The Scholarship

By Captain Dunsel

Kelly Bishop made her way across the Hamilton College campus, only marginally aware of the turned heads she was leaving in her wake. Usually she relished that kind of attention, but today her mind was on more important things.

Not that she was entirely unaware of the attention she was getting. Nor was the attention entirely unsolicited. Kelly knew she was pretty, assuming you liked the buxom blue-eyed blonde type, and she wasn't exactly hiding her light under a bushel. The blue tanktop she had on was pretty skimpy, and with no bra to discourage her big breasts from swinging freely as she walked, and with a leather miniskirt so tight it looked painted on--well, she supposed she was bound to attract a little attention. 

Kelly moved off the grassy quad and headed for Caldwell Hall, her flawless skin made golden by the setting sun. As she trotted up the building's front steps her breasts bobbled playfully, catching the eye of a passing college administrator. Kelly didn't even notice his longing gaze--she was totally focused on her meeting with Dr. Quinn, eager to get his opinion about the Davis Scholarship. 

She entered the hushed, shadowy confines of the History Department, and took the ancient elevator to the third floor. At this time of day the corridors were echoing and deserted, and she saw no one at all as she made her way to her history professor's office.

Kelly smiled as she thought about Professor Quinn. He was a nice man, very understanding and fair, and super intelligent. He had gotten his PhD in England--Oxford, she thought--and it showed in his rather formal manners and sweet, gentle disposition. He was even sort of cute, in a middle-aged way--sort of a book-worm James Bond. Her friend Cindy had a major crush on Dr. Quinn, and Kelly could certainly understand why. 

Dr. Quinn's office door was open, as usual, and Kelly leaned in the doorway, her breasts stretching the fabric of her tanktop. "Knock knock...?" she said, cocking her head.

Professor Quinn looked up from his desk, his eyes widening at the sight of his buxom young student. He cleared his throat.

"Ah...Miss Bishop," he said. "Hello."

"Hi, Professor Quinn," Kelly said, a friendly smile on her face.

"Well...come in, come in." 

"Thanks," Kelly said, and she entered the office.

Her breasts swayed and bounced inside her tanktop, unfettered by a bra. Kelly was aware that Dr. Quinn was watching them, but she didn't think anything of it. After all, men were always staring at her breasts. Heck, that was what made them men.

"I hope I'm not late," she said brightly.

"No, not at all," Quinn said, swallowing as his eyes darted between her bosom and her thighs. Kelly actually felt sorry for the poor guy. Maybe she shouldn't have worn such a revealing outfit. Kelly seldom gave a second thought to her voluptuous body herself, but she knew the effect it could have on guys. And after all, she didn't want nice, proper Dr. Quinn to think she was a slut or anything. She sighed inwardly. Oh well...too late now.

"Oh, would you close the door, please?" Dr. Quinn asked.

"Oh, sure," Kelly said. 

She turned and walked back to the door, wondering if Professor Quinn was staring at her ass now, watching her cheeks wriggle inside the leather mini, studying the way her hips swiveled like a well-oiled machine. She found the idea strangely exciting--but she doubted he was watching her bum. Dr. Quinn was much too well-bred and polite to drool over some teenager's butt like an over-sexed frat boy. She closed the door with a click.

"Thanks," Dr. Quinn said.

He was trying very hard not stare at her boobs as she walked back across the room, the sweet man--but her breasts weren't making it easy for him, bobbling and jiggling like crazy, her nipples inscribing the inside of her tanktop with each step.

Then suddenly Dr. Quinn looked away and cleared his throat, as if he had suddenly come to a decision. Kelly feared he was angry at her for dressing so...provocatively. Maybe he would even refuse to let her apply for the scholarship!

"Please, sit down," he said--rather curtly, Kelly thought. 

Kelly obediently sat in the chair facing his desk. She leaned forward and smiled at him, trying her best to look innocent and demur. To her relief Dr. Quinn smiled back, his eyes occasionally glancing furtively down at her cleavage.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat again, "I was, uh...just about to have my regular afternoon glass of sherry. A habit I picked up when I was at Oxford. Would you, um...would you care to join me?" 

"Oh..." Kelly said, surprised. She wasn't used to the idea of her teacher offering her a drink. The teachers back at Zachary Taylor High School never had, that was for sure!

Kelly considered. She drank, but she really wasn't much of a drinker--three light beers and she was nicely sloshed. Still, the last thing she wanted was for Dr. Quinn to think she wasn't mature, or refined, or polite. And she supposed one little glass of sherry wouldn't hurt. She was pretty sure sherry was just watered-down wine, like for kids. 

"Well, sure, why not?" she said, smiling. 

Dr. Quinn took a bottle from the table behind his desk and poured them each a glass of the dark red liquor.

"Not the finest sherry, I'm afraid, but passable." he said, filling Kelly's glass.

"Oh, I'm sure it'll be...delicious," Kelly said, wanting to reassure him. She was surprised that the glass was so big, and that he was filling it so full--but she supposed that was the way they did it at Oxford. She knew Europeans drank wine like it was CocaCola. 

"Thanks," Kelly responded. She put the glass to her lips and took a cautious sip. The sherry tasted stronger than she expected, like sweet medicine. Sort of cloying. She took another small sip. 

"Oh, no no no, Miss Bishop," Professor Quinn scolded her gently. He smiled at her indulgently from across the desk. "The only people who sip sherry are old maids at tea parties."

"Oh..." Kelly said, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I..."

"Here...observe..." he said, and he lifted his glass. 

"Cheers!" Dr. Quinn said, then he tilted back his head and, with a quick flick of his wrist, knocked back the sherry in a single swallow. He lowered the glass and smiled, licking his lips. "Mmm," he said. "Now that is how one drinks sherry at Oxford, Miss Bishop."

"Ohhh," Kelly said, nodding. "I get it. Sort of like a jello shot."

Dr. Quinn blinked and his browed furrowed. 

"Well...I don't know what a jello shot is, Miss Bishop, but the idea is not so much to drink it fast as it is to drink it with grace and finesse. A smooth, understated flick of the wrist. No wasted motion. Now why don't you try?"

"Okay," Kelly said, nervous and eager to please. 

She lifted her glass and smiled, feeling a bit silly.

"Cheers!" she said--and, mimicking Dr. Quinn's wrist action, she emptied the glass in a single swallow. Kelly lowered her glass, licking her lips.

"Well...?" Professor Quinn asked. 

Kelly blinked, a little worried that she could already feel the blood rushing to her head, and plunked her glass back down on the desk.

"Well, it's very...um...sweet," she said, trying not to offend her host. "But, y'know...it's good, really."

"Do you like it? Well, then..." Dr. Quinn said, reaching forward and refilling her glass.

"Oh...well...I didn't mean..." Kelly began.

"Now then," Dr. Quinn said, "What did you want to see me about?" 

"Oh...well," Kelly said. "I was wondering if you thought I had a chance at the Davis Scholarship."

"Ohh, I see," Dr. Quinn said.

Kelly took a sip of sherry.

"Mm," she said, swallowing, "I think my grades are good enough--except maybe in Psych, and that's--"

"Uh, uh, uh," Dr. Quinn said, interrupting her and wagging his finger. "No sipping, Miss Bishop. Remember: grace and finesse."

"Oh...right. Sorry," Kelly said, embarrassed to have forgotten so quickly. She would have preferred to sip the sherry slowly, concerned that another guzzled glass might make her a bit dizzy, but she didn't want to insult Professor Quinn. 

"Cheers!" Kelly toasted, and she drank down her second glass of sherry in the space of sixty seconds. The liquor was sweet and syrupy going down, but Kelly swallowed it with as much grace and finesse as she could manage. 

"Mmm...wow..." she said, pursing her lips as she lowered the empty glass, "now that is really sweet."

"Yes, it is," Professor Quinn agreed. 

"Mmmm..nnn..." Kelly murmured, smacking her lips. She placed her glass back on the desk. Dr. Quinn reached over with the bottle... 

...and refilled her glass again. 

Kelly started to protest--the sherry tasted a little like cough syrup and she wasn't crazy about it. Not to mention the fact that she could already feel a little glow in her stomach where the first glass had hit. Or was it the second? Anyway, she was definitely starting to feel a little...odd. Not buzzed, exactly, but definitely unusual. 

Still, she didn't want to hurt Dr. Quinn's feelings, he was such a sweet guy. So she let him refill the glass, but decided that it would definitely be her last.

"The Davis Scholarship, hm?" Dr. Quinn asked.

"Yes, sir." Kelly said, feeling a little more fuzzy-headed with each passing moment.

"Full tuition, not bad at all," Quinn said, sitting back in his chair. "Well, the first step is to fill out the application form. Shall we go ahead and do that right now?"

"Sure, that'd be great," Kelly said, smiling...

...then she blinked, feeling suddenly dizzy. "Mmmm..." she said, squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them wide. It didn't help. The room was still slightly out of focus and refusing to stay perfectly still. And to top it off, her head was buzzing--not loudly, but it was disconcerting nevertheless. 

"Are you all right?" Quinn asked her.

Kelly smiled. "Mm, fine, I'm just...I'm fine," she said, not wanting him to think she couldn't handle her sherry. But in fact Kelly felt very strange. Light-headed and pleasantly numb, sort of like when she had the flu last winter. Maybe it wasn't the sherry at all. Maybe she was coming down with something. She took a sip from her glass without thinking. 

"Uh-uh, Miss Bishop!" Quinn said.

"Mmm?" Kelly asked, looking up at him. The sudden movement made the room tilt and she swayed, grabbing the edge of the desk and blinking with concern.

