Gwendolyn was, from the first time I saw her, an icon for me. A vision of perfection. She walked past me on the school grounds unconscious of the devastation in her wake, unaware of her radiance, unaware of me, though my breath might catch and my gait might falter.

I asked my brother Mitch about her. Like him, she was sixteen and two years behind me in high school.

"Oh," he said, when I described her as delicate and aloof, "that's Gwen. You like her?"

I blushed. "I just think she's really pretty."

"I guess," he replied, looking up from his phone. "No one wears their hair like that," he opined. "Plus everyone says she's conceited," he added, with a further demonstration of tenth-grade conformity.

It was true. She wore her chestnut-brown hair much shorter than any of the other girls. Eschewing the ubiquitous long, drooping tresses, her cut left nothing to obscure or distract from the elegance of her jawline.

"Besides," Mitch announced with finality, "she's got no boobs!" He chuckled at this display of sophomoric wit.

I walked away, smiling to myself. I had not only learned her name, but I'd also found out that the secret of her allure was fairly safe.

Her breasts may not have been prominent, but I thought her figure was perfect; it was lithe and athletic. She had an aura, at once innocent and wise, like a Botticelli madonna. The oval symmetry of her face was flawless; it needed no makeup. Except for the minimum of liner that accentuated her large, luminescent eyes, her face was naked, almost plain, displaying self-possession and confidence.

----

It was on the first day of my junior year of college that I saw Gwen again.

It was a glimpse. It looked like her. I was walking across campus, heading back to my dorm. She was way on the other side of the quad and walking away on an almost perpendicular course, so it was odd I should notice her. I guess I had been operating an unconscious radar ever on alert for her.

I gripped the strap of my backpack to keep it from bouncing on my back and I took off at a run after her. But she turned the corner of the Psych building and was nowhere in sight when I got there.

My heart was pounding, and not from the run; I had run cross-country in high school and I had kept myself in pretty good shape. No, it was the thrill of seeing her. It brought back all my secret longings. I was anxious to see her again. Maybe I could actually speak to her for once!

There were several places she could have gone, so I just stood around hoping. I could see the doors of three campus buildings from my vantage point and I waited; if she had entered one of them, she would surely exit sometime. It was after four o'clock; all my plans for the rest of the day were forgotten. This was now my only priority.

After an eternity of twenty minutes or so, I spied her again, walking down the terraced steps of the Main Library carrying an armful of books. I raced to the foot of the steps to intercept her.

"Gwen!" I said, breathlessly.

She stopped and looked at me blankly. Several milliseconds beyond my tolerance for silence, she asked, "Do I know you?"

She was even more ravishing than I remembered. No wonder; she had been sixteen when I first noticed her and still barely seventeen when I had last seen her. Now at nineteen, her beauty had been sharpened, distilled to a perfection even more perfect.

"Yes!" I said, "I mean, maybe... probably not... I mean, I know you... That is, I know who... We were in high school togeth..."

Finally, with great effort, I got a grip. "I'm Jason Lecker. My brother Mitch was in your class?" I looked at her hopefully.

How could anyone look so gorgeous dressed in a plain white tank top and khaki shorts? And wearing no makeup? Her hair was a little longer now, tied back in a short pony tail, revealing cheekbones that makeup artists strived for on other women.

"Oh, sure, I know Mitch," she confirmed, still looking at me suspiciously. "But I've never met you. Not that I remember." She looked me over, exciting me with her glance. "I would have remembered," she concluded with some finality.

"Uh, no," I admitted, "we never met." I felt myself blush. "I wanted to though." I dropped my gaze. I stared at her feet. Perfect feet. Pretty toes peeking out from her open-toed sandals.

I must have piqued her curiosity. "What do you mean?" she asked, shifting her stack of books, three substantial tomes, from her left to her right arm.

"I, um..." I started after an awkward pause. "I was really shy in high school."

Truthfully, I still felt a bit awkward at times, around women especially, but at twenty-one I had matured. Most of my acquaintances saw me as kind of nerdy, but nice, maybe a little standoffish. I was generally accepted but had no close friends.

"I have to sit down if we're going to talk," she said. She turned to the side of the stairway and sat on the grassy slope, placing her books on the ground beside her. We remained at eye level.

"I mean..." she began, stirring me with the thought that she was showing at least a little interest. "Why did you want to meet me?"

"I had a crush on you," I confessed.

I sat down too, on the grass just below her feet. I hoped that sitting would disguise my growing erection.

"You had a crush on me, but you never even spoke to me?" she said, musing. She smiled a little. A corner of her cupid's bow mouth curled. It was adorable.

"Wow! How shy were you?" she wondered aloud. "What made you... how did you even notice me?"

"The first time was at track practice - I ran cross-country, so I wasn't usually on the track, but I used to wait for Mitch in the bleachers after my run, and you caught my attention. I liked the way you moved."

I remembered how she looked, sweaty after all those sprints. But I didn't say that.

