College Girl Discovers Herself
College Girl Discovers Herself
The priestess says, “Rowena, you are eighteen but have yet to do more than kiss a man. There are enough difficult choices for you at your age, such as what field of study to engage in. Sexual ambiguity just adds to your struggle. But fear not. We have a way to ease your passage into a well defined and clear orientation. Whichever path feels truest we will encourage you to pursue it with all your heart.”
“Well, I kissed a man on the lips and our tongues touched long enough for me to taste the juice from the tamarind he’d just consumed.”
“Yes but the one kiss does not a determination make. If you were still in high school this vagueness of romantic direction would be chalked off as an inconsequential whimsy of youth. But you are in college.”
“I’m just a flirty girl but I’m sure I’ll grow up and find my way.”
“We must test your sexual response in the sensorium. Before we start please have some
“Are those the ones with priestess’ special ingredients?”
“There are no potatoes in my hash.”
“To get me in the mood? The fudgies were tasty and you’ve been a most gracious hostess but I must attend to my maid duties.”
“You may dispense with that French Maid outfit to make you accessible for a higher calling tonight.”
Rowena’s lips quiver with the words, “Which sex do I get to experiment with first?”
The therapist says, “You are free to choose. And upon the first session, you may decide to forgo further scenes if your heart tells you the encounter is enough proof. The science is quite accurate and foolproof in its measuring of your bodily reactions. So you won’t be in the dark.”
“Since you have my consent this is a freely made choice. Men are such odd creatures. I would like to start with men but without preconceived notions of any preference.”
Her therapist says, “Know the truth between your legs. Think of the power. You can feel it where the heart of your womanhood lies, in your Mons.”
Rowena reminisces about her crush on a boy. She recalls that their high school graduation party coincided with his birthday. So when the teacher stepped out to the powder room, she used a xylophone mallet to tap his zipper precariously close to his balls but not once striking them. After eighteen beats of my hammer on his pretty-boy prick, its helmet poked out right in front of the whole class while the girls cheered Rowena on for an encore. She obliged as the head turned a brighter shade of red with each inch exposed until metal drummed the bare skin of his cock-crest. He gasped to the rhythm of her stick.
Like a sorority mistress, Rowena’s mentor prepares her plebe for initiation into the mysteries of sexual identity. She invokes the ancient ritual of a therapeutic spanking to be administered by her, a woman because the softness of a woman’s touch is more sensually attuned for arousal be the recipient a man or a woman. But the mentor will hand over the baton to the man for the last lap of the relay.
Her mentor says, “I don’t believe in pain for the sake of hurt. My intentions are not sadistic. However, as an aphrodisiac nothing beats rhythmic percussion better known as a tapotement in massage therapy circles. But first, you must be prepared with a derriere massage utilizing a tincture of peppermint oil mixed with grapeseed oil whose cool menthol will make you less sensitive so that you can enjoy the sensuality of your bottom warming.”
The moment her hand applies the oil Rowena’s bottom feels like her legs when putting on shaving cream. The cool sensation penetrates her skin like a soothing blanket of love in the form of her mentor’s soft palms with the magic potion that leaves Rowena spellbound. The lady slides her fingers between Rowena’s buns and down her perineum ever so close to her lotus.
Her mentor says, “I must exercise the utmost care not to touch your carnal bloom with the hand dedicated to your bottom as your hidden flesh would burn out of control were it to get dabbed with the peppermint oil. Even soap and water wouldn’t extinguish the fire that must run its course unlike the taste of hot sauce when the brain releases endorphins to soothe the burning. Rest assured, I am ambidextrous and won’t mix my hands.”
Her massage gets more vigorous until she mixes her rubs with soft paddles. She says, “Patience darling.” She grabs Rowena’s pillows in a tug of war whereby her roughness only adds to Rowena’s desire. Her smacks are precisely aimed for the tight muscles she mapped out in Rowena’s buttocks while massaging her. Rowena is in a cradle of minty feelings whose vapor is as strong as hot spearmint tea. The peppermint balm on Rowena’s bottom leaves a pleasant sting.
