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How I Spent My Summer Vacation
By
Splattercat

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

This college boy needed a lesson in self-control ...
During my second year at the university, I never set foot in the library, not even once, a record I was kinda proud of, truth be told. I was too busy with swim practice and trying to pork as many of the betties on the campus as I possibly could to worry about grades, ferchrissake – and I did an admirable job with the betties, too, believe you me. I left a trail of satisfied women a mile long, the face of each and every one of them glazed like a fuckin’ jelly donut with a heapin’ helping of my hardy sperm.

And I took third at the nationals in the 100-yard breaststroke.

I like to think the two are kinda related.

Of course, I didn’t exactly pass all my classes – in fact, I didn’t pass any of them – and I sure as fuck didn’t want to lose my scholarship, so when coach called me in for a meeting I knew what was coming.

When I got to his office in the basement of the athletic complex, I stood there for a minute, waiting for him to say something. Then, without looking up, he asked, “You know what your GPA was this semester?”

I started to answer.

“It was shit!” he snarled, cutting me off. “Shit! Christ, it was worse than shit! Jesus Christ on a crutch, Andrews, it was like you didn’t even try. Zero point fucking zero. That’s dangerously close to Animal House territory, you moron. Did you even show up to any of your classes?”

I started to mumble something and he cut me off again.

“Shut the fuck up … from this moment on, you are officially suspended from the team, until you get your grades back to where they need to be. Which means,“ he continued, “that you are gonna make up the classes you blew off this year, in May term and in Summer School.

“Here,” he growled, handing me a piece of paper. “Call this number and they’ll set you up with a tutor. And Andrews, I think it goes without saying that you better not fuck this up, because if you do, you’re done, you understand? Done. And not just as a member of this team. I’m talking about your academic career, such as it is at this find institution, coming to an end.”

I looked at the floor.

“You think I’m bullshitting you? I wish to Christ I was … I’ve got the A.D. so far up my ass he can taste my wife’s twat when I go down on her. I can’t protect you on this one, Bobbie. You don’t pull at least a C average this summer, by September you’ll be wearing a paper hat and asking people if they wanna supersize that, quicker than shit, I shit you not.”

“I got it, coach. I got it.”

“You better fucking have it, pal. Are we clear?”

“Yeah …”

“What was that? I didn’t hear you. I said, are we clear?”

“Yes, sir. We are. Like Windex.”

“Good, now get the fuck outta here. The A.D.’s gonna be here in ten minutes and I’ve gotta explain to him why none of you little fucks are graduating on time. See you at practice.

***
When I got home that night, I called the number on the piece of paper the coach had given me. Someone answered on the third ring – and she sounded fucking hot.

“Hi, uh … is this, uh … Alicia?”

“Yes, it is – and let me guess,” she said slowly, enunciating each word in a throaty voice that grabbed me right by the nads. I figured that she had to be at least 40. “This must be my new student, Robert, the swimmer.”

“Yes, well, umm, I’m taking some classes this summer and it’s really important that I pass so coach gave me your number and told me you’d be able to help me get through them, that you could tutor me and help me get through this summer.”

“Oh, did he?” she replied. “Well, we’ll have to see about that. I am available to tutor you, but let’s get this straight right now: it’s up to me, not you, whether or not we proceed and I’m really not interested in wasting my time with some jock who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world and can’t understand why everyone else doesn’t see that, too. There are plenty of other students that need help as well, Robert, plenty of students who are serious about their studies.”

“I understand that, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” I told her, trying to sound as sincere as I possibly could.

I couldn’t tell whether she bought it or not, but she continued: “That sounds promising, but first, we’ll need to meet so I can evaluate you and make a decision about whether or not you are worth my time. If you are, we’ll set up a schedule and go from there. If not, well, then you’re on your own. Are we clear?”

“Yeah …”

“I’m sorry, we must have a bad connection. I didn’t hear you. I said, are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Like Windex.”