"You're sipping again," Professor Quinn admonished as he took an application form from a desk drawer.

"Oh," Kelly said, looking down at her glass. She blinked. It was becoming very difficult to think straight. What was wrong with her? That warm glow was starting to spread through her body. It felt rather nice but she wondered what was causing it. It surely couldn't be the sherry. After all, it was just watered-down wine. Or was it cough syrup? She couldn't remember.

"Remember Oxford," Quinn reminded her as he flipped through a file folder.

"Hmm? Oh...right," Kelly said, blinking owlishly. "Sorry." 

"Cheers!" Kelly said. She lifted the glass and polished it off in one long swallow.

"Good?" Quinn asked as she lowered the empty glass.

"Mmm," Kelly conceded, smiling. She decided that--much to her surprise--she was really beginning to like the taste of this stuff. "It's sort of like drinking watered down soft...I mean, cough syrup."

"Yes, that's a good description," Quinn agreed. He reached across the desk with the bottle. "Here, allow me..." 

"Mmm, thank you," Kelly said, letting him refill her glass. That's right, she reminded herself, this glass'll be my last one. Unless I have another. Just to be polite. She tried to remember what she had been concerned about a few moments ago, but it was gone clean out of her fuzzy, buzzing head. 

"Now then," Dr. Quinn said, lifting a pen, "let's start with your full name." 

"Hmmm?" Kelly asked, smiling at him woozily.

"Your name?" Dr. Quinn repeated, smiling indulgently.

"Ohh!" Kelly said, giggling at her own foolishness. She swayed forward, her breasts lunging. "Um...giggle... Kelly...giggle...Kelly Christine Bishop." 

"Okay..." Quinn said, filling in the form. "Age?" 

"Eighteen," Kelly said, then: "Cheers!" She tossed back her fourth glass of sherry with both hands, all worries about drinking too much vanished. She liked drinking sherry with Professor Quinn...because he was such a sweetie. And the sherry made her feel all warm and fuzzy, and she liked feeling all warm and fuzzy. 

Kelly lowered her glass and smiled fondly at Dr. Quinn. She was really begining to understand why Cindy had such a crush on the guy. He was looking better and better by the moment. Dr. Quinn looked up from the application form.

"Sex?" He smiled mischeviously. "Very definitely female," he said, writing. 

Kelly giggled. "Mmmm...you're sweet." She blinked at him through eyes that were growing increasingly glazed. "Did biny...anybody ever tell you that you are a sweet man?"

"Oh, goodness yes," Dr. Quinn said, entering information on the form, "all the time." Kelly giggled. 

Professor Quinn looked up from the form. "What's your extension number?" he asked. 

"Umm..." Kelly blinked, trying to concentrate. "Two-three...no wait, three-two-five-eight."

"Home address?"

"Home address," she repeated. "557 Mest Wape... giggle...I mean, West Maple Street," Kelly told him, swaying in her seat.

"What town is that, Miss Bishop?"

"Thas in Jass-king...Jacksonville. Thas in Flordira." 

Kelly slumped back in her chair and giggled at the ceiling. She was feeling wonderfully relaxed and completely fuzzy-headed.

"Mmmmmm...are you sure this's how they drink Oxf...giggle...I mean, drink sherry at Oxford?" she asked.

"Well, no, you're right, Miss Bishop, it isn't quite," Dr. Quinn agreed. "At Oxford it's customary to propose a toast when you drink sherry."

"A toast?" Kelly asked, leaning forward. Dr. Quinn took the opportunity to refill her glass.

"Mm-hm." Dr. Quinn confirmed. "There are several traditional toasts. Let's see..." He raised his glass, smiling. "To your mother's good health."

Kelly beamed, raising her own glass. "Aww...thas so sweet." She put the glass to her lips and downed sherry number five like it was water. It's a good thing this is only cough syrup, she thought, or I'd be getting sooo drunk. The idea of getting sloshed in her professor's office made her giggle. 

She half-slumped against the desk and held out her empty glass. Dr. Quinn wasted no time refilling it.

"Your turn," he said.

"Mm?" Kelly asked, staring at him through glazed and bleary eyes. She was rapidly passing from pleasantly tipsy to genuinely drunk and was already too far down that path to be alarmed by the fact. 

"A toast," Quinn prompted. Kelly blinked.

"Ohhh," she said, giggling and pitching forward, "I forgot." She thought for a moment. "Well...how 'bou...to your father's good hells!" she sang, giggling and raising her glass.

"Fine," he acknowledged. "Cheers!" 

"Cheers!" Kelly echoed, and she lifted her glass to her mouth and drank. She leaned back her head and emptied the sherry down her throat with a single flick of her wrist.

"Okay," Quinn said, refilling her glass yet again, "my turn. To your father's good health." 

Kelly was way past the point of knowing--or caring--that her history professor was practically pouring sherry down her throat.

"To my fatherer's good health," she agreed heartily, raising her glass. "Cheers!"

They clinked glasses and drank. Kelly emptied her sherry in a swallow, then lowered her empty glass and giggled.

"What's so funny?" Quinn asked, smiling.

"Mmnn, well," Kelly said, wiping her lips, "see...ashly he isn my fatherer. He's my fep stather." She laughed again, bending forward. "I mean...giggle...I mean, my step farther."

"Ahhh, my apologies." 

"Ohhh, thash okay," Kelly said, sinking back into her chair. She closed her eyes and started giggling. "Oooooh..."

"What's wrong?" Professor Quinn asked, grinning.

"I think...giggle...I think I'm shlipping...giggle..." Kelly said. Sure enough, her plump little butt was sliding further and further down in her chair, causing her miniskirt to slide further and further up her thighs.

"Yes...so I see," Dr. Quinn said, watching as the intoxicated blonde slipped to her knees and disappeared from sight. 

For a moment Dr. Quinn could only hear giggling, then Kelly pulled herself up onto the edge of the desk. "Whoops!" she said, giggling drunkenly.

"You okay?" Dr. Quinn asked, smiling.

"I'm okay," Kelly assured him, "but my legs're drunk!"

"Ohhh, how did that happen?"

"I don't...I don't know how did that happened," Kelly said, catching her balance.

"Mmm...well perhaps you'd better lie down on the sofa until your legs sober up, hm?"

"Mmm...giggle...only if you lie down with me..." Kelly suggested coyly, giggling and getting clumsily to her feet. Kelly knew she should be ashamed of herself, flirting with her history professor--but she was just kidding around, after all. Besides, she liked flirting with men. Which is why she did nothing as the straps of her tanktop slid down her arms, threatening to completely expose her already overexposed breasts. 

Dr. Quinn smiled his charming smile, his eyebrows rising. "Miss Bishop," he said, shaking a finger at her, "you are a naughty girl."

"Mmmm...I know...I know I am a naughty girl..." she said. She giggled, swayed unsteadily, and launched herself off the desk. 

"Wellll...I'll juss toodle on back t'my droom...giggle... drorm room..." Kelly gurgled, weaving a crooked path and stumbling straight toward a wall, too drunk to navigate. She lost a shoe and staggered, almost losing her balance.

"Uh...Miss Bishop..." Dr. Quinn said, smiling at her inebriated state. 

Kelly blundered blindly into the wall, staggering back a few steps and blinking in confusion.

"Heyyy..." she complained, giggling like an idiot, "who put sis wall here...?"

"Okay...here..." Dr. Quinn said, standing and walking over to his thoroughly intoxicated student.

"The sofa's over here, Miss Bishop," Quinn said, leading her gently across the room. Kelly blinked up at him through bleary eyes and grinned.

"Heyyyy, Dosser Quinn!" she said, smiling with drunken recognition, "What're you doin' here?"

"This is my office, Miss Bishop," her professor reminded her. Kelly giggled.

"Ohhh yeah..." She giggled again, stumbling unsteadily as he led her to the sofa. "Come here often?" 

Kelly slumped onto the sofa and grinned up at Dr. Quinn. Drunk as she was, Kelly could tell the poor guy was doing his best to ignore the patch of white lace between her thighs. She felt a sudden flood of affection for her kindly professor. Kelly was begining to think she might let the old boy kiss her if he wanted--and she was pretty sure he wanted. In fact, one more drink and she'd probably let him feel her up. As sort of a reward for being so cute. "May I--HIP!--may I have anunner dring, please?" she asked with intoxicated politeness.

"Certainly," Quinn answered, smiling down at her. "But...what do you say we try something a little more fun than boring old sherry, hm?"

"Mmmm, surrre!" Kelly agreed. 

Dr. Quinn went to his desk and pulled a bottle and a clean glass from the bottom drawer. "Twelve-year-old scotch," he said, hefting the bottle. Kelly grinned foolishly. She had never had scotch before, but she knew older guys drank it a lot. She was too drunk to notice that Dr. Quinn had only taken out one glass.

He opened the bottle and poured a very healthy portion of liquor into the glass. Kelly watched blearily from the sofa, her thoughts becoming less coherent with every passing minute. But that was okay--she was happy to just sit there and go with the flow.

"I think you'll like this, Miss Bishop," Dr. Quinn said. "It's aged in oak barrels. Very smooth." 

Dr. Quinn walked over and sat beside Kelly on the sofa. He handed her the glass of scotch. "There you are," he said.

"Mmmm...thanksh," Kelly said, blinking at him woozily. She stared down at the amber-colored liquid.

"Well, give it a try, let me know what you think."

"Mmmm...giggle...okey-dokey," Kelly said, giggling like a three-year-old. It never even occured to her that it might not be a good idea to drink a large glass of straight scotch on top of seven glasses of sherry. 

