Study Buddies

Study Buddies Ch. 03:

But I'm a Good Girl

Are you pleased with me?

Tags:

Reluctance

Seduction

Voyeurism

Exhibitionist

Virgin

Age Difference

That evening, I stared at the mirror, scared and nervous, gazing at my naked body. I tried to find the words to describe what I was seeing. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. I panicked. My mother's voice was calling from the other side. I dove into my bed and covered myself just as my mother poked her head through the doorway.

"Cindy, dinner is... Why are you in bed so early?"

"Oh, I was just, um, resting. I'm tired."

"Why are you breathing so hard?"

"I was, uh, stretching. I have to exercise indoors since we can't go outside. That's why I'm tired."

She looked doubtful. "Well, dinner is ready. Are you going to eat or go to sleep?"

"I'll be right there, mom."

She closed the door to my room and left. It didn't feel good to lie to my mother, but I couldn't tell her what I was actually doing. She would be horrified to know that I was checking out my naked body in order to compose a provocative story about sinful behavior and then share that with a stranger. I had to keep it a secret. I quickly got dressed and joined my parents at the dinner table.

After a rushed meal, I wrote as much as I could before my standing meeting with Jake began.

I smiled when his face appeared on my computer. I blurted out my news before greeting him, "I did what you told me!"

"Did you look at yourself?" I nodded vigorously, with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

"Nude?"

I nodded again; this time, with more embarrassment and less enthusiasm.

"And did you write about your body?"

I nodded again.

"Your entire body? Including the sexual parts?"

I nodded.

"Good girl. I'm proud of you."

I beamed, elated that I had finally pleased him.

"Let me read it."

I shared my story with him. I couldn't focus on reading his story because I was so nervous about him reading what I had written about my own naked form...

I am medium height, almost exactly average for an American woman. My eyes are dark brown. My eyelashes are long and dark and my eyebrows are black and thin. I have straight, light brown hair, without bangs, that goes midway down my back. I have a medium build. The woman at the department store at the mall, who fitted me for a dress, informed me that I have a lovely girlish figure that would fill out a contoured dress nicely. I wear a C-cup brassiere for my round breasts, which I think is fairly common. My stomach is a little bit too rounded and my thighs are too thick, but the triangle of dark curly hair between my legs somehow makes my hips seem narrower than they actually are because it contrasts dramatically with my pale skin.

My boyfriend tells me that he thinks I'm beautiful. Sometimes, I believe him, and that makes me feel happy, but I also think I should feel more modest, which is why I dress conservatively. I don't want to attract the wrong kind of attention. Still, I want to look pretty. Sometimes, for special occasions, I wear makeup.

When he finally finished, he looked up.

My heart was beating rapidly. "How did I do? Are you pleased with me?"

"You did fairly well..."

I grinned.

"... considering..."

I was crestfallen. "Considering what?"

"Considering your stage of development."

"What does that mean? What is my stage of development?"

"You wrote very descriptive prose, but it reads more like it is written by a doctor than a poet. It feels clinical. I almost expected to see measurements in metric units and parts named in Latin. While it may be technically accurate, it lacks passion. It needs to be sexy, not adequate."

"But I looked at myself naked, just like you said. And I used lots of adjectives. What else should I do? I don't know what you think the writing should look like."

"Make it sound more like this..."

As she stood in front of the mirror, admiring her naked form, she sighed contentedly. The woman's brunette hair cascaded over her gentle shoulders, the strands curling around her full, heavy breasts. The dark locks contrasted with the twin alabaster swells of plump flesh, matching the ruddy areolae circles, punctuated by thick, prominent nipples, jutting proudly from her fleshy chest like tantalizing bullseyes. Her deep cleavage drew the eye down her soft belly to the promising thicket of curly hair hiding the promise of treasure between her thighs.

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say. I was embarrassed that he made me sound so sensual.

We were uncomfortably quiet for a moment.

"Draw from experience with sex--not from a textbook."

"But I don't have experience with sex! Do you want me to have an actual sexual experience?"

He arched his eyebrows suggestively.

"I can't do that! I'm saving myself for my future husband. Besides, even if I wanted to have sex now, I can't. I'm in lockdown with my parents. My fiancé is next door, and he's also in lockdown with his mother, who already has significant health complications. We can't risk exposing her to infection. Besides, he wouldn't want to have sex with me before marriage even if he could come over. We made chastity vows to each other."

"You also made a vow to me. Remember? You promised me that you would do whatever I wanted. And I promised you that I wouldn't turn you in to the professor for plagiarism as long as you did whatever it takes to become a good writer. I told you that you had to write more interesting stories and write from experience. You promised me that you would do that. Are you now saying that you are a liar?"

"Oh, goodness no! I'm certainly no liar. I admit that, sometimes, I forget and tell a small fib, but I really try my best to be honest and true."

