There is no bells to announce the end of a class, or beginning of the next, this… after-all… it’s college life. The boorish freshman I am, I went ahead and loaded my schedule with one class after another. So, I have to rush from building to building, at times, across campus to make it to the following lecture on time.
This is one of those times, I have to rush from Levander Hall on the North West corner of the campus to the recently built Science Hall. Sometimes I get lucky arriving early enough to the shuttle stop that I can hope in to safely and punctually arrive at Mr. Lynch’s class.
Well, I had no such a luck so, I strapped my book-bag tightly to my back, sped my strut, and off I went. Ten minutes late, yet again. Mr. Lynch welcomed me to the lecture hall by asking me to take the last open chair. His classes had become the most popular on campus, students, mostly females, would retake his class multiple times. Normally, freshman weren’t allowed to take this class, but because of all the extra college credits I had accumulated during High School, as well as selected major, I was allowed in.
I took my sit on the front row, two students to the left of his desk. One of those old heavy oak desks that reminded me of monks in century old monasteries translating religious scripts. His desk, however, was always clean, not a piece of anything on it. It was pristine as if having never been used. He cleaned it with wipes while asking the class for a volunteer. Everyone’s hands went up, both male and female students raised a hand.
Upon sitting down, Mr. Lynch thanked me for joining the class with a rather sarcastic tone. I understood it as being asked to volunteer so, I stood up and headed towards him. He was looking around the lecture hall in search of a suiting volunteer when he noticed me approaching. He asked me to sit back down, informing me that his class, as well as this demonstration weren’t meant for freshmen. I took the walk of shame back to my chair. When I sat down, he looked at me, expressed not to worry that before I graduated, he would use me in a demonstration. I replied that I hadn’t any interest in attending the same class multiple times, not if I could help it at least. He smiled and assured me that I would return.
Mr. Lynch apologized to the males in the lecture hall, then informed the class that this time he needed a female volunteer. The professor continued to scan the room for a few minutes, seemingly coming to final a choice. He turned towards the smartboard and called out a few girl names to walk down to the front of the class. The girls came to the front; he stood them in line, then asked the male students to vote who would be the volunteer.
The guys selected the only Latina in the class, maybe even the only Latina in the entire campus. She was the center-fielder for the softball team. Long, down to her lower back, curly-dark-brown hair. Athletic build, stronger looking than any girl I had ever seen. The women I was accustomed to didn’t have any muscular definition, in fact, they were sort of soft; the average girl I would say. This Latina wasn’t that. She was defined everywhere. Her small shorts gave view of succulent quadriceps. I can imagine men running their hands through them forgetting that just north lays perdition.
Everyone was clapping. The volunteer pumped her fist like she’d made a game winning play. I hadn’t an idea what was going on, but I clapped and cheered as well. Some of the girls in the lineup not selected were visibly annoyed. I wondered what the big deal was all about because being a volunteer was obviously something good.
Mr. Lynch powered the smart board on and wrote on it: “Withdrawal Technique, Spring 2013.’
The center fielder was asked to get comfy, whatever comfy meant to her. She bared down to nothing, except the baseball cap; that she left on. My eyes opened wide, I turned around to the girl to my left and asked what the hell was going on. She looked me in the eyes, mumbled “freshman”, looked forward and said “This is Mr. Lynch’s Sexology 301, get used to it.”
“Coitus Interruptus, a method to minimize the chance of pregnancy. Otherwise known, as ‘pull out’.” I read it over and over as he wrote it on the smartboard. I tried to find the correlation between the naked athlete and what was written on the board. Boorish I am, I didn’t understand it until she laid on the oak desk, put her feet flat on the desk, and her vagina came in full display to me.
His lecture went something like this:
The idea is to withdraw well in advance of ejaculation. We men
can tell when we are about to climax. So, with practice I have
come to believe that about 10 seconds or so is safe enough to
decrease the chances of pregnancy.