Kelly leaned back and downed the glass of scotch, her adam's apple bobbing as she gulped. "Mmm...mmm..."she grunted, swallowing. The scotch had a smokiness about it, but her tongue was so numb she could barely taste it. She might as well be drinking iced tea. Kelly was vaguely aware of Dr. Quinn watching her with amazed anticipation, so she figured she must be drinking the scotch the way they did at Oxford. That was good. She wanted Dr. Quinn to be proud of her. Kelly downed the last few drops and lowered the glass with a gasp.

"Mmmahhh..." she said, pitching forward, breasts wobbling. 

For a long moment nothing happened. Kelly sat there, a smile on her pretty face, fuzzy-headed and content. She could feel the scotch glowing in her stomach at the same time it was rushing through her bloodstream, but the sherry had dulled her perceptions enough that she was only vaguely aware of what was happening. It didn't seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter. The world was a pleasantly out of focus dream.

Then the scotch hit. 

KA-WANNG!!

In an instant Kelly passed from moderately intoxicated to totally wasted, the scotch turning her brain to mush with a ruthlessness far beyond the powers of simple sherry. Kelly felt a rush of conflicting sensations: simultaneously numb and tingly, sleepy and energized, confused and perceptive. 

Most of all, she felt peaceful and completely uninhibited. No worries, no guilts, no fears--the scotch had obliterated them all. She wasn't exactly sure where she was, but that was okay. Everything was okay. Gradually she became aware that somebody was speaking to her, asking her something. Kelly blinked, trying to concentrate.

"Miss Bishop?"

Kelly smiled. Oh, yes, it was her friend Professor Quinn. He was sweet. And she was in his office, she remembered now. She couldn't remember why, but that was okay. Everything was okay.

"Miss Bishop? Shall we continue with the application?" 

Kelly turned and faced Dr. Quinn. "Hmmmmm?" she drawled, her bleary eyes blinking at him contentedly.

"The application?" Dr. Quinn reminded her. "For the Davis Scholarship?"

Kelly grinned. "Ohhhh, yeahhhh..." she said, recalling. She knew she really wanted to get that scholarship. Whatever it was.

"All right, next question," Dr. Quinn was saying. "Height?"

"Hmmm?" Kelly asked, uncomprehending.

"How tall are you?" Professor Quinn explained. 

"Oh..." Kelly held her hand up even with the top of her head. "I'm ziss tall."

Dr. Quinn smiled. "Okay," he said. "Weight?"

"Um...a hunnerd...hunnerd an funny...fuh...twenny-five."

"Okay," Dr. Quinn said. He licked his lips. "Um...bust size?"

Kelly didn't hesitate. "37-C," she stated firmly, and with a touch of pride. In her alcoholic state it never even occured to her that it was a strange question for a scholarship application.

"Really?" Dr. Quinn asked. "Are you sure? I would have said 36-B at the most."

"Ohhh, no no no," Kelly assured him, hefting her jiggling mounds. "I have...had th' biggess tits at Zach'ry Taylor High! Theze babies're thirry see...thirry-seven see, truss me."

"Mmm...well, I'm afraid we'll have to prove that. For the record," Dr. Quinn said.

"We will?" Kelly asked, blinking.

"Yes. Would you remove your top, please."

"Okay," Kelly said, eager to cooperate and confident that she was right. She certainly knew the size of her own boobies--they were her best feature, after all.

Kelly grasped the hem of her tanktop and pulled it clumsily up over her breasts, then her head. She dropped the tanktop on the floor and smiled at Dr. Quinn... 

...who was staring at her breasts with unabashed awe, his mouth hanging open. Kelly had seen that look before. It made her giggle, but it also made her feel proud.

"See?" she said, letting him get a good look, "I tole you zey were 37-C."

"I, uh..." Dr. Quinn said, clearing his throat. "I apologize for ever doubting you. Would you like another glass of scotch?"

Kelly smiled. "Mmmmm...maybe juss a li'l bitty bit. I don't wannit t'sart fecting my jushment...HIP!" 

"Here, I'll just, uh...get the bottle..." Dr. Quinn said, leaning across Kelly.

Kelly smiled. She couldn't help thinking that the poor man would have an easier time of it if he looked in the direction of the bottle instead of her boobs, but she was feeling much too blissful to be offended by his unusual attention. On the contrary, Kelly found Dr. Quinn's fascination with her naked breasts amusing and sort of cute, like he was a very naughty but adorable little boy. Besides, he eventually managed to grab the scotch bottle and refill her glass, so there was no harm done. 

Kelly lifted the glass with both hands and, under Dr. Quinn's watchful gaze, downed the potent liquor in a matter of moments. She was vaguely aware of his hand resting on her thigh, casually sliding up toward her miniskirt, but the alarm bells in her brain were ringing deep beneath a sea of alcohol and were easily ignored. 

Kelly giggled and sank back into the sofa, her body limp as a wet rag. The room was spinning around in her several directions at once and her thoughts were hopelessly muddy and confused--but she felt absolutely wonderful.

"Uh...Miss Bishop...?" Dr. Quinn asked gently. His hand was still on her thigh, massaging gently and inching ever nearer to her white lace panties--but Kelly only noticed because it was causing pleasantly erotic tingles.

"Mmmmmm?" Kelly drawled, not opening her eyes.

"Are you all right?"

Kelly giggled. "Mmmmmmmmm...shweetie... giggle...I am sooo all rye you can' even know...giggle..." 

Suddenly Kelly sat forward and draped her arm over Dr. Quinn's shoulder, her breasts swaying and flapping like luscious pendulums.

"Hey..." she said with drunken gravity, "wuz you like to kiss me?"

Dr. Quinn gurgled and blinked. "Uh, I...would I...?"

"Because--HIP!...because I will like t'kiss you...HIP!..."

"You would?" Dr. Quinn asked.

Kelly decided to show him. 

The kiss was wet and deep and lasted a long, long time.

Later Kelly would have a hard time remembering exactly what happened after that. She remembered making out with Dr. Quinn for what seemed like hours, and she definitely remembered liking it. Professor Quinn may have studied at Oxford, but his tongue had obviously learned a few tricks at the Sorbonne.

After that, though, Kelly's memories got even fuzzier... 

She remembered that eventually...inevitably...Dr. Quinn became more interested in her breasts than her mouth. Not that Kelly minded. Dr. Quinn's playful fondling and sensual licking and gentle sucking were enough to drive her to the edge of orgasm. In fact, she may have gone over that edge a few times, she couldn't recall...it was all a very pleasant blur. 

She had a fuzzy but vivid recollection of being sprawled on the sofa, guzzling scotch straight from the bottle and giggling like an idiot at the fact that Dr. Quinn had maroon underwear. For some reason that was the funniest thing in the world. Kelly also remembered that she was stark naked by this point, though she had absolutely no recollection of how she lost her skirt and panties. 

A few moments later, Kelly eagerly replaced the bottle with something more organic, her alcohol-soked brain consumed with lust. She had always been a bit squeamish about oral sex before, but the scotch and Dr. Quinn's skillful foreplay had obliterated all her inhibitions. More than anything in the world Kelly wanted to fill her mouth a man's penis, and Professor Quinn's impressive specimen just happened to be available. She did her best to work with grace and finesse, thoroughly enjoying herself as she gradually brought him to the brink of madness...

...and enjoying herself even more when, moments later, he returned the favor. Her memories of his enthusiastic explorations were hopelessly jumbled and bizarre, but she definitely remembered panting and bucking and squealing like an insane animal, completely out of control and never wanting it to end. 

After that...well, the rest of the evening was a confusing blur of wild, weird, wonderful images and sensations. Kelly could never decide how much of it was real and how much was an alcohol-induced dream. Apparently Dr. Quinn had an entire liquor store in his desk drawer because the drinking never stopped. Kelly remembered drinking more scotch, and passing out, then coming to and drinking something else...it might have been vodka--she remembered laughing like a fool because it was clear...and passing out, and coming to, and drinking some bitter-tasting stuff from a silver flask. And whatever that was it moved her beyond being just plain drunk off her ass and put her into orbit around Venus, stoned out of her gourd. 

Mostly, though, she had these incredible flashes of making love with Dr. Quinn. Again... ...and again... ...and again... ...until finally, her brain overloaded with booze and pleasure, Kelly passed out for the umpteenth and final time. 

When she came to early the next morning, she was sprawled on one of the sofas in the basement lounge of her dorm--fully dressed, thank God. She had no idea how she got there and she never found out.

As she sat up Kelly realized she was sore all over--especially between her thighs--and she had a hangover the size of North Dakota. As she went to get some some Tylenol from her purse she discovered a letter tucked neatly inside. 

It was from the history department, congratulating her on being awarded the Davis Scholarship for Excellence in Special Research.

Kelly smiled. It hurt her face, but she smiled anyway. Not just at the scholarship letter...but at the bizarre, fuzzy, wonderful memory of sweet Dr. Quinn's unusual application process.

The End.

The Girl Next Door

By Dunsel 

Dana Burke, my next door neighbor, was a high school senior, three years older than me, and the most beautiful girl in the world.  I was a freshman science nerd, so it goes without saying that Dana—a varsity cheerleader—barely knew I was alive.  I mean, she knew I existed, but only as the kid next door, or the paperboy, or maybe as the dork who walked into the side of his garage because he was mesmerized by the sight of her sunbathing in a thong bikini.  Actually, I don’t think she noticed that, but you get my point.