"I'm glad to hear that. So you re-affirm that you will do what I tell you to do?"

I felt trapped and defeated. "Yes, sir," I sighed. "I will try. But I'm scared of what you might tell me to do."

"I will help you through the entire process. Are you ready to begin?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now. You have described a woman's body. Now, we will begin with a man's body. I'm going to take off my shirt."

My eyes grew big as he stood up and peeled off his shirt.

"I want you to take a good look at my torso and think about how to describe it. Write down your description. Tell me when you are finished."

Of course, I had seen boys and men with their shirts off at the beach and at the park, but this felt different. It felt dirty. It felt surreptitious and sinful. But what could I do? He had me in a no-win situation. Eventually, I decided to make the best of it. I began to really look at his torso and start to type...

His pectoral muscles were large and defined, with coarse, curly black hair spreading out from his sternum. His nipples were small and dark. His abdominal muscles were toned, forming a V-shape that pointed down under his belt.

I caught myself staring at the trail of hair that disappeared into his pants for quite a while before I remembered to type. That was embarrassing. I wondered if he noticed. I forced myself to refocus...

His shoulders were wide and muscular. His arms had prominent veins snaking down his biceps and forearms.

His body made my blood race and my breathing laborious. I had to stop before I lost control. Eventually, I breathed, "I'm finished."

"Good. Next--"

I cut him off. "Aren't you going to read what I wrote?"

"Not yet. First, it is my turn to write about your body. Remove your blouse."

"What?!" I exclaimed. Then, realizing that my parents might hear me, I lowered my voice. "Are you crazy? I'll do no such thing! There is no way I'm going to take off my clothing for you. I'm not that stripper character in your story."

"Is everything okay in there?" my mother called from the living room.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and took a deep breath. "Yes, Mom, I'm fine."

Then, speaking to Jake in a stage whisper, I said, "How dare you!"

Jake appeared calm and began to speak in a measured, condescending tone as he patiently explained his logic. "We are writing partners, are we not?"

I was suspicious, but I nodded in agreement. "Yes, but..."

"We agreed to help each other improve our writing, correct?"

I nodded again, warily.

"Everyone knows that writing from direct, personal experience is the most powerful and convincing, right?"

I nodded again.

"And you have been quite vocal about lacking experience, have you not?"

"But, I'm a good girl."

"Yes, you are. Now be a good girl for me and help us both to become better writers."

"How? By exposing myself to you?"

"I exposed myself to you to help you become a better writer. The advice applies equally to each of us. We are partners. I helped you improve your ability to describe a man's body by showing you mine. It is both logical and fair that you help me to improve my ability to describe a woman's body by showing me yours."

I was silent for a while, as I considered his rationalization. He was right, but I didn't want to admit it aloud. "But it's different. You're a man. Men can be shirtless in public. I'm a woman and I'm supposed to be modest."

"Exactly. It is precisely for that reason that I need your assistance in being able to write about what is usually hidden. Uncover what is covered. Plus, to an artist, you are simply a model. As a writer, I will merely be assembling words to describe shapes, the interplay of light and shadow, the movement of your breathing, the color of your skin. I can't touch you from here. I can only observe, just like you observed me. I am a creator and you are my muse." He paused. "Thank you for helping me."

"But I haven't agreed to do this yet." Even I could hear the half-heartedness of my objection, the inevitability of my surrender that added itself to the end of my sentence, despite my perfunctory objection. Everything he said made sense. I was running out of reasons to refuse. My heart was beating fast.

"What if someone finds out?"

"Close the curtains so your fiancé can't see into your room, just like you do when you change clothes. Keep your voice quiet, so your parents don't check on you. It will just be you and me. No one else will know. We are two writers helping each other to improve our craft."

He stared at me while I thought about what to do.

"Besides, you promised me, remember?"

"Okay," I sighed. "But you can't tell anyone, all right?"

He held up one hand and placed the other one flat on the desk, as if he was swearing on a bible he didn't have. I took a deep breath and pulled my t-shirt over my head. We stared at each other in silence.

"Keep going," he said, matter-of-factly.

"You want me to remove my brassiere, too?"

"Of course," he said, bluntly. "How can I write about what is still covered?"

I shouldn't be doing this.I looked at the drawn curtains and then at the closed door. No one could see in. I bit my lip and then reached behind my back to unclasp my bra. I pulled the straps down my arms and pulled the cups off. I quickly covered my breasts with my hands.

"Cindy," he said slowly, in a low, reprimanding tone. "Be a good girl."

"That's what I'm trying to do!" I whined.

He raised his eyebrows, as if to say, 'get on with it.'