"And band. You looked so cute playing the flute." I replayed it in my mind: her lips pursed, so kissable.

"The last time I saw you was at Senior Awards two years ago; you were in the band on the risers in the gym."

I remembered how, from my folding chair on the basketball court, I could see her on my left; her knees were visible in her skirt; her legs would spread apart every time she reached to turn a page.

I took a peek at her legs now. Her shorts were loose in the leg and with her knees up, I could see the curve of her pert bottom and the edge of her white underpants. My heart skipped a beat.

She knitted her brows. "You remember a lot of details, don't you?" she posited.

I nodded, wondering whether I was prepared to reveal any more.

"Almost as if you were stalking me," she added provocatively.

"Oh no, it wasn't like that!" I hastened in rebuttal.

"Wasn't it?" Her eyes narrowed accusingly, although her voice was soft, almost seductive.

I swallowed hard, suddenly nervous.

"Are you looking up my pants?" she said defiantly. She extended her right leg into my lap, nudging me. "Is that a boner?" she asked, her voice now all innocent.

My face was scarlet; my tongue was tied, my cock now more rigid.

"I'll bet you used to think about me at night! Did you fantasize about me? Tell me the truth."

"Yes." I nodded. "I thought about you all the time." My cock was throbbing with need.

"I bet you used to masturbate too. Did you think about me when you were jacking off?"

I nodded again; no use denying it. I wanted to bare my soul to her.

"Say it," she demanded. To my relief, she didn't sound angry. She sounded excited though.

"I thought of you always, when..." I faltered in acute embarrassment.

"When what?" Her face was lighting up. She was enjoying this. Toying with me.

"When I masturbated." There, I'd said it. A weight lifted off my chest. I looked in her eyes longingly.

"No..." she said softly, with exaggerated patience. "Start over. Say it."

"Yes, Gwen, I..."

She interrupted me. "No, my name is Gwendolyn. Say it."

"Gwendolyn." A word in my mouth, but in my ears it was symphonic.

She waited, looking at me expectantly, like a tutor with a slow pupil.

"Yes, Gwendolyn," I began again, with my heart in my throat and throbbing in my cock, "I always thought of you, every time I masturbated." I gazed in her eyes, my shame sat aside, willing her to receive my devotion.

She beamed at me. She looked so very pleased.

"Show me!" she said, happily.

"What?"

She looked at me with mock disapproval. "You know," she said cajolingly, "show me how you masturbate." And then in a more commanding tone, "Do it for me."

Incredulous, I said, "You want me to masturbate? Here? Out in the open?"

I realized, as I spoke, that my objection was to the location, not to the act itself. Did that mean I wanted her to watch me do it? It was a liberating thought.

"Oh, come on. No one will see. Anyone passing by will only see your back." She made it sound almost normal.

It wasn't, though. There was nothing normal about this at all! And yet, I wanted to. At least a part of me did.

She was determined. "Look... Mike is it?"

I nodded.

"You used me. You used me for your own pleasure. Without my permission. You owe me for that." She paused, watching my reaction.

I got up on my knees, my hand on the button of my jeans. I hesitated. This is madness, I thought.

I looked at her imploringly; I knew she could read my expression, because her countenance became suddenly very regal. She looked down on me with sympathy and grace.

"How many times, Mike?" she asked softly. "How many nights?" She shook her head in wonder. "How much cum? How much sperm did you spill for me?"

Her words not only fueled my lust, but also compelled me to act. I opened my jeans and pulled my rigid six inches of straining, throbbing cock into the daylight, displaying it for her. I felt suddenly, irrationally proud. It was a tribute to her.

I wrapped my hand around my cock at the top and stroked down its shaft. I groaned; I was so close. I stroked up again and then the next downstroke tripped my trigger.

Cum shot high into the air, almost straight up, landing with an audible "splat" on the grass between us, just as the next spurt launched, followed by shots of diminishing trajectory until the last was just a trickle over the fingers holding my spent erection.

"See?" Gwendolyn said sweetly. "I knew it would be quick. Now, don't you feel better?"

I didn't know what I felt. A post-orgasmic high afflicted by acute embarrassment. A feeling of pride in a job well done? A duty performed? She had asked me to do it, after all.

"Of course you do," she intoned. "So much better than worship from afar."

She nodded toward my dripping digits. "You need to clean up. Lick it clean."

It hardly registered as anything unusual; I simply obeyed. But the taste of it, so strange and new, was humiliating.

Sheepishly, I put my cock away. She was right. It did feel like worship. A humble tribute to a glorious goddess. I looked at her adoringly. I'm sure I looked like a simp.

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. "Say, do you have a car?" she asked brightly.

"Yes," I answered, hopeful. As a junior I now qualified for a campus permit.

"Good!" she said, getting up and picking up her books. "I need a ride to my room, off campus."

"My car's over by the dorms, in lot six," I explained, getting to my feet. It would be a five-minute walk.

"Okay," she said cheerfully. She transferred the three heavy volumes into my arms. "You can carry my books."

(to be continued)