Kinky Confessions

“I know. Neither do I.”

“And I don’t want it to be in West Virginia. I can’t really explain that either. I want it to be ours, someplace permanent. Not some… hotel room…

no matter how much we like it.”

“I understand.”

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t do other things until then. Like, soak in the bath while you read to me? Then suck you until we fall asleep?”

“I thought you wanted a quiet night.”

“I said ‘quiet,’ not ‘dead.’”

The next week passed in a blur, and I privately admitted that Christy had been right: we were both too busy to enjoy anything more than passing encounters. Oh, we could’ve had sex any time, but it would’ve been an hour at best, interrupted at worst.

So we enjoyed each other’s company as much as we could and spent

several evenings working together in my studio. She’d already finished the maquettes for the first two Kanagawa sculptures, but she still needed to create a series of detail studies for her portfolio review in the spring. So she sat in her favorite chair with a big sketch board on her lap and hummed quietly as she drew.

One evening I startled her with a laugh. I’d just noticed her reply on the little love-note drawing, the one where I’d replaced her “CMC” with “CMH.”

She’d written, You have to ask. Out loud. I stretched over my desk and unpinned it from the wall. I replied with, I will. When I’m ready, and returned it to its spot. She watched the whole thing and then stood to see what I’d written. She added a smiley face with hearts for eyes and then sank into her chair with a happy little grin.

We were usually pretty worn out when we finally went to bed, but we managed to have some fun anyway. She offered to model some of her lingerie for me, and I jumped at the chance. I knew she had a decent collection, but I wasn’t quite prepared for the reality of it.

In addition to her special occasion drawer in our room, she had another full drawer in her old bedroom. She had fancy bra and panty sets, garter belts, stockings, bustiers, camisoles, babydoll nighties, a couple of peignoirs, and even a sheer crotchless bodystocking.

Part of me simply goggled at how much it all must have cost, much less where she’d found a few things in her size. I couldn’t imagine a Girls & Young Misses department with a selection of crotchless bodystockings, for example. But mostly I enjoyed the show and had fun picking out which sexy little nothing she’d wear to bed. And, of course, I enjoyed them again in the morning when I had to step over them on the floor where they’d ended up.

On top of everything else, we also had to plan our spring class schedules and submit them for advance registration. So dinner one evening involved two large pizzas, several bottles of wine, a couple of dog-eared UT General Catalogs, and at least seven copies of the Spring Timetable.

Three of us had an easy time of it, but Wren had a real challenge to build a schedule around two classes she needed to graduate. She made it work, but her Tuesday-Thursday schedule would be brutal. She had four classes

without a break and then an honors seminar on Thursday evenings.

“My brain’s gonna be mush by the time I’m done,” she said.

“It’s kinda mushy now,” Christy teased.

Wren was so exhausted that she didn’t even fire back.

“That’s okay,” Trip said as he put an arm around her, “we’ll take care of you.”

“Yeah, we will,” Christy said. “I’ll help organize your notes and type your thesis and anything else you need.”

“Thanks,” Wren said.

“That’s what friends’re for.”

“I dunno what you’re lookin’ at me for,” I joked. “I still want a four-course meal every night.”

Wren smiled tiredly.

“Be nice,” Christy said.

“Yeah, all right, I’ll help. Sheesh! You’d think a guy could be a selfish jerk once in a while.”

“Don’t worry,” Christy said to Wren. “I’ll set him straight.”

“Thanks,” Wren said as she leaned into Trip’s embrace, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The next day I called my parents and talked to Mom. When I complained about our workload in general and mine in particular, she reminded me that she’d been pregnant with me her final semester of college.

“I was the size of a Studebaker! But I still went to class, did my own work, and typed all your dad’s papers.”

That put my problems in perspective, so I changed the subject and told her about our spring break plans—the Florida part, at least.

“Erin’s break starts a couple of days before yours,” she said, “but she’ll be home.”

“Really? I thought she’d go to the beach with friends or something,” I said. “I mean, it’s her senior year, time to cut loose and have fun.”

“She’s trying to save money for Europe this summer. Grandma and Grandpa said they’d help, but this is the grown-up Erin.”

I laughed.

“She’s always been tight with money,” Mom said. “Unlike you.”

“I’m not a spendthrift!”

“You are compared to her. But you also earn your own money these days, so it isn’t the same.”

“True,” I agreed. Then I looked at my watch. “I should probably go.