“Good. I’ll meet you tomorrow in the lobby of the library at 11 a.m. Don’t be late.”

“Umm … how will I recognize you?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll recognize you … oh, and Robert?”

“Yes?”

“I cannot emphasize this enough: I will not tolerate tardiness.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Yes, ma’am, indeed – bitch.

At 2 p.m. sharp, I rang the doorbell. She lived in one of those older houses that had once been the elegant home of some faculty member or administrator back in the ‘20s or ‘30s, a big house with large rooms and high ceilings that had been carved up by some later owner into a bunch of smaller apartments and single rooms, and rented to students.

It may have been a beautiful place once, but from the outside it sure looked like a fucking dump now: a dirty, white clapboard house with some sort of green moss starting to grow on the exterior where the water hit the building when the gutters overflowed in the spring. The roof had moss growing on it, the lawn was completely overgrown and the trees were out of control. Two of the windows in the front were broken and the steps creaked under my foot as I walked up to the front door.

Before I could ring the bell, I heard her feet on the stairs behind the door. It swung open and there she was. The first thing I noticed was her hair, dyed red and pinned up into a severe and tightly wound bun on the top of her head, and the feeling that I’d seen her somewhere before.

My eyes travelled the length of her body, taking in every aspect of her countenance. She was breathtaking, projecting a muscular sexuality that spoke of hours in the gym – or maybe the pool – and seemed just barely restrained.

She wore a translucent white shirt with iridescent buttons that called out the lacy black bra she wore underneath and a tight, grey skirt that ended at mid-thigh, framing her firm and shapely ass up just right. I traced along her lithe and muscular legs, sheathed in black fishnet stockings, from her luscious thighs down past her gracefully powerful calfs to her pedicured feet, shod in four-inch stilettos that wrapped around her ankles in thin, black leather straps.

She had a sharp and angular face, set with piercing blue eyes and when she looked at me, I could tell she knew exactly what I was thinking as my eyes roamed over her tight, little body – and I was thinking how good it would feel to undo that hair and bury my fingers in it while I bounced my sperm off her tonsils.

“Well, Robert, are you going to come in, or are you just going stand there all day on my front porch gaping?”

Somehow I managed to look her in the eye. I stepped inside and she closed the door behind me.

“Right this way,” she said, starting up the stairs. “My studio is on the second floor.”

I followed her up, watching her tight, little ass swing from side to side as she took the stairs in her heels and I imagined what it would be like to bend her over right there on the stairs, spread her cheeks and bury my tongue as far up her wet slit as I could, licking her gently from her clit to her asshole.

At the top of the stairs, she opened a door, glanced with a smirk at the obvious bulge in my pants, and ushered me in to her studio: a large room with high ceilings, filled with tasteful, vintage furniture and two big, soft couches,; lots of art and tapestries on the walls, hand-woven carpets on the floor, a shitload of books and an audio system that included a turntable, of all things. An enormous collection of vinyl records filled a huge shelving unit that took up nearly an entire wall.

“Please, sit down,” she said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

I declined the beverage and slid into one of the couches. Jesus, it was comfortable. I felt like it was going to swallow me whole.

“Well, I’m going to have a cup of tea,” she said, disappearing through a door across the room.

She was back within two minutes and placed her cup on a marble-topped end table before she sat down next to me, a cushion between the two of us on the couch. She gracefully crossed her legs, brought the teacup to her lips, looked over the rim at me and asked, “So, Robert, what can I do for you?” before taking a sip of the steaming liquid.

“Well,” I started, “I think you know, I need some help passing some summer school classes, or I’m going to lose my scholarship and …

“Yes, yes, I know all about that” she said dismissively with a wave of her hand. “You’ve got a couple of English classes, a U.S. history seminar and a relatively basic math class this summer, but that’s really not the problem, is it?”

“It isn’t?”

What the fuck kind of tutoring service is this? Who is this chick?