People, don’t be dumb enough to believe this is also a method to
combat STD’s. It is not. In fact, it doesn’t help deter such in any
manner. All we hope it does is prevent pregnancy. If you are
promiscuous, then protect yourself accordingly, as it will be
demonstrated in next week’s class.
I am going to penetrate Maria. I will push in slowly, hard, to the
point where I feel that I am about to respond. Once there, I am going
to withdraw/pull out. I am going to stay on top of her, but will not
release anywhere around her privates. That’s part of the method.
Remember that the idea is to decrease the possibility of pregnancy,
so ejaculating all over her private part is out of the question.
Mine will safely land on the desk, a few inches away from her, but close
enough to still drive lust through those who like to see semen adjacent
to the vulva.
The conalingus will not be detailed at this time. I will do it briefly to
prepare Maria for the demonstration. That method, for those of you interested,
will be demonstrated at the latter time during the semester.
He went on the bring his face to her crotch. He first looked at it intensely, tossed his tie around and over his left shoulder, lowered himself, turned his head and kissed both her inner thighs. Then apologize to her for the fast targeted attack. Her body jerked at first, I suppose from going straight to the sensitive spot rather than caressing it ready.
She quickly grabbed her hat and tossed it to the side. Her hands slapping hard on the desk. She cursed a few times and somehow managed to say that it is like the girls have told her it was. He interrupted her, stood up to give view to the class of the moisture Maria had secreted notifying that she was ready for intercourse to begin. She was saturated, the glistening of the lights against the moisture, he said, was key that she was ready to receive him.
He unzipped his slacks, pulled his member with his left hand from the zipper opening, and this engorged, girthy manly thing came out. I feared she wasn’t going to be able to handle it all. He was, by no means, little. He looked like a star from those adult films I had seen with my roommate during orientation.
He pulled her closer to the center, mounted the desk, told the class to look at the initial meticulous thrust, then wait for the withdrawal.
He talked throughout the entire event. Giving tips mostly to guys, telling us how tight she felt. Not not to let the emotions of desire control reason, that full awareness was require to pull out at the correct time. She moaned, she spoke to him in Spanish. Of it all I understood the word “papi”. I wondered as much how what she was saying just as I wondered how he might feel inside of me.
My thoughts of being taken by him were disrupted by Mr. Lynch’s voice, when he said: “NOW”. He pulled out, looked up towards the classroom and counted starting at one. Exactly at number 10, he ejaculated on the desk. About a foot away from her saturated, plush, battered vagina. I was close enough, so I got to him release the liquid substance onto the desk. Maria stayed there, softly rubbing herself, biting her lower lip, then asked him to finish her too. He laughed, explaining that it was a demonstration of the withdrawal method, not unison climax of the couple, not a casual sexual intercourse; that it was a classroom, a demonstration like any other.
They both stood up, the class loudly cheering, Maria bowing as if thanking the audience for the warming acknowledgment. I stared at her in jealousy, mostly as not having been chosen as a volunteer, at having been rejected even before the start of the demonstration, and some at her perfect physique.
The professor raised Maria’s hand for a last cheer, proceeded to turn her in circles towards both sides of the class so that everyone took a good look at her. The applause great louder, especially when she bowed with her rear to the class. She had an amazing body, her breast, her butt, the form in which her vagina formed. It was all, well, very pretty if I, the lady I am, might say.
Before Maria got dressed, and before Mr. Lynch cleaned the desk, Maria ran her index finger through the semen on the desk, put it in her mouth, looking at him, and said “Thank You, Papi.”
She got dressed, walked up to her class to cheers as well as evil looks from jealous students. She found her chair, got situated, and asked him what was she to do when she was still wet, worse, filled with naught. He smiled again, looking at her with those piercing blue eyes, and told her she could come over with one of her teammates after class. He quickly dismissed the thought as a playful side of him, which he couldn’t follow through…
The remaining 20 minutes of class where a Q & A to clarify anything about the technique, even comments and concerns. My one comment was that I would be repeating his class until I was selected as a volunteer.