I might have gone on lusting after her from afar and done nothing about it if it hadn’t happened.

It was a Saturday night.  Dana had gone out with some of her girlfriends.  I knew that because I had watched from my bedroom window as she ran out to their car.  It was a warm spring evening and Dana had been wearing a flimsy cotton button down sundress, and as I watched her jogging down the front walk, her big boobs bouncing, her long blonde hair flouncing, I nearly came in my pants.

But that was nothing, par for the course.  The real miracle happened later that night.  It was nearly 11:00 and I was rolling the trash can out to the street when the same car pulled up to the curb, not ten feet away.  They were dropping Dana off.  There was loud music thumping from inside the car along with the sound of girls laughing.  Then the back door opened, the music and laughter got louder, and a cloud of smoke billowed forth.  I stood there in the shadows, watching, practically holding my breath.

A moment later Dana stepped out of the car.  Or, I should say, she tried to step out of the car.  She was having trouble balancing, stumbled, slipped, grabbed for the door, missed, and ended up sitting on the curb with one leg still in the car.  I started to step forward to help—but far from being hurt, Dana apparently thought this was the funniest thing that had ever happened to her, as did her friends in the car.  Lots of laughter and giggles.  I realized with a start that Dana was, quite literally, drunk off her ass.  Or maybe stoned, judging by the smoky interior of the car.  Or probably both.  I swallowed hard.

Eventually Dana managed to haul herself to her feet, using the car door for balance, and staggered back a few steps onto the sidewalk.  There was a chorus of waving and giggling and goodbyes from all concerned, the car door was pulled shut, and the car drove off down the street.  Still grinning and giggling, Dana stumbled around, trying to orient herself.  I stepped out from the shadows.

“Hi, Dana,” I said, master of the clever opening.  She turned and blinked at me, swaying unsteadily, grinning like an fool.  She was quite a sight.  Her lovely hair was a disheveled mop; it looked like she had gotten caught in a wind tunnel.  Her sundress was wrinkled and twisted and several of its buttons were misbuttoned—which meant at some point in the evening they had been unbuttoned.  In fact, the top three or four were still unbuttoned, giving me a splendid view of her milky white cleavage, including the beauty mark on her right boob, a cute little mole that forever rode the waves of her heaving bosom.  It was riding a tsunami now as Dana staggered unsteadily, trying to stay on her feet, and her boobs quivered with tremulous, delicious vibrations.  

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and it was obvious that some paleolithic football-playing bastard had been having sex with her.  True, from the look of things Dana had thoroughly enjoyed herself—but that was only because she was too drunk to know what she was doing, I was sure.  Dana was a good girl.  It wasn’t her fault that some stupid jock got her drunk and stoned and then…y’know…had his way with her.  Poor thing.

“Heyyyyy, neighbor!” she crowed, laughing and waving and staggering in my direction.  She stumbled right into me, nearly knocking me over, and I had to hold her waist to keep us both upright.  She draped her arms over my shoulders, her face only inches away from mine.  I had never been this close to her before.  Her big blue eyes were droopy-lidded and glassy and  completely bloodshot, her chubby cheeks flushed red, and her breath smelled of a pungent combination of alcohol and pot.  Drunk and stoned, definitely.

“H-hi,” I said feebly.

“How ya doin’ there, Ricky baby?” she slurred, her crossed eyes barely focusing on me.  I was amazed that she knew my name, especially in her condition.  She staggered, her weight shifting, and I counterbalanced to keep her upright.

“I’m fine, Dana,” I said, trying to ignore the fact that her big boobs were nuzzling my chest.  “H-how’re you?”

She leaned her forehead against mine and grinned a mischievous grin.

“Mmmmm…Ricky baby, I am so fucking wasted I don’ even know where the fuck I am,” she announced, and she dissolved into giggles.  I blinked.  I had never heard Dana curse before.

“You’re on the sidewalk in front of your house,” I informed her.

“Nnnnn…” she said, still with that mischievous grin, her beautiful blue eyes swimming in and out of focus.  “You wanna walk me home?”

“Um…sure.”

She stumbled, slumping against me, giggling, her lips centimeters from mine.

“Heyy Ricky baby,” she slurred, barely comprehensible, “you wanna fuck me?”  

“I um…I…” I stammered.  And then she kissed me.  It was…well…it was too inaccurate to be truly passionate, but it was wet and sloppy and arousing as hell.  I was in heaven.  But only fourth heaven.  I got to seventh heaven a few moments later when she clumsily grabbed my hands, pushed them inside her dress, and pressed them against her huge, warm, plump, rubbery, perfect breasts.  Okay, I admit, she was wearing a bra, but still!  This was masturbatory fantasy #8649B come to life!  And so I can be forgiven the fact that this time I did, in fact, come in my pants.

As it turned out my premature ejaculation didn’t matter because at that moment my mother stuck her head out the back door and called my name.  “Rick?  Where are you?  What’s going on out there?”

The next moment the Burke’s front porch light came on and Dana’s mother stuck her head out the door.  “Dana honey?  Is that you?”

Dana giggled and stumbled back, grinning like an idiot.  I stood there like an idiot myself, hands still frozen in boob squeezing position, unable to believe what had just happened.  Dana turned and started down the sidewalk toward her house, weaving wildly, stumbling erratically, her luscious ass grinding inside the thin cotton dress.  She looked back over her shoulder at me and smiled a coquettish little smile.

“’Night, Ricky baby,” she said softly.  “Dream of me.”  She blew me a kiss, giggled, and turned away.  I watched her stumble up the front steps of her house, watched her mother come out to meet her, scold her, help her.  I watched her disappear inside the house, my hands still frozen in the magic place where they had, for one miraculous moment, held her breasts.

“I will,” I promised.  And I did.

Apparently Dana had no memory of what happened that night, which is not really surprising considering how far gone she had been.  In any event, her attitude toward me changed not at all.  When we saw each other she was vaguely polite, as one was with a neighbor who was, after all, a complete stranger.

I, of course, never forgot that night.  In fact, I obsessed on it.  I had held my dream girl in my arms, kissed her, fondled her breasts, and I vowed that, whatever it took, I would do so once again.  

Every day I watched her, studying her every move, getting to know her better than she knew herself, seeking out a plan.  And then one day, I had it.

Dana lived alone with her Mom.  Her father was dead.  Every weekday the routine in the Burke household was the same, and that was the key to my plan.  At 2:30 her mom would leave for work at the computer factory, leaving a supper plate on the stove for Dana to warm.  At 3:15 Dana would arrive home from school.  Unless it was a Tuesday.  On Tuesdays she had cheerleading practice and didn’t get home until 4:30.  Most days, though, she was home by 3:15.

First thing she did when she got home was pop open a can of Diet Sprite and flop down in front of the TV to watch Oprah.  Every afternoon, like clockwork.  I guess she really liked Oprah.  She must’ve really liked Diet Sprite too, because she’d go through three cans of the stuff before dinner—which she’d heat in the microwave and eat while watching Access Hollywood and drinking two more Diet Sprites.  The last can in the six pack she’d take up to her bedroom to sip while she did her homework.  After that, it varied, but usually she’d gab on the phone while watching TV or listening to music, maybe surf the web for a while, then go to bed at 11:00 on the dot.  Her Mom didn’t get home from the factory until midnight or so.  The routine seldom varied.

I knew all this because I watched her every move through the high-powered telescope my parents had given me for Christmas the year before.  (There are advantages to being a known science nerd.)  Some nights she’d forget to close her bedroom blinds before undressing.  Those nights were the best.  Twice I saw her walking around the room stark naked, her big boobs bouncing.  Nights never to be forgotten, certainly, but still not enough.  I didn’t want to just watch her gorgeous breasts.  Having once touched them, I hungered to feel them in the palms of my hands again.  Hence my master plan.

The Diet Sprite was the key, I decided.

First, I did some research.  Then I made a few purchases, some with the help of my cousin Frankie who was twenty-two and very discreet.  Then I made preparations.  On the workbench in the basement I set up what my parents thought was yet another science experiment.  And so it was, of a sort.  I was setting out to create something I had learned was called “Green Dragon.”  Except mine was going to be a little bit different.

The first step was to take the loose marijuana Frankie had bought me and break it up, removing all the seeds and other trash, then soak it overnight in vinegar.  This bleached out most of the green pigment and left the grass a dull grey.  Then I took a bottle of Everclear grain alcohol (another Frankie purchase) and poured a few ounces of it into a beaker.  I carefully added all the bleached grass into the beaker, mixed it well, and snapped on a plastic cover.  It sat there in my basement, quietly reducing, for three weeks.  

When it was ready, I poured the resulting liquid through a series of coffee filters, gradually straining out all the herbal matter, then added what was left to a fresh beaker of Everclear.  I now had a quart beaker of alcohol laced with high amounts of pure THC.  But I wasn’t done yet.  Into the beaker of laced Everclear I added the proper amounts of sugar and unflavored brewer’s yeast, covered, let nature take its course, and in a little over a week I had a quart of colorless, tasteless, 190 proof, THC laced, and nicely carbonated alcohol.

There was still one more step.  I had a small bowl of powdered aromatic plants, courtesy of the local health food store.  I had done my research and had chosen carefully:  Muira Puama, Catuaba, Betel Nut, Prickly Ash, and Maca.  All five of these herbs were considered powerful aphrodisiacs by various cultures.  Sure, I knew all the claims were probably pseudo-scientific bullshit, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.  Maybe one of them actually did stimulate sexual desire.  Or maybe the combination of them all would.  Anyway, I added the powdered herbs to the beaker and stirred until they were completely dissolved.

