Wydawca: Sandy Kategoria: Obyczajowe i romanse Język: angielski Rok wydania: 2017

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Opis ebooka Coed For Hire - Erotic Novel - Sand Wayne

A Vintage Erotic Novel Involving a Sexy and Seductive Girl, Full of Sexual Adventures, Surprises and Twists.

Opinie o ebooku Coed For Hire - Erotic Novel - Sand Wayne

Fragment ebooka Coed For Hire - Erotic Novel - Sand Wayne

Coed For Hire

CHAPTER ONEClarisse leaned against a brick wall at one of the entrances to the college yard. Holding her books high against her chest, she felt the late afternoon sun cut through the chill autumn air. Although she was standing out of the wind, she felt the cold slice between the stockinged warmth of her legs, causing her to press her thighs more firmly together. Ordinarily Clarisse never paused when she was on her way to something or someone, but a new and different sight had caught her eye.Across the street two lean and muscular blue-jeaned legs straddled a motorcycle such as Clarisse had never seen. Around the campus she had already gotten used to seeing and dodging the myriad scooters and small foreign motorbikes her fellow students used for commuting. There was something about this particular machine and its rider, though, that actually seemed magnetic. Even though the cycle was idling, unevenly with a low rumble, she could feel the pulse of power reach through the air to where she stood. Her feminine eye tried to appreciate the geometry and functions of the mass of dark blue and chrome metal that vibrated as if seen through a mirage. Unable to feel anything but awe at the throbbing machinery, she turned her attention discreetly to the rider.He stood evenly, balancing the huge vehicle between his legs as he talked to a girl on the sidewalk in front of the cafeteria which someone had pointed out to Clarisse as the beatnik center of the university. Although she couldn't see his full face, she surveyed the rugged profile and the powerful angles his shoulders made under the tapering black jacket. Even though his hair, long and obviously filthy, was the sort Clarisse associated with hoods, she was surprised to find herself admiring it.The rider's hands gestured in the air as he and the weird-looking girl he was talking to laughed obscenely. From across the street Clarisse blushed, wondering what they were saying and feeling oddly envious of their superior air. For the motorcyclist had double-parked in the middle of a busy pedestrian walk, and he and his girlfriend were obviously oblivious to the neat, serious students who scurried back and forth around them. Clarisse watched them, amazed at their brazenness as they kissed each other fiercely, the girl wrapping herself to die leather-clad body as the rider's own hands positioned themselves at the gleaming handlebars.Faster than her eyes could follow, one of the rider's hands flicked and Clarisse jumped at the raw snarling crescendo with which the motorcycle responded. She felt an insane impulse to run across through the traffic to the source of the noise, but before she could move the rider had pushed his girl away and lowered himself on the thin leopard-skin seat. To her amazement, as the noise thundered again from the short, shining exhausts, the cycle reared like a stallion in the midst of the startled crowd. As the pedestrians parted in panic, the boy lunged forward, standing on the pegs and shooting ahead as the front wheel touched the ground. Clarisse's wide eyes followed him down the street as the powerful machine cleaved through the narrowest gaps of jammed traffic, leaving behind the pungent smell of oil, and the crazy laughter of the girl who had applauded the breakneck departure. Clarisse herself smiled as she watched the alarmed pedestrians waving their fists in futility at the disappearing menace.Regaining her composure, Clarisse headed back to her dorm, looking back over her shoulder at the slovenly but sensual girl who was heading back into the cafeteria. Why did she feel so funny, she wondered. It wasn't just because she loved fast vehicles. Her friends had been amazed last summer when she had accepted an offer to ride in a prototype Ferrari around the Monte Carlo circuit the day before the Grand Prix. It had been exciting and the driver, a good friend of Daddy's, had been impressed at how calm she was after the hectic few minutes of screaming tires and yowling engine noise. But Clarisse had always had speed around her fast cars, fast planes, fast friends.With a shock she realized that it had been the boy herself who had been the center of her attention. She had read plenty about gangs and toughs of the kind that made up Hell's Angels. And her friends had already told her, in the last few days, that the university was only an island of students in a big and threatening city. But even in New York, she had never come closer to a hood or tough-guy type than being in the same subway train, and that only rarely. This was actually the first time in her life she had seen a gang-type motorcyclist or at least that's what he had looked like, and even so it was from across the street.You've led a very sheltered life, she told herself ironically, thinking how sophisticated it was, even by the standards of most of her classmates. Sure, she'd had access to what the press had finally gotten around to calling the jet-set, nearly all her