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Leaving your little grey cami on for the time being, you pull off your skirt and panties, tossing them aside, and lean up against the tree, legs spread apart, presenting your posterior invitingly for him. Professor Sullivan rolls the condom down his long, skinny dick, and comes up behind you, nuzzling your neck, and teasing the outside of your pussy with the end of his dick.

He rubs his latex-covered cock up and down the length of your slit until you are the one who is moaning with desire. He spreads your cheeks apart, exposing your moist ass to the cool night air.

“Are you ready for it?” he breathes in your ear.

“Yes!” you exclaim, antsy with lust and impatient anticipation.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he slides his cock up your drooling pussy, until he is all the way inside and his wiry pubes are pressed up against your bare ass.

He fucks you and you fuck back against him, finding a rhythm, savoring the excruciating pleasure under the dome of unblinking stars. It starts slowly, then accelerates, faster, wilder, until both of you are out of control, fucking like pagans on Beltane eve.

His finger finds your asshole and slips up inside your tight anus, pushing buttons and driving you past the brink. As his cock fucks your pussy and his finger invades your ass, you come, snarling and writhing, fucking back against him with everything you’ve got, crying out into the night air.

You feel him feel him thrust hard one last time, and then you feel his cock pulsate inside the condom, and with a drawn-out raspy gasp, he comes inside you, pressed tight up against your rear end, squeezing your breasts tight and panting in your ear.

He is out of breath. He fumbles his pants back on, still wheezing.

“Ok, alright. That was fantastic!” he says as he tucks his shirt in, “Did you get to come too?”

The spent condom lies discarded in the tall grass, leaking semen. One of you should probably pick it up and throw it away. Your pussy is deliciously juicy and tender, and you are still pleasantly high on the post-sex endorphins.

“Now don’t think that just because we’ve had sex you automatically get an A… Though I suppose after this I could hardly give you worse than a B+!”

Professor Sullivan, you think, is kind of a jerk. Kind of a douche bag, really. Perhaps you should get back to your dorm and buckle down on that paper. Now that the itch has been scratched.


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I know you’re horny, but don’t be an idiot. He’s old and skeevy, and you have no idea how many horny undergrads he’s fucked. Wrap the rascal.

*Go to 3

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Professor Sullivan is wearing brown corduroy pants and the kind of brown jacket with patches on the elbows that professors always seem to wear in movies. He has unruly, curly hair, bushy eyebrows, and a mustache. He seems pleasantly surprised that you decided to sit down next to him.

He seems pleased when you tell him (more-or-truthfully) that you enjoy his lectures; he seems even more pleased when you tell him (less-truthfully) that you loved his book The Space Between Spaces: A Survey of Subatomic Particles Elucidated for the Intelligent Layman.

He reaches over and touches your forearm, and the unexpected contact makes you jump. He tells you that he has noticed you in class before, and that you are a very bright, possibly even brilliant, and despite yourself you blush. He takes a sip from his drink, and tells you that you are also very beautiful.

Lara Cunningham looks up from across the room where she is helping the Delmsey twins solve a complicated problem in knot theory involving transferring a piece of twine from one set of fingers to another, and gives you a highly significant look.

Professor Sullivan stretches lazily, and suggests that you step out back with him to smoke a cigarette. When you tell him that you don’t smoke, he asks if you’d like to go out back and gaze up at the stars together. Lara gives you another look, a smile that you cannot read.

Do you:

Join Professor Sullivan in the back yard? *Go to 17

Excuse yourself politely and go home, where there is a paper waiting to be written? *Go to 21

Extract yourself from the conversation and find someone else to chat with? *Go to 8

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It is pitch black. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.

*Go to 1

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“Have you started your midterm paper yet?”

You hadn’t even realized that Mike knew you were there. He is slouched in the easy chair with his eyes half-closed and a bottle of beer clutched in one hand. He has been idly leafing through a stack of magazines: American Journal of Physics, Sports Illustrated, Journal of Applied Physics, Playboy.

“Started?” you say, “Well I guess technically I’ve started…”

“Yeah, I figured.” He yawns cavernously, tossing a physics journal onto the shag carpet on top of the centerfold. “I haven’t either. Figured I’d just bust it out the night of.” He swallows the dregs of his beer. There is another one close at hand. With a practiced twist, he pops it open one-handed. “I’m pretty certain Sullivan doesn’t read papers anyway, just scans them for keywords and phrases and grades based on word count.” He takes a big swallow of cheap, mass-produced beer. “Sullivan’s sort of a douche. Have you read his book?” Mike rolls his eyes.

On impulse, you sit down on his lap. It is broad, firm, and comfortable. It is a lap that was made for sitting on. One of his ridiculously thick, Popeye arms automatically comes up around your waist, hugging you. It feels nice.

“You know what I wanted to do with my life?” he asks, semi-rhetorically.