“No, Robert, it isn’t. I’ve read your file … “

I interjected: “Wait a minute – what? You’ve read my file? How?”

“Your coach was kind enough to share it with me; you’ll find we share many things Robert. It’s standard operating procedure in cases like yours – and as I was saying, academics are not your problem. The fact is, you’re not stupid. Your SAT scores were way above average, your high school record shows similar achievement, and the results from your first year here at the university confirm that you can not only handle college-level work, you could easily be one of the top students – if you applied yourself.

“But you don’t, Robert, you don’t apply yourself, at least not to anything that matters, and do you know why? Because, Robert, you are an asshole. You’re gifted. You’ve been blessed by God with both intelligence and athletic ability and until now, things have been easy for you. As a result, you’ve never really faced any significant obstacles; you’ve never had to deal with something you couldn’t overcome by virtue of the natural abilities with which you have been so richly endowed. In short, you feel a sense of entitlement to which you are, in fact unentitled.

“And that is a problem.”

She continued, paging through my file, which she’d suddenly produced in a manila folder from somewhere: “Instead of applying yourself to the things that do matter, you’ve wallowed in a lifestyle of nearly constant debauchery, dallying with one young girl after another and staggering through alcohol-soaked weekends that would have killed other, lesser men.”

She was right, of course, but still … I could not believe what I was hearing.

Who the fuck does this bitch think she is?

She continued: “But those days, Robert, are over. That is why your coach sent you to me. I’ve been working with him on cases like yours for quite some time now, and when he finds himself with a particularly tough nut to crack, like yourself, he calls me and I help things along.”

Leaning closer, she said with quiet authority: “And make no mistake, Robert, that is exactly the situation: We will crack that nut.”

With that, she told me to stand up.

“Good,” she said, when I was positioned in front of her. “Now, take your shirt off, and drop your pants. Let’s see if the endowment with which you’ve been so richly blessed in other areas extends to your manhood.”

What? What kind of tutoring is this?

As if she read my mind, she told me: “As I said, Robert, your problems are not a lack of academic skills. Rather, they extend from a lack of focus that pervades virtually every area of your life. We are going to improve your focus, Robert.”

And then, almost whispering: “Now, do as I say, and drop … your … pants.”

“Good,” she said a few seconds later, gasping slightly when she saw my fat meat lozenge dangling just an arm’s length from her face.

I stepped forward, thinking she’d wrap her sexy lips around it, but instead she extended her arm and cupped my balls, rolling them in the gently in the palm of her hand and pulling on my sac. My hog started to grow, working up to its full size under her firm and knowing touch – and she hadn’t even touched my shaft yet.

Jesus, God in Heaven … this old whore is fucking good.

She released my balls and looked up at me with her lips spread slightly apart, her pink tongue sliding slowly across her gleaming white teeth, and leaned back on the couch. She hiked skirt up over her waist, thrusting her hips up to get it past her the swell of her ass, and spread her legs.

Of course, she wore no underwear and her snatch was shaved smooth. I watched her flick one finger lightly over her clit, and I could hear her voice begin to thicken with lust as she asked me if I liked watching her play with herself.

I did.

She was, at that moment, the sexiest thing I had ever seen, displaying herself to me with utter depravity, watching me watching her with her legs spread wide so I could see her meaty cunt lips as her fingers played over her clit.

I couldn’t respond to her question, my voice was gone, lost in a wave of pure, primal, sweaty fuck drive.

My engorged cock spoke for me.

“Stroke it,” she said, nodding at my meat and tossing a tube of lube at me. “Show me how much you like my hot cunt, Robert, and imagine what it would feel like to slowly bury your cock in my tight hole, inch by fucking inch, until your balls slap up against my asshole. Show me, Robert … but don’t get carried away. I will instruct you and you will follow my instructions to the letter. Remember, I am in control here, not you.”

TO BE CONTINUED ...

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