Finally, I added a few teaspoons of lemon juice.  For flavor.

My concoction was complete.  I dubbed it “Clear Dragon.”

Next, I took a six-pack of Diet Sprite.  (My mom wondered about me switching to Diet Sprite after years of drinking Coke, but I said I thought the caffeine was keeping me up and that satisfied her.)  I turned the six-pack upside down and, using a 1/32” bit, I drilled a tiny hole in the bottom of each can.  The soda hissed and bubbled for a moment as some of the carbonation escaped.  Then I turn the cans upright and let Diet Sprite slowly drip, drip, drip into a plastic tub.  It took a while, but when the cans were about half empty I flipped them back over and wiped them clean.

I took the large plastic hypodermic I had bought at a pet store—the sort that was used to feed liquid medicine to animals—and filled it from my beaker of Clear Dragon.  Then slowly, carefully, I injected the fizzy liquid into the hole of each can, replacing the missing Diet Sprite with my tasteless, colorless, carbonated joy juice.  It took the better part of an hour and made a mess, but in the end the cans were more or less full.

To seal the aluminum cans I used a propane torch my mom kept around for making creme brulee and a special brazing rod I bought at the local hardware store.  I had done a lot of practicing on empty cans over the previous weeks and had gotten pretty good at it.  In less than thirty minutes all six holes were sealed with only a tiny aluminum lump to betray my activities.  And after all, I figured, who ever inspected the bottom of the soda can they were drinking from?

I put the doctored six-pack in the basement fridge to chill and waited for the perfect opportunity.

Weeks passed.  I kept my watch on the Burke house, occasionally enjoying a glimpse of Dana in her underwear—but that, believe it or not, was not what I was looking for.  I needed the confluence of three things: my parents had to be away from home, Mrs. Burke had to be away from home, and it had to be a weeknight.  A couple of times we came close, but never quite managed it.  More weeks passed.  I was beginning to get worried.  Soon school would be out, summer vacation would begin, and while I looked forward to seeing Dana in her thong bikini again, the routine I was counting on would undoubtedly change and my plan would likely be ruined.

Finally, a week before Dana was going to graduate from high school, I decided I had to take matters into my own hands.  I had come too far, planned too well, to let the vagaries of familial scheduling get in my way.  My parents announced that they intended to go up to the lake house on Thursday and stay the weekend.  They had done that sort of thing before and trusted me to be home alone.  So far so good.

I had noticed that three times in the last two months Dana’s mom had been away from home overnight.  A deceptively casual conversation with her when I collected for the newspaper delivery had given me all the information I needed.  It seemed that one of her coworkers, a guy named Joe Panella, was a volunteer paramedic with the county fire department, and he was occasionally called away on an emergency.  When that happened, Mrs. Burke’s supervisor asked her to work a double shift and, eager to earn the overtime, she always agreed.  Bingo.  A little research into county emergency services procedures and I was ready.

Thursday afternoon I put my plan into motion.

2:45—I arrived home from school.  Dana’s mom had already left for work, but Dana herself wouldn’t be home from school for another half hour.

2:55—I bid my parents goodbye and watched them drive away, heading off for the lake.

3:00—With my doctored six-pack of Diet Sprite in hand, I entered the Burke house (they always left the screen porch door open) and made the switch, replacing Dana’s six-pack of Diet Sprite with mine.

3:05—I planted a small radio microphone, purchased at Radio Shack, under the sofa in Dana’s livingroom.  The receiver was in my bedroom.  I also grabbed the three dollar bills off the end table.  It was the Burke’s newspaper money, waiting there, as it was every week, for when the paperboy (that would be me) came collecting.  I was just collecting a bit early this week.

3:10—Back in my own house, I called Joe Panella.  I used the correct codes and jargon, so he never questioned the fact that I was a county dispatcher and that he was needed at a car wreck off Rt. 39 up near the lumber mill.  I gave him complex directions to a non-existent address and sent him on his way.  He would only pause, I knew, to call his supervisor at the factory and tell him that he wouldn’t be in tonight.  By the time he returned from his wild goose chase, frustrated and angry, it would be too late.

3:15—My darling Dana arrived home from school.  She was wearing a denim miniskirt and a white button down blouse and looked adorable.  I followed her with the telescope as she followed her usual routine, listening to her movements over the radio mic.  Watching her through the kitchen window, I held my breath as she popped open a Diet Sprite and took a slug.  There was one horrible moment when she made a face and looked at the can—but then she shrugged, took another slug, walked into the livingroom and flopped down on the sofa to watch Oprah.

Time passed.  Watching her through a livingroom window, I made note of every sip she took from the Diet Sprite can.  I had done some calculations and figured that each can was roughly equivalent to three strong drinks and a joint or two of grass.  (I had no idea how the supposed aphrodisiacs might figure in.)  I knew that it took longer for the body to absorb THC in liquid form, but still, the timing could be tricky.  By the time she finished this first can of doctored soda pop Dana would be feeling pretty tipsy.  If she sounded peculiar when her mom called that could ruin every—

The phone rang.  I watched Dana mute the TV, put down her soda can, and lean across the sofa to grab the receiver off the end table.  It was a clumsy sort of lunge, slightly miscalculated, and she nearly fumbled the phone.  I knew then that she was already a little drunk.

“Hellooo?” she said, slouched ungracefully on the sofa.  She listened.

“Hi, Mom!” she said cheerfully, “How you doing?”  I winced.  She sounded distinctly tipsy to me—but then, I was expecting it.  

“Nope, I’m fine.  Just watching Oprah is all.”

She listened a bit, lying back on the sofa and idly raising and lower her leg.

“Oh.  Okay.  Well, don’t worry, I’ll see you tomorrow when I get home from school.  Mm-hm.  And Mom, listen.  If you to try—get too tired to drive home, you just stay at that little hotel motel out there like you did last time, okay?”

She listened.

“I’m just fine, Mom, what’re you talking about?”

I held my breath.

“No, mother,” Dana said, her voice a little frostier, “I have not been into the liquor cabinet again.  I promised you I wouldn’t do that again and I didn’t.  Haven’t.”

She listened, and her face softened.

“Okay.  Yes, I promise, I won’t have anyone over.  Just me and Oprah.”  She giggled.

“I am being serious.  Okay.  All right.  Now don’t you work too hard.  Okay.  I’ll see you tomorrow...or Saturday morning if you stay over.  No, I’ll be fiiine.  Yes, mother, I’m sure.  I’m not a child, you know.  All right.  Love you too.  Bye.”

She hung up.  I released my breath with a sigh of relief.

Dana turned her head and looked at the TV.

“It’s just you and me, Oprah honey,” she said, and she giggled.  I watched as she sat up, none too gracefully, and picked up her soda can.

Fifteen minutes later she had finished it off, which was perfectly normal.  What was not perfectly normal was the way she was sitting—slouched sloppily on the sofa, her legs resting on the coffee table—and the way she was interacting with the TV—agreeing, disagreeing, cheering Oprah on.  The half hour commercial came on, which was usually Dana’s cue to go into the kitchen and grab another Diet Sprite.

Dana sat up, hauling herself into a normal sitting position and sliding her legs off the table, and tried to stand.  A wave of vertigo obviously overcame her—she plopped back down on the sofa, a puzzled expression on her face.  She wiped the hair from her eyes and tried again, and once again landed back on her ass.  She giggled.  The third time was the charm; Dana made it to her feet.  She wasn’t wildly unsteady like she had been the night she kissed me, but she wasn’t altogether stable either.  Dana just stood there a few moments, sort of getting her bearings, then headed for the kitchen.  Her intoxication was mostly noticeable in how carefully she walked, slowly and cautiously.  A casual observer might not have even noticed that anything was amiss, but my observation was anything but casual.

I panned the telescope to the kitchen window and watched her toss the empty can in the trash, then go to the refrigerator, pull the door open, and grab a fresh one.  She had a little bit of trouble separating the can from the plastic six-pack collar, but finally managed to free it.  She closed the refrigerator door, leaned against it, popped the can open, and took a long drink.

She stayed there for a while, leaning against the fridge, a grin on her pretty face.  Then she blinked, her smile fading, and she looked as if she were trying to figure something out.  Another drink of Diet Sprite.  She smacked her lips, then considered.

“Ooohhh…” I could hear her say.  She fanned herself with her blouse, suddenly feeling warm.  Clumsily, with one hand, she unbuttoned the first few buttons of her blouse—it took her a while—then fanned herself with the edges.  Back in the livingroom, Oprah came back on.  Dana heard it and launched herself off the refrigerator.

Her legs had grown more unsteady and she had some trouble navigating the path back to the sofa.  For every two steps forward she stumbled half a step back or to the side.  Finally, though, she made it to the sofa and flopped down onto it.

“Yeah!” she said, agreeing with whatever Oprah Winfrey had just opined, and she took a slug from her soda can.

I took my eye away from my telescope and stood up.  It was time for me to make my entrance.

Ninety seconds later I was at the Burke’s front door, ringing the bell.  It took Dana a while to answer the door—I imagined her struggling to rise from the sofa and stumbling across the livingroom, wondering all the while why she felt so dizzy but feeling too good to worry about it.

I thought I was prepared for what I would see when the door opened, but I was wrong.  In the minute and a half since I had deserted my telescope Dana had apparently decided that she was really hot.  When the door opened, my dream girl was standing there with her blouse entirely unbuttoned and untucked, her bra-encased boobs on public display.  My jaw dropped.