“Play football.” You say.

“Yeah, play football professionally.” You can feel his dick underneath you, through your skirt, through his jeans. It feels pretty nice. You wiggle your butt, more-or-less subtly, and you can feel his cock respond. “But if that didn’t pan out, and I always knew the odds were pretty long, I wanted to be a writer. I want to write fiction, maybe write a novel about sports. My old man was like, ‘No way Mister, you’re getting a degree in the hard sciences.’ So here I am, doing physics. I don’t even really like physics.”

Meanwhile, Mike’s big, meaty hand has found its way up between your knees, up underneath your skirt. Underneath you, his cock seems to be made of tungsten-carbide steel. You wiggle your butt again, deliberately stimulating him, and you feel his breathing change. His hand is stroking, softly stroking the front of your panties under your skirt. It feels very nice.

“Hey,” he says throatily, “Do you suppose I could go down on you?”

“What…? Here? Now?”

“Sure.” Mike is still petting you through your (now seriously moist) panties, and it feels delicious. “Who’s going to care? Them?” The Delmsey twins are sitting in a far corner of the room, facing each other, completely absorbed in a complicated game of Cat’s Cradle which you are pretty sure is an expression of knot theory.

“Them?” His hand moves up and down, stroking you through the thin fabric. Your pussy is drooling, your clit is screaming. On the couch, Lara Cunningham and Professor Sullivan are all over each other, sloppily making out.

“Anyone? I’d love to taste you.” His cock is about ready to burst the fly of his jeans under your butt. There is a roar from downstairs: the Martians, to no-one’s surprise, have been dominating World War II, but now the Vikings, allied with the Comanche, are making a surprise comeback.

Do You:

Let him eat you out, right there in the common room? *Go to 20

Suggest that you retire to someplace more private? *Go to 13

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Much like the house’s feline namesake, the party is both dead and alive. At a large, plywood table down in the basement, the math department is taking on the physics department in a rowdy, highly-modified, caffeine and cannabis augmented, time-travel version of Axis and Allies.

The rest of the house is dark and relatively quiet. A few people are hanging around on couches and comfortable chairs, nursing drinks and chatting amiably.  Sacchidananda and Paul conveniently disappear, leaving you socially stranded. You look around for someone to talk to.

There is Professor Sullivan, forty- or fifty- something, looking comfortably rumpled and drinking whiskey out of a large glass. It is for his lecture class that you are writing that all-important midterm paper. Or, more accurately at the moment, not writing it.

There is Mike Gauss, a nineteen-year old ex-football player who is both very smart and a total meathead, and who is only here because his dad insisted he stay in school after he got cut from the varsity football team, and physics is the subject that comes easiest to him.

There are the Delmsey twins; quiet, weird, and almost spectral, engaged in some intense private conversation.

There is Lara Cunningham, a freckly redhead with small angular boobs and a wide butt who, it is rumored, gets her good grades by boinking professors both male and female. You know Lara, and she is no dumb bunny; but she is also kind of lazy and projects an image that is kind of slutty. So maybe it’s true.

Do you:

Screw this and go home? *Go to 21

Hang out with Professor Sullivan? *Go to 5

Go talk to Mike? *Go to 7

Sit down with the weird Delmsey twins? *Go to 9

Make conversation with Lara Cunningham? *Go to 11

Go looking for Sacchidananda and Paul? *Go to 15

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The Delmsey twins, Fay and Ray, are not identical twins, but they are so similar you have difficulty telling them apart. One is male and one is female, but you aren’t sure which is which. They are dressed in matching salmon jumpsuits and grey sneakers, and their blonde hair is cropped short. Their skin is so pale that it is almost translucent, and their eyes are ghostly blue.

As you sit down next to them, one pulls out a loop of twine from a jumpsuit pocket and they start looping it around their fingers, passing it from hand to hand in a complex game of Cat’s Cradle.

In class, they usually function as a unit; they are lab partners, and often when called on one will begin answering a question and the other will finish.

“We’re testing out String Theory,” one of them (Fay?) tells you, and they both giggle excessively as if at some private joke.

“To see if it works,” the other one explains. This may be Ray, the voice seems more masculine. “I think it’s a zero-sum game, but she disagrees.”

The twine is getting more and more twisted and knotted between their ten long, skinny, meticulously manicured fingers. All of a sudden the hands are removed, and it falls to the floor, a single, unbent loop.

“Do you feel like watching us fool around?” Fay asks.

“We’re really horny,” Ray explains.

“We don’t like other people touching us,” Fay says, “But we like to be watched.”

“It helps us get off.”

“Want to come upstairs with us?”

Do you:

Go upstairs with the freaky Delmsey twins? *Go to 12

Go home and work on your paper like you should have been doing all along? *Go to 21

Look for someone less weird to talk to? *Go to 8

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