Rowena watches with bated breath as the doctor slips her partner into a harness with an attached condom that is fitted with thermal sensors designed to detect temperature fluctuations in her labia and clitoris. The signals from the sensors are transmitted to a computer that collects the data for analysis. A cap with a net of electrodes is affixed to Rowena’s scalp to monitor brain activity during this exam. It scans her cortical activity and communicates via wireless with the EEG machine. Once the sexualgram is in place she realizes that the Barbie and Ken of her youth were only dolls that weren’t even anatomically correct. Now she is free to be herself.
Projected on a movie screen is an image of ocean waves suffused by the first pink blush of dawn. Rowena bathes in the acoustic arousal of Debussy’s “La Mer.”
She lies on a platform of wet sand brought from the beach and surrounded by fiber-optic glow plants to cast light upon the couple. From the overhead vent, a salty tropic breeze caresses her bare breasts. The image of a newborn sun fills the valley between her upraised knees. Her miraculous flower hums beneath his electric lineage maker.
A rose vine tattoo illuminates his inner thighs, its green leaves, and roses twine inward, disappearing into his red forest. Rowena’s flaming crimson hair drapes across her shoulders in a forest of curls.
Recognition dawns like the rising sun. The man is her own crush and friend from time immemorial since her tormented adolescence; to her blossoming womanhood. His name spills melodically from her lips, “John, oh John.” A sigh blows from her parted lips.
Rowena’s mentor’s voice calls from the overhead speakers. “The emotional variable will skew the results of this test. We’ll have to find another actor for this stage play.”
She replies, “What better way to get accurate results than inserting the love factor? After all the idea is to get a feel for my fitness for marriage.”
John flexes his body like a lion and stands bestride her like a colossus. She looks up to where his cock points to the blue-lit ceiling. When he seals her she is helped along by sparks from his lingam yoke whose design is both for reading and creating heat. Their sex scent carries across the room to fill her with primal hunger. Arcing downward he presses into the layers of her female mystery until his affection turns into her sticky confection.
He descends to form a Manwich with her in the middle. Their lips join into one flower. Her female flower blossoms like the night-blooming cereus when fooled by a total solar eclipse.
Despite her attempt to remain unbiased her attraction to this man wins out over her futile attempt to keep her bouillon cube solid. Hence it dissolves into the soup of her lust. Upon unsheathing him, John dips his finger into Rowena’s buttery roux to cinch her change of heart and pussy.
Her fleshly caravansary for the trade routes of her skin is where his touch is bartered for the emotional Hashish that is her only fix when the craving turns ravenous.
Rowena watches the graph show her arousal levels spiking. The EEG tech says, “Electric curtains rippled through your cortex like the Aurora borealis.” This confirms what Rowena knew all along, that at least for this test her seesaw takes her into the realm of masculine feminine coupling.
Her pearl shines with the unmistakable sheen of success under the light of the tech’s magnifier probe. Therefore her diagnosis, formerly known as the “libidinal ambiguity, dissociative type,” is revised to “late phase bi-curious, male focalized type.” Now her attraction to men is a scientific fact.
She asks John, “Why didn’t you tell me before that you were attracted to me?”
John replies, “When you tapped out a marimba on my cock at graduation I felt put on display.
Honestly, I wasn’t keen on more of such sport.”
She says, “You didn’t complain and your reaction was favorable. Please forgive my youthful extravagance. You seemed shy and I was just trying to help you out of your shell.”
John replies, "Well you sure got my eel out of its nest.”
Rowena says, “Of the electric variety judging by how electrified it got from my touch. Today was my first.”
John says, “You’re kidding me. You seemed so experienced. Oh, no way. You had all the right moves. I would swear you had done it for a living. Except that there was nothing cheap or inauthentic about your touch.”
Rowena says, “Well, I studied the erogenous zones for extra credit in biology.”
“You must have practiced on yourself. You knew your stuff.”
She replies, “I’d be lying if I said my reading was solely for partnership.”
John asks, “Tell me, now do you vibrate exclusively to the male sex?”
“Science has confirmed my dual nature,” she says.
John asks, “Have you ever acted upon such bilateral inclinations?”
“Only in my mind.”
John says, “You get a touch of femaleness with me since pink is my favorite color and I like to get facials. I am metrosexual.”
“Your sexuality rhymes with an ancient echo.”
John replies, “Your encryption entices.”
“My heart is a riddle decisively deciphered in your favor. Chew on that as we make our passage to nuptial bliss.”