“Huh…h-hi, Dana,” I managed to croak.  Dana started at me, bleary-eyed, either struggling to focus on me or figure out who I was, I couldn’t tell which.  After a moment, however, something clicked and she smiled.

“Heyyy, Ricky,” she said, her voice a little slurred.  “Whassup?”  She stumbled back a step, like a passenger on a sea-tossed ship.

“Um…I’m collecting,” I explained.  She blinked at me stupidly, swaying.  “You know…for the newspaper delivery.”

Light dawned.  She smiled.

“Ohhhh, sure, sure.  C’mon in an’ I’ll megan…”  She blinked.  “I’ll met…”  She closed her eyes, smiled, opened them again, concentrating.  “I’ll get the monkey.”

I smiled myself.  Dana realized what she had said and cracked up laughing.  She leaned forward and grasped my arm.

“I mean…giggle…” she said, laughing as she spoke, “I mean…money.  Giggle.  Not monkey.”

“Oh,” I said.  She grinned and wagged her eyebrows, mocking herself.

“I’ll get the monkey,” she said, comically imitating her mistake.  We both laughed.  “C’mon in, c’mon in.”

She turned at walked rather unsteadily into the livingroom, and I followed, enjoying a close up view of her wriggling butt.  I closed and locked the door.

“I ‘pologize that it is soooo hot in here,” she said, fanning herself with her open blouse.  “I dunno, muss be somethin’ wrong with the…’yknow…”  She waved vaguely.

“The air conditioning,” I suggested.

“Right!  Thass right,” Dana agreed.  The air consider…”  She blinked.  “Right.”

“It is pretty warm in here,” I lied.  Dana turned to me.

“Ohhh, well, feel free to take off your shirt if you wanna,” she said with a wave of her hand.  “Won’t bother me.”

“Oh…well, I don’t mind if I do,” I said, and I started pulling off my polo shirt.

“I don’t mind if you do either,” Dana said woozily.  “I had to unbunnen my blouse cuz I was dyin’, y’know?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, tossing my shirt onto a chair.  Dana stared at my bare chest and blinked, then slowly a mischievous smile crept over her face.

“Oooooh, Ricky…” she said, taking a few rickety steps toward me, her eyes on my pecs.  (I made be a science nerd, but I work out.  I mean, I’m not exactly Ahnold, but I’ve got a decent six pack.)  “You’re lookin’ fiiiine…giggle…”

“Well, thanks,” I said.

“Nnnnnn…”  Dana ran one finger up and down my chest, licking her lips.  I knew then that at least some of those aphrodisiac powders were working.  Dana was lusting after me in a way that, while delightful, certainly defied common sense.

“Mmmm…how come I never noticed your chest before?” Dana asked, a sultry tone to her voice.

“I don’t think you’ve ever seen my chest before, Dana,” I explained.  She laughed.

“Nnn…you’re funny!” she declared, and she drank a slug of soda, eyes still on my body.  Then she blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and frowned.  “Why…wha…whass goin’ on?” she asked.

“You’re getting me the newspaper money.” I prompted.  Dana blinked, thinking, then smiled.

“Ohhhhhh, yeah…thass right.”  She turned and headed for the end table.  I followed.  “Iss right over here.”

She stopped at the end table and stared.  Of course, the money wasn’t there, it was in my pocket.

“Well…thass weird,” she said.

“Hmm?” I asked.  Dana turned to me, stumbling.

“’Snot here.”

“Is it supposed to be there?”

“Mm-hm,” she assured me, nodding.  “Mom always leaves the paperboy money right there for the paperboy.”  Then she realized and smiled.  “Thass you,” she informed me, giggling.

“That’s me,” I agreed.  She was eyeing my chest with interest again.

“Mmmnnn…,” she said, biting her lower lip.  She took a staggering step toward me.  “Thass you.”  She blinked and a puzzled look came to her face.  “Hey.”

Hmm?”

“How come you’re not wearing a shirt?”

“Because it’s so hot,” I reminded her.  She blinked, considered, agreed.

“It is really hot,” she said, nodding.

“It sure is.  That’s why we decided we should take off our shirts.”

“We did?”

“Mm-hm.”

Dana pondered this idea for a moment, wobbling, then smiled.

“Okay,” she said agreeably.  “Here, wait.”  She lifted her soda can and drank deeply, polishing off the contents, then handed the empty can to me.  “You throw that away, nkay, and I will remove your shirt.”

“You mean your shirt,” I corrected.

“Thass what I said.”

“Right.  Okay.”

I ran to kitchen, tossed the empty can in the trash, then grabbed a fresh one from the fridge.  By the time I returned to the livingroom Dana was hopelessly entangled in her blouse, staggering around and giggling like an idiot.

“Here, let me help you with that,” I said.  I put down the can of super Diet Sprite and helped her remove her blouse.  It took a while, especially unbuttoning the cuffs while Dana stumbled and giggled, but eventually the most beautiful girl in the world was standing there before me in only a bra.

“Thank you, Ricky,” she said.

“You’ve very welcome.”  I picked up the fresh can and handed it to her.  “Here ya go.”

“Oooh, thang you mushy…giggle…very mush,” she said, and she took a nice long drink.  I did some mental arithmetic.  So far she had consumed the rough equivalent of six or seven drinks and four or five joints.  Of course, it would no doubt take a little while for the effects to fully manifest themselves, but lovely Dana was well on her way to being completely wasted.

“Mmmm,” she said, lowering the can, “do you urp!”  She giggled.  “Excuse me.  D’you like Diet Sprite?  I love Diet Sprite.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm,” she nodded.  She held the can up dramatically.  “It is my drink of choice!”  We laughed, and Dana drank another slug.  She took an unsteady step toward me, taking me into her confidence.

“D’you…do you know why I like Spriet…Diet Sprite?” she asked.

“No, why?” I asked, barely containing a smile.

“Because…because it zero caloric…calori-clies…”  She knew that wasn’t the right word and frowned.

“Calories,” I prompted.  Her face cleared and she poked my arm.

“Right.  Right.  Right.  Thass right.  See…”  She lowered her voice, sharing a secret with me.  “I have a tennis…a tennis…”

“A tennis racket?” I suggest.  Dana giggled and slapped my arm.

“No, no,” she laughed.  She got serious again.  “I have a ten’ency to be a li’l chubbiness if I’m not very, very, very careful.”  She took another slug of joy joice.

“Really?  Because I think you have the perfect body,” I told her sincerely.  She obviously liked the compliment, proud of how she looked, and she grinned broadly.

“Nnnnnn…you’re sweet.”  She ran her finger down my bare chest again.

“It’s hard for me to believe you were ever chubby,” I said.

“Oooooh, you shoulda seen me when I was freshman!” she told me, her eyes wide.  She blinked.  “You’re a freshman, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Thass right.”  She took a drink.  “Well…when I was freshman I was…I weighed a lot more than you do now.”  She tumbled sideways, caught herself.  “I mean…than I do…now.”

“Did you really?” I asked.  I hadn’t known that.  The Burkes had lived across town back then and dreams of Dana were still in my future.

“Mm-hmm.”  She blinked.  “Y’know why I like Oprah?  Cuz she taught me that I am the mistress of my own body.”  She held out her arms and posed, in case I had any doubt as to which body she was referring.

“No kidding.”

“Iss really no myssery,” Dana explained, eager to educate me.  “You juss eat less and size your…exercise more, thass all.”

“Ahhh, I see.  And that’s how you lost weight, hm?”

Dana nodded.  Then she leaned in close to tell me the real secret.

“Y’know what the bess thing was?” she asked, grinning mischeviously.

“What?” I asked, smiling, the eager conspirator.

Dana wagged her eyebrows.  “I loss my weight, but I kept my big fat boobies.”  That cracked her up and she half fell against me, giggling, her big fat boobies nuzzling my chest.

“Dana,” I said.  She looked up at me, grinning like an idiot.

“Hmm?”

“The newspaper money?” I prompted.

“Ohhhhh yeah,” she said, remembering and stumbling back.  She blinked and twisted her mouth.  “I juss…I don’t know where Mom put the mickey…”  She giggled, blinked.  “The money, Ricky.”

She took another drink from the can, swaying.  Her eyes were starting to look like she was stoned: heavy-lidded and red-rimmed, and she was clearly having more and more trouble focusing.

“Well, maybe you could call her at work,” I suggested.  Dana stared at me, blinking owlishly.  “Dana?”

“Hmmm?” she asked.

“Maybe you could call her at work.”

She blinked.

“Who?”

I smiled.

“Your mom.  Ask her where she put the money.”

“Ohhhh, no, no,” Dana said, shaking her head.  “I’m not s’posed to call her at work unless iss a germancy.  Urp.  ‘Scuse me.”  I knew, of course, that Dana had been told only to call her mom in case of a…germancy.  Or emergency.  Which is why I had known there was little risk in suggesting it.

“Ohh, I see,” I said.  Dana smiled, glad that I understood.  “Well…there’s only one thing to do.”

“There is?” Dana asked.

“Hm-hm,” I nodded.  “I’ll just have to wait here with you until your mom comes home.”  I waited with bated breath, trying to hide my anxiety.  Here it was.  Was she drunk and stoned enough for my ridiculous suggestion to make sense, or would she see right through me and ask me to leave?

An eternity passed while Dana’s fucked up brain processed my suggestion.  Then, at last, she smiled.

“Okay,” she said agreeably.  I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Okay,” I echoed.

“You can wash Oprah with me!” Dana suggested, obviously excited by the prospect.  Her bloodshot eyes sparkled and she took me by the hand, leading me over to the sofa.

