but 
somehow that made sense. Then Sandy was really was about 22, and 
she was masquerading in these other professions. This opened up 
a number of questions, but I wanted to hear more from Lorraine 
first.

Sandy's first course was a discussion of the MPAA and movie 
ratings compared to changing standards in our society. It was a 
popular class, and it gained even more notoriety when Sandy took 
off her shirt and pants, facing the class in only a pair of 
powder-blue panties. "In the 1980s, this would have been rated 
PG," she said, to a set of stunned eyes. Then she turned almost 
all the way around, mainly her back to the class, just showing a 
hint of the side of one breast. "And now, this is PG-13. So in a 
way, we've become less explicit but more prurient."

Before Sandy arrived, Lorraine had only seen a handful of 
students opting to take her swim class naked. There was mainly 
peer pressure to keep the suits on. But the first week of the 
semester, Sandy had shown up at the pool after hours, much like 
I had just done, and peered down at the instructor doing laps. 
Back then, Lorraine wore an olympic-style one-piece. Sandy said 
something -- Lorraine didn't remember what -- and then stripped 
everything off and jumped in. After they did a dozen laps side 
by side, Lorraine was ready to climb out and Sandy followed. 
They stayed in the shallow end. Sandy first kissed her, which 
was not resisted at all, then fondled her breasts through the 
suit. Lorraine found herself doing the same to Sandy, with no 
such impediment. Eternally patient, Sandy took a long time 
before gently, slowly peeling down her suit; and with a few 
kicks, Lorraine was free. Sandy placed her finger inside -- this 
was so naughty, anyone could have stopped by and seen this -- 
and manipulated her until she came.

The very next day, 8 girls showed up to swim class without 
suits, more than one third. Soon there were enough to have an 
all-nude class, to which Lorraine found herself happily joining 
in. Now there were four nude classes, and a handful of nude 
students in the other classes, and Lorraine now never wore a 
suit, unless the swim team had a contest at someone else's 
facility. The swim team itself always practiced in suits, both 
for consistency and that it resulted in faster times.

We had kept walking and were now about 100 feet from the 
building, still in the solarium. "So my question for you," she 
said, "is: are you just like other guys? When you saw me naked 
-- both times -- what thoughts were going through your head?"

"Part of it was embarrassment, to have you caught in such a 
situation," I said. We had stopped, and were now facing each 
other. I was about six inches taller.

"You're sure you didn't want to take advantage?" she said, 
pressing the point.

"Not without your consent," I said.

"What would you want to do if you could?"

I pondered this. "Right now? I'd like to take that towel off 
you."

"Suppose you had to let me keep it on. Hm?"

In any other case, I would have been extremely tired of the 
riddles and elliptical thinking. But here I was emboldened. "You 
know? If I could do what I wanted, while keeping the towel on, 
well, I'd just have to improvise." I placed a hand between her 
knees, and nudged them apart. She spread her feet to shoulder 
width, opening up a little. I let my hand ride up her thigh, 
stopping where her towel started, and heard a short intake of 
breath.

"That-- that's rather forward," she scolded.

"That's why women don't walk around town with a towel," I 
continued. "There's nothing underneath. It seems like an 
invitation." With my other hand, I lifted the towel in back, 
cupping one bare cheek. "And it already seems -" I trailed one 
finger up her inner thigh, to where she was already moist -- 
"like she's in that frame of mind."

"I've got a better use for this towel," she said, undoing the 
knot and opening it like a cape. I think she was going to spread 
it out, but she never did. Instead, she embraced me, tight, 
writhing, kissing, and we fell over into the grass. She was on 
top, and she was athletic and exuberant, much unlike Sandrine's 
more sensual motion. "Dammit, it's been over a year, wanting it 
like this," she said, punctuated by her thrusts. "Naked so much 
of the time. Having to frig myself off, or with a student, or 
with Sandy, just for release. But still feeling aroused all. 
The. Time." She came, and tensed up, and then that was it for me 
too. We didn't move for a while after that.

The sun was setting when we walked over to a wide cushioned 
lounge chair, more like a couch. We laid out the towel and I sat 
down, leaning back. She laid crossways on her back, head on my 
lap, facing the sky. My left forearm lay across her ribs, my 
hand holding her left breast. This was a good position, and I 
gently kneaded her as we talked, and this was making her move, 
but not much, more of a stretching in place, like a cat would. I 
wanted to kiss her, but I knew I'd have many chances; maybe any 
time she didn't have class. What an amazing woman.

I loved the feel of her bare breast in my fingers. But there 
were other things within easy reach. I moved down, and she knew 
where my hand was going, and spread her legs in anticipation. 
She was easily ready to go again, and a few strokes made her 
warm and wet. And it was apparent I was ready too.

(Continues in "Seneca 2")

  
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