I slowly dropped my arms to my sides and squeezed my eyes shut. Eliminating my vision heightened my other senses. I could hear the clickity clack of his keyboard over my heavy breathing. I became acutely aware of how my body was reacting to this humiliation. My skin felt hot and my heart was racing. Perspiration was seeping to the surface. My belly was in turmoil. My muscles were tight. Why was my vagina clenching?

Time seemed to go on forever and my mind panicked.When will this be over? What would my parents think of my sins? What does Jake think of me? Does he like my body? Does he think I'm pretty? What if I get caught? Are my panties actually moist!? Why is that happening?

"Cindy? Cindy?"

"Huh?" I opened my eyes.

"I finished a while ago."

"You did?"

"Yes. I've been calling your name."

"Oh." I blinked. "I'm sorry. I guess I blanked out. Sometimes, I get lost in my own head."

"Don't worry. You did great. You were very helpful."

"I was?"

"Yes. Thank you for modeling for me. I captured some wonderful images. You have a gorgeous body."

I blushed. "Thank you." I felt warm all over hearing his approval. "I was so nervous. I didn't know what to do; I've never done this before."

"Don't worry. As long as you keep doing as I say, you'll do great. I look forward to our next time together. I'll see you tomorrow night." He clicked off and his face disappeared.

I closed my eyes again and his shirtless image appeared in my mind. He had a rugged face, with stubble on his chin. His eyes were dark and serious and he always seemed to have a slight smirk on his lips, like he was up to something devious. I realized, at that moment, that I was using good descriptive vocabulary to describe this handsome man I had been seeing. It was working! He was right! I opened my eyes to write these powerful words down before I forgot them. Just as I grabbed my laptop, there was a knock on the door.

"Cindy?" It was my father's voice.

I shrieked.

"Are you okay?"

"Just a minute." I was still topless. I quickly pulled my shirt back on and took a deep breath. "Come in."

"Are you alright?"

I nodded, too vigorously. My lips were pursed.

"You seem a bit jumpy."

I stared blankly at him. I couldn't think of what to say.

"I came to wish you a goodnight."

"Goodnight, daddy."

He turned to go and then paused. "Put away your laundry. A young lady should not leave her undergarments lying around where people can see them."

I quickly grabbed my bra and hid it behind my back, as he closed the door.

I read what Jake had just written about my body...

Though she purports to be an innocent and proper girl, pure of heart, and clean of mind, her body is all grown woman, curvaceous, and built for sin. Her luscious boobs are soft, heavy, and rounded. The supple skin begs to be manhandled. Her skin is taut, pulled tight by the heft of her flesh, yet still pert, vibrant, full of promise. Her nipples harden when I gaze upon them, growing tighter and more prominent, as if reaching forward toward me. They call out to be noticed, appreciated, played with like a toy designed to please.

Her waist curves inward, toward her soft belly, with its cute innie belly button at the center, only to flare out widely again at the hips, suggesting peak fertility and readiness to breed. Hidden beneath fabric, one can imagine the delightfully suggestive triangle of fur at her crotch emphasizing, rather than hiding, the prize jewel within. She tries to keep her legs together, only because everyone--including her--is aware of just how lusciously tempting her slippery paradise within will be for he who discovers its promisingly provocative charms.

I exhaled when I finished. I realized I had been holding my breath while reading. It was very explicit. The only things I had read about women's breasts, before then, were either ads for bras, or modest references to mothers nursing babies. His prose was different. It was sensuous and lustful. It was poetic and erotic. I felt like I was reading a naughty story, but he was describing me! I was in the story! The Sunday school teacher had warned us about how boys could be, but I never thought someone could look atmethat way. It was scary, but it was also flattering. It was exhilarating, even! I bit my lip, trying to control my thoughts. But my thoughts prevailed. He wrote an erotic description of me! It felt wonderful to be desired.

I lay in bed a long time before I finally fell asleep. I dreamt of sinful scenes all night. I was a Puritan woman living in the American colonies in the 1600s. I was accused of being an adulterer and was forced to sew a scarlet letter 'A' on my dress. The scandalized villagers tied me to a stake in the town square. The preacher ripped my dress from my body, exposing my breasts and nether regions for all to see. I was humiliated and embarrassed. The townspeople jeered and called me a filthy whore.

Fortunately, a ruggedly handsome man rode into the crowd and freed me from the stake, just as the villagers set fire to the pyre. He spirited me away on his black stallion as I clung to his chiseled torso, bouncing along on the back of his steed as my breasts jiggled obscenely. My legs were spread wide around the leather saddle and my crotch ground into the seat in a steady rhythm dictated by the loping of the huge beast I straddled between my legs. With each bounce, I held tighter to the muscular man who had rescued me, my hips rocking back and forth into his buttocks.

I awoke from my dream in a sweaty mess of tangled bedsheets. My nightgown was torn. I was panting. My crotch was humid.

*****

Study Buddies Ch. 03

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