“That’d be great,” I said, not really lying.  We sat down side by side and Dana snaked one arm over my shoulder, my buddy now.

“D’you love Oprah Winfrey?” she asked me, eyes swimming.

“Of course,” I said, really lying.

“Mmmm…me too,” Dana said dreamily.  “You know why I love Winf…Ofrah Winfrey?”

“Umm…because she taught you that you are mistress of your own body?”

“No, no, no, no…” Dana corrected me, shaking her head.  “Becawwws…she taught me how to flow…how to follow my bliss.”

“Ahhhh,” I said.  Dana drank a slug of soda.  “What exactly does that mean, Dana?”

“Well…it means…” she explained.  “Essenshly it means…I can do whatever the fuck I wanna an’ iss okay.”

“Ohhh, I see.  That’s great.”

“Mmmmmm, iss really, really great.”  She blinked and her face became disapproving.  “My mother, however, does not fails to unnerstand that simple complex.  Urp.  I mean…concept.”

“She just doesn’t get it, huh?”

“Nope.  See…like, she says when I get wasted an’ let the football team fuck me an’ stuff, that I’m juss bein’ a slut.  But I say I am following my bliss, juss like my girl Oprah.”

“The whole football team?” I asked, shocked in spite of myself.

“Juss the varsity,” she assured me.  “I would never have sex with unnerclassmen.”  She blinked.  “Now that would be slutty.”

“I see what you mean,” I said, though of course her logic both escaped me and worried me.  I, of course, was an underclassman.  I decided my best chance was to get her so totally wasted that she didn’t care what class I was.

“Anyway…thass why I love Oprah.”  On the TV, Oprah was signing off.

“Listen,” I said, eager to distract Dana lest she see the end of Oprah as the signal for me to leave, “why don’t you finish off that Diet Sprite and I’ll get you another.”

“Okay,” she sang happily.

“Okay,”  I confirmed.  “Drink up!”

She downed the rest of the can—more than half of it, from the looks of it—and handed the can to me.

I hightailed it to the kitchen, threw away the empty, and grabbed a fresh can from the fridge.  By the time I returned to the livingroom, Dana was sprawled on the sofa, lost in a drugged-out reverie, looking for all the world like a girl who was stoned out of her ever loving mind.  Which by this point I guess she pretty much was.

I stood over her, drinking in her intoxicating and intoxicated beauty, and she looked up at me.  It took a while for those glassy baby blues to focus on me, but when they finally did she grinned, happy to see me.  Of course, in her condition she probably would have been happy to see Attila the Hun.  In her condition she probably would have been happy to fuck Attila the Hun, or so, at least, I hoped.

“Fresh supplies,” I said, holding out the can.  She blinked.

“Heyyyyyy, Ricky Ricky,” she drawled, her eyes swimming.  “What’re you doin’ here?  Where’s Oprah?”

“Oprah had to step out for a minute,” I said, sitting down beside her.  “I brought you another Diet Sprite.”  I helped her sit up straight, though she didn’t end up all that straight.

“Ohhhhhh,” she said, clearly very touched by my thoughtfulness, “that is sooooo sweet of you.  Thank you, Ricky Ricky McRicky.”  She giggled at her linguistic wit.

“You’re very welcome.”  She didn’t look like she was going to be able to manage the pop top, so I opened the can for her.  “Here, let me help you.”

“Nnnnn…okay.”  I held the can to her lips and she drank, sipping at first, but soon guzzling greedily.  We stopped a few times so Dana could take a breath or giggle, but in less than two minutes she had chugged down the entire can.

She sat back and let out a loud “Urrrp!”, then giggled.  I smiled.

“I love Spry…Spriet Spite,” she informed the universe woozily.  She turned to me.  “D’you know why you love Dier Sprite?”

“No, why’s that?” I asked.  She blinked.

“Hmmm?”

“Why do I love Diet Sprite?”

Dana grinned contentedly.  “Mmmmm…me too.”  She stared bleary eyed at the TV set.  “Hey…where’s Oprah?  I wann’ see Oprah.”

“Oh, she’ll be right back,” I assured Dana.  “She told us to wait here for her.”

“Ohhh,” Dana said, satisfied.  Then she frowned and clumsily fanned herself with her hand.  “God…’sso hot in here.”

“Funny you should mention that,” I said.  “Oprah just had that story about how hot it was in here.”  Dana tried to process that, but her operating system was fried.

“She did?”

“Uh-huh,” I assured her.  “Don’t you remember, that gay guy offered ten tips for what to do when it gets hot in here?”  Dana blinked, then smiled.

“Ohhh yeah,” she agreed.  She turned to me.  “What shoe we do, Ricky?”

“Well, tip number one was: remove your skirt.”  Dana blinked and looked down at her miniskirt.  I waited to see if my ridiculous suggestion would be just plausible enough to be accepted by her completely fucked up brain.

“Oh.”  She smiled.  “Okay.”  

She started fumbling clumsily with her belt buckle.

“Here, let me help you,” I offered, and I did.  In a matter of moments I had undone her belt, the snap on her jeans skirt, and tugged the skirt down her legs.  Dana watched me approvingly, giggling.

I tossed the skirt onto the floor.  “There.  Feel better?”

“Mmmmm…” Dana responded, that mischievous grin spreading across her flushed face again.  “Now’s your turn.”  She giggled.

“My turn?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded.  “You ‘move your skirt!”

I smiled.  “Okay.”  I undid my belt and let my jeans slide to the floor.  Dana’s eyebrows lifted and her grin got wider.  She patted the sofa beside her.

“C’mere, you,” she commanded.  I happily obeyed, stepping out of the puddle of my jeans.  I paused long enough to slip off my socks and sneakers, then walked over and sat beside Dana.  We were both dressed in only our undies, and Dana was staring lustfully at the bulge in my Hanes.  I’m not exactly Long Dong Silver, so I knew the aphrodisiac powders were doing their job.

Dana leaned against me and draped her arm around me, flirting.  Even crocked to the gills she was obviously an expert at seducing males.

“So…Ricky Ticki Tavi…” she said, grinning suggestively, “whass tip number two?”  I have to admit, despite the fact that I had orchestrated these events, she was making me nervous.  I had seen Dana in her underwear a number of times, but always through my telescope.  I had certainly never been this close to her in her underwear, and I had most certainly never had her coming on to me like a drunken whore in her underwear.  I was preternaturally aware of the warm, pliant pressure of her breasts nuzzling my left arm.

“Um…”  I cleared my throat.  “Remove your…bra?”

Dana’s grin got bigger and she licked her lips.

“Nnnnnn…okay,” she agreed, leaning back, offering herself to me.  “You be’rer help me, hm?”

Dream come true time.  Dana Burke was laying there, gazing up at me with a sloppy grin and desire in her eyes, waiting for me to remove her brassiere.  I leaned in to her, hoping I wouldn’t embarrass myself.  I was not exactly an expert at bra removing, but I had already noted that she was wearing a front clip model, and with a minimum of fumbling I managed to undo the clasp.  I was amazed at kinetic energy that had been pent up inside those lacey cups.  Dana’s ponderous boobs sprang free like twin hounds released from their kennels—or, more accurately, like twin mountains of flesh-colored jell-o released from their molds, rolling and jiggling and wobbling.

Dana giggled, I assume at the stunned expression on my face.

I tossed the bra away and sat there gawking.  They were the most beautiful things I had ever seen.  Of course, I had seen them before, but only long distance.  Now here they were, live and in color, up close and personal.  I was overwhelmed.

Dana, fortunately, was not.  She grabbed my wrists and pressed my hands against her naked breasts.  I did not object.  At first contact, when my eager hands cooperatively cupped her boobs, my thumbs resting beside her nipples, she gasped.  Then she giggled.  I stared, entranced by my own handiwork as my thumbs, seemingly of their volition, began circling her nipples.  I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, having never taken a course in breast fondling, but apparently I was doing it right.  Dana moaned deep in her throat and seemed to melt, dissolving back onto the sofa, staring up at me through eyes that were little more than red, contented slits.  I was encouraged and decided to expand my efforts.

I started simply, still employing a “respect the tit” policy, exploring the broad circumference of those silky-soft globes and kneading and pressing them firmly but gently against Dana’s chest.  I enjoyed it, it was fun.  My penis also enjoyed it, straining to peek out of my underpants for a better view.  Dana enjoyed it most of all.  At least, I took the animal-like growls coming from her larynx as a sign of happy approval.  I got more proactive.

I slid both my hands to the base of their respective breasts and squeezed them with greater confidence, sliding out toward the nipples in a…well...a milking motion. Her boobs were frankly too big for my hands—bulging, pale tit flesh oozed from my sliding grip as I milked.  As I reached the tip of each breast I stopped and tenderly kneaded her nipples with my thumbs for a few moments.  Then I slid back down the mountains, so to speak, and repeated the whole process.  Again…and again...and again...increasing the tempo as I went.  This seemed to go over well with the drunken, stoned, and increasingly horny object of my affections.  Dana’s hips started lifting off the sofa with each milking, her lace panties apparently seeking out my briefs (to no avail), and her incoherent moans became a slurred, only half incoherent conversation.

“Oh gun…oh yeah…nnngg…giggle…oh Ricky….nn gmnng…gnlsh mrrl…oh fuck…giggle…oh yeah…”  And so forth.  A bit repetitive, and distinguished in neither its literary merit nor informational content, perhaps, but music to my ears nonetheless.  I decided to try some variations on the theme.  I didn’t want her to get bored, after all.

