An International Incident #SoSS

It’s now the second week of classes, my final year at Columbia before I earn that coveted Ivy League degree.  Sierra is the only highlight I have found so far.  She’s young, exotic in her unashamed sense of fashion; even by New York standards.  I’m no prude, though I do take the time to dress before I go to school.  Sierra appears to roll out of bed straight into school.  The way she walks, holds herself, moves her arms, the lines she makes extending her legs and reaching with her hands, are divine.  Clothes are an after-thought.  She is a goddess in motion that no canvas can hide.

Shit, I can’t believe I’m writing this while my Prof is talking how fucked up the UK and Europe is.  I bet Sierra is European.  Italian, no Spanish. Southern European, definitely.  It bet she’s not nearly as up tight as the rest of my class.  What if I ask her to study with me? I just want to touch her.  ‘Fuck, Francesca, pay attention!  Get her out of your head!’ 

“Francesca, is there something you would like to add?”  Shit, did I just say that out loud?  The Professor is looking me with a dismissive glance over the black rim of his reading glasses.  “Ah, yes, ah, I was just wondering, ah, whether the UK is fucked? I mean, is nobody paying attention?  What’s going on in their heads?” Good save, not graceful, but on subject.  Of all people, Sierra comes to my defense!

“Francesca is right, in my home town, we have a saying by now, it’s hard to translate, but I’ll try, I hope you will understand:  What do you call a half-FUCK?”

The entire class looks at Sierra as if she had just broken some international peace treaty.  Did she mean to use the word ‘fuck’ in a sexual sense, rather than a manner of speech?  Deathly silence covers the classroom. She gets up, walks to the front of the class right up the Professor, does a perfect pirouette, and finishes in a dramatic pose.  With a dying breath, she collapses in theatrical fashion to the ground, coming to a rest lying on her back, neck tilted back over the edge of the small step up to the podium. I look right into her hazel eyes; her small breasts rise with one last deep breath.  Barely audible, the punchline escape from her pale red lips.

“UK; the FC belongs to Torino.”

*            *            *

Sierra sits next to me outside the Dean’s office.  One of us has to break the silence.  It’s killing me.  Here is my chance, the girl I’ve been lusting after for the past two weeks, at least Tuesdays and Thursdays between 11:15 a.m. and 12:50 p.m. in room IAB 501A, is within inches, we’re sort of alone, and I’m not making a move.  That’s so not like me.

“Hi, I guess we should probably introduce each other before the Dean asks us who we are.  I’m Francesca.”

“I know you are Francesca, I’m Sierra.”

“Well, I know you’re Sierra, so I guess we know each other’s names.”  Then there was another awkward pause.

“Can I ask you something, Sierra?”

“Of course, but only if I can also ask you something.”  Fair enough.

“What did you mean by ‘half-fuck’?”

“I knew you were going to ask me.  I cannot explain, but I can show you.”  I had to swallow.  Here I am with the girl of my dreams and she is willing to show me whatever the hell a ‘half-fuck’ is.  Whatever it is, the way she says it, I want it. 

“Meet me tonight at 11:30 at the stage door of the Lincoln Center, after I dance.”  She gives me a quick kiss and runs off without me.  The Dean’s door opens.  I sure hope this is not what she meant by ‘half-fuck’, because I’m feeling totally fucked right now.

*            *            *

I look up what’s going on at the Lincoln Center.  Opera, a concert, and a ballet.  Unless she really meant to fuck me back at the Dean’s office, I hope she meant the stage door to the ballet.  The New York City Ballet is dancing ‘Giselle’ this evening.  It all sounds very formal; the prices are astronomical.  There is no way I can afford any of the tickets that are left.  Besides, ballet isn’t really my thing anyway.  But I’m damn curious and can’t believe that she would just dump me.

After writing an entire 2,000-word essay on the merits of the European Union, which is almost killing me, I send in my file to the Dean, shut down the computer and head out.  I have no idea what to do, where the stage door is, or even what Sierra’s last name is.  I jump on the one train from 116th street and get off at Lincoln Center in mid-town.  Of course, I know of the Lincoln Center, but in my three years in New York, I had never actually been to the Ballet, or the Opera or a Concert. Call me unsophisticated. It’s just not my thing. 

It’s just past 11:30 and the enormous plaza at the center of the three halls is nearly empty.  If I only knew what she meant by the stage door.  For all I know, it could be a bar that she goes to.  I’m so fucked.

“Francesca!” Someone is calling from behind.  I turn around and don’t see anyone.  “Francesca, down here!”  Then I see Sierra’s head peaking up from a set of stairs next to what I figured had to be the ballet theater.  I run over to her, but she is already down the stairs and through the door.  It’s still slightly ajar and I sneak in.  I feel like I’m breaking into someone’s house. 

On the inside it is still buzzing.  Dancers, one prettier than the other, are in various stages of being dressed.  Nobody seems to be bothered by naked male dancers making out in a corner.  At least they look like dancers.  It’s a literal orgy going on right in the middle of the hallway and dressing rooms in the basement of the theater.  I’m lost in the maze and nobody seems to care. 

“Got you!” Sierra almost throws me over as she jumps on my back and wraps her legs around my waist.  She could easily have crushed me.  In class, I had always admired her legs, but I had no idea how strong she was.  I barely hold myself up against a wall in front of me, still somewhat in shock.  She puts her hand in front of my mouth.  Her way of asking me not to scream in an uncontrolled fit of panic.

“Now I’m going to show you what a half-fuck is.  Don’t move.” I don’t dare to turn around.  Her legs remain locked around my waist.  I can feel her hand sliding down my chest to my jeans.  She unbuttons the top, slides the zipper down, and begins to push her hand toward my pussy.  If not for the wall, we both would be lying on the floor by now. 

She is squeezing her thighs tighter around me.  Reaching for my pussy, she leans back without letting go.  I instinctively spread my legs.  Not sure whether to have a firmer stand, or to giver her better access to my pussy.  Either way, she is not one for a lot of foreplay.  I struggle to stand up with her weight pulling me away from the wall.  The more I lean against it, the more she tightens her grip on my pussy.  Her fingers deeply buried inside me and her thumb holding tight right above my clit.  Her hands are strong, and I begin to try and push my legs together.  Now I want what she wants.

 “Ciao, Sierra.” I close my eyes. She is doing something with another girl while holding on to me with her thighs and beginning to massage the inside of my pussy.  She is looking for my g-spot while saying good-bye to her fellow dancers!  I don’t know whether to feel humiliated, to go with the flow, or just pray she knows what she’s doing.  God does she know her way around the inside of my pussy. 

A few more Ciao’s and she’s found my g-spot. She can tell from my reaction.  Now my pussy wants her to push, to grind, to use her weight, her flexibility to work with my body.  I couldn’t give a fuck about anyone watching me.  I just want to get off, right here, in front of people I have never seen and probably will never see again.  Just a little more.  Please, Sierra, please!

“Ciao, Francesca, I’m leaving with my friends now.  You’re welcome to finish the job yourself.”

“No, please, Sierra, don’t stop now, please! Oh god, don’t stop now!”

“Shhh, quiet…now you see what I mean by half-fucked.  See you in class, Bella.”

Masturbation Monday

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