I began repeating my successful milking action, but this time I didn’t allow my hands to remain motionless as I diddled her nipples, but continued a gentle milking massage. 

Dana said, “Nnf lrrg…giggle…nnnk…fucky Ricky…”, which, based on intonation and inflection, I interpreted as “If you please, sir, I find that pleasurable—keep doing that.”  I obliged for a while, then upped the ante and got even more assertive.

I started again at the base of each boob and slowly slid outwards to the tip, where I would then grip the rubbery flesh rather tightly, kneading it with my remaining fingers as my thumb and index fingers pinched and stretched the nipples until they hardened like pencil erasers. My thumbs would then circle the pebbly areolas once or twice or three times, before brushing across the stiffened nipples—twannng—and sliding back down to begin once again.

Rave (if somewhat inarticulate) reviews from my inebriated audience.  Dana’s body was, by this time, bucking quite fervently and I began to harbor hopes of bringing her to orgasm without removing her panties.  I’m not sure why, but that seemed like the height of sexual prowess to me and I was determined to do it.  I wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed, but for a complete novice I was doing quite well by simply following my instincts.  And, though my busy hands were paying big dividends, my instincts were telling me to put my mouth where my money was.  In other words, suck those babies.

I opened my mouth wide, lowered it down over the tip of her right breast, and began sucking hard.  I tried to get as much of her breast into my mouth as I could, but it was like trying to swallow an entire cantaloupe—or perhaps a very large water balloon.  I started working my jaw in a gnawing motion to open it still further and accommodate more of her soft flesh in my mouth.  At one point I thought I could feel her nipple brush against the back of my throat, but that may have been my imagination.

Dana got louder and more articulate, if no less repetitive.  “Fuck yeah…oh yeah…fuck yeah…shit yeah…” and so forth.  I didn’t respond; my mother taught me it was impolite to speak with your mouth full.

Still imitating a Hoover PowerSucker, yet delaying the release for as long as I could, I pulled my head backwards and felt her breast slowly sliding free of my lips.  The whole while my tongue was inscribing little figure eights across the now slippery surface of Dana’s boob and nipple.  Not to mention the fact that my right hand was still attending to her left tit, squeezing and kneading and generally ensuring that it didn’t feel neglected.  Dana was by now grasping my back, her fingers digging into my flesh.  It hurt a little, but I wasn’t complaining.  Her body stiffened, back arching, then relaxed as her fat breast slipped from my mouth with a slight popping sound.

Annnnd…reverse.  Suck the left breast, fondle the somewhat slimy right.  Dana was really writhing now, gulping and gasping unintelligibly, beyond even drunken, slurred words and, if I may say so, having a very nice time indeed.  I felt I was nearing my goal of giving her a tit-only orgasm—though, of course, I realized it wasn’t just my amateur manual dexterity driving my dream girl insane.  She was so hopped up on booze, dope and Asian aphrodisiacs that a few suggestive words to her vagina would have been enough to set her off.  A fully loaded pistol with a drug-induced hair trigger, my Dana.

And of course, I wouldn’t want to give you the impression that I was merely a disinterested observer of these events.  I was getting rather excited my own self, my dick was at full attention, and it took all my powers of self-control (which have never been legendary) to keep from shoving it inside the semi-comatose blonde.  But I didn’t.  I stuck with the program, alternately kneading and sucking, sucking and kneading, until Dana—in a series of quivering, epileptic contortions and gurgled curses—let it be known to the world that she had reached a rather spectacular climax.

Her body went limp and she collapsed into the sofa, panting and giggling, like she had taken a ride on the world’s best roller coaster.  I was watching her, pleased with myself but trying to decide what to do next, when she unexpectedly wrapped her hand around my neck, pulled me close, and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on me.  Somehow I could tell that it was a “thank you” kiss rather than a “fuck me” kiss, but in a strange way that made it all the better.  She broke the kiss and smiled up at me, still breathing heavily but happy as a very intoxicated clam.

“Ohh my god…” she breathed, giggling.  “Oh my god…that was so…giggle… that was…”  She raised her head and kissed me again, a quick smack this time.  “I love you.”  Kiss.  “I love you.”  Kiss.  “I love you.”  Kiss.  She giggled and lay back on the sofa, recovering, grinning like the Cheshire cat.  “Nnnnnn…Ricky Ticki Tavi…giggle…

I would do anything for you.”

I was speechless.  I had been sure that she was so out of it she didn’t even know (or care) who was squeezing her boobs—but no, she knew it was me.  She was giving me full credit.  I mean, I knew I couldn’t take her declarations of love seriously.  The girl was completely wasted, after all.  She didn’t know what she was saying.  But I was very moved by her sincere gratitude.  I mean, half of what I felt for Dana was plain ol’ lust, sure, but half of it was…well, if not love, at least infatuation.  I know, I know, if I truly cared for her I wouldn’t have tricked her into getting wrecked and I wouldn’t be planning to do the things I was most definitely planning to do to her.  But the truth was, I had always hoped that I’d be doing them with her, not to her, and that the booze and the dope and the aphrodisiacs would merely be a way of breaking down her inhibitions so she could allow herself to see me as a love interest rather than the newspaper boy.  Self-delusional, I realize, and no court in the land would accept it as a defense for what could easily serve as the dictionary definition of date rape—but the fact that I had pleased my dream girl delighted me nevertheless.

“Mmmmm…oooooh…” Dana moaned, blinking.

“You okay?” I asked.  She smiled up at me, bleary-eyed.

“How’d I gesso drung?” she asked, giggling.

“Maybe you’re not drunk,” I suggested.  “Maybe it’s just post-orgasmic bliss.”

She blinked, the words not penetrating.

“Hmmm?  Whad’you say?”

“What did you say?”

“What did I say?” she asked, thoroughly confused but still grinning.

“I think you said you wanted to get drunk,” I suggested.

Dana grinned.  “Nnnnnnnnn…I like get’n drunk,” she admitted.  She crooked her finger, inviting me closer.  “I’ll tell you shecret.”

“What’s that?” I asked, leaning in.

“’F you ged me drung enough, I’ll led you fug me.”  She closed her eyes and giggled, embarrassed by her admission.

“Just me personally?” I asked, foolishly hoping.  Dana opened her blue eyes and blinking innocently.

“Ohhhh, no,” she explained, waving her arm, “anyone!”

“Ahhh,” I said, smiling to hide my disappointment.  “So you’re a slut.”

Dana blinked haughtily and raised a finger.

“No.  No.  I am nodda slump.”  She explained, smiling contentedly.  “I am falling my bliss.”

“Ohh, that’s right.”

“Thass right.  Giggle.  So, you wann’ ged me drung ‘n fug me?”  One of her hands strayed unconsciously to her groin, stroking gently.  I swallowed.  My potent concoction had turn sweet Dana into some sort of inebriated nymphomaniac.  I mean, that’s exactly what I was hoping it would do, of course, but it was still a bit intimidating.  The idea that Dana Burke, the most beautiful girl in the world (had I mentioned that?) actually wanted to have sex with me—that she was, in fact, propositioning me—was itself quite a proposition.  Fear of success, that’s what Oprah would call it.

“Well, if it will help you follow your bliss, sure,” I agreed.  “But I have a confession to make.”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re already drunk,” I told her.

Dana blinked.  “I am?”

“Uh-huh,” I assured her, nodding.  “Also stoned.”

Dana giggled.  “I am?”

“Uh-huh.  Wasted and fried, that’s you.”

“Giggle.  Thass me!”

I started nonchalantly tugging down her panties—if, in fact, one can nonchalantly tug down a girl’s panties.  Anyway, Dana either didn’t notice or didn’t object.  She did have a question, though.

“Hey.  Hey.  Hey,” she said, a finger raised, her face screwed up in a look of intense concentration.

“Mmm?” I asked, pulling her panties down over her feet.

“How?” she asked.

“How what, darling?” I said.

“How did you…how did we ged me stunk and stroned?”

I lowered myself onto her.

“Does it really matter?” I asked, easing my very eager cock into her very eager cunt.  She stiffened and gasped, her eyes rolling back.  The powders were working and this girl was ready.

“Uh!” she breathed.  “N-no…no…it doesn’ matter…”

I began to do what comes naturally, at least to 16 year old heterosexual males, and pumped.  Gently, even tenuously at first, but gradually with greater confidence and force.  Dana started arching her body, meeting me halfway.

And then she started grinning.

“Ungh!...Umph!...Rih…Ricky?” she huffed.

“Nng…mmm?” I responded.  Dana grasped either side of my face and looked me straight in the eyes.  She was still grinning like a mad woman.

“I dunno how you did it, baby,” she slurred, “but thang you.”

Then she lay back, grunting and giggling, and followed her bliss.

I could go into detail about making love to Dana.  I could describe the various positions we tried.  I could tell you how we spent most of the night either screwing or cuddling.  I could even tell you what happened when Mrs. Burke unexpectedly came home at three o’clock in the morning, drunk as a skunk herself after drowning her sorrows at  a local bar because Joe Panella showed up for his shift after all and she lost the overtime, and how she had been remarkably broadminded about finding her daughter and the paper boy fucking under the dining room  table.  I could explain what happened when Dana’s mom unlocked the liquor cabinet and proceeded to get her daughter and herself even drunker than they already were.  I could describe the look in Mrs. Burke’s eyes as she stared at me from across the livingroom.  I could report that Mrs. Burke is extremely attractive for a woman of thirty-eight, and that Dana inherited neither her oversized boobs not her overactive libido from her father.  I could tell you about all of that.

But really…it’s none of your damned business, is it?

The End.