life. Raised in Manhattan, private schools all the way, the last two years of which were in an exclusive, finishing hostel in Switzerland. Half her teenage life had been spent in Europe, and a summer in the Far East. At the age of eighteen Clarisse was an accomplished horseback rider and a practiced skier. She was crazy about tobogganing, and had learned to surf in the wake of one of the first high-speed hydroplanes in the Mediterranean, a specially-equipped yacht piloted by a ship owner friend of Daddy's.But that was just the general thrill of having a wealthy widowed father who traveled continually and had taken her everywhere. She had more friends on the continent than she knew people in Manhattan. She had been a debutante in both London and New York. She spoke three languages, had always had clothes from the most expensive Parisian salons, and, in short, had been well on her way to becoming an international socialite. At an age when most of her foreign friends were modeling or joining the film colonies in Rome, Paris, and London, Clarisse had returned to the States to attend the very best Eastern university. It had been a hard decision to continue with school, but Daddy had convinced her that beautiful young debs had, for the most part, a short and empty life. Between them, as their standing joke went, they had decided to "get her some book-learning". Besides, Daddy had pointed out, four years of college couldn't be too bad when her schoolmates would comprise the most gifted students in the States.Clarisse bowed her head to the wind, her feet kicking pertly through the swirls of fallen leaves that blew along the pavement. And what did all this add up to? Here she was, coming home from an advanced freshman seminar, wearing two hundred dollars' worth of clothes, and thinking about a grimy hood on a motorcycle. There was no question that her mind didn't want to let the image go. She had that distant tingling in her tummy the feeling that usually gave her the warning at cocktail parties. And inside her bra she could feel the separate nubs of each breast chafe at the lace with a stiffness that wasn't happening because of the cold.Wise up, little girl, she told herself. There was no point in getting a thrill out of the kind of person she never had, and never would, come into contact with social contact anyway. She kicked at a piece of paper in her own amusement. The last conversation with Daddy, before she had flown to college from Madrid, came back to her. "There's nothing wrong with being a virgin, Clarisse," he had said, with that candor that had held them so close as father and daughter. "Nine times out of ten a girl your age sleeps with someone only because she's rebelling against something, usually her parents. And I don't think you have much cause to rebel, considering the kind of life you've led. So don't play yourself for a fool." And, of course, he had been right, as always. Daddy had always been one jump ahead of her, giving her ground when other fathers or parents would have mistakenly laid down rules that would suppressed the wishes and whimsies of their daughters.Clarisse had talked to him, though, because she felt uncomfortable at being the only girl among her friends who was still a virgin. He had mistakenly thought she was seeking permission to go ahead with some project of her life he probably had had the Spanish Consul's son in mind, who had been heavily dating Clarisse at the time. But this once he hadn't understood her. For what bothered Clarisse was her lack of desire for men. Ever since she could remember there had been boys, young men, even well-known and famous men courting her attentions. And ever since she could remember, she had felt desire, the same flowering of passion that had carried most of her contemporaries to the emancipation of womanhood. And yet she had rigorously repressed it, for the awful truth was, she knew, that the physical aspect of men frightened and disgusted her.She remembered something her father had long since forgotten; when as a little girl of nine, already precocious and beautiful, she had sat on her father's lap before going to bed one night. It had been following a party in their London apartment. Clarisse had come downstairs to say good-night to the guests, and sleepy-eyed, had curled up on her father's lap. He had had a good deal to drink, and she still remembered how he had been unable to finish his bed-time story because he had started weeping and pronouncing the name of Marguerite, Which was all Clarisse knew of her mother. She had been so confused, just a little girl trying to comfort her idol of a father. And as he had buried his head in her soft hair against the soft flannel of her pajamas, the world had suddenly seemed terrifying to her. For her Daddy had hugged her and kissed her, drunkenly crooning the name Marguerite, and as she had struggled and squirmed with confusion on his lap, she had felt something large and stiff pulsing beneath her childish bottom.Not until she had started crying in fright herself had her father come to his senses and tried to soothe her, carrying her upstairs, and still weeping, tucked her into bed. She had long since come to realize how lonely her father had been since the death of her mother, and that terrifying night in her childhood had been an expression of his long-buried grief. Still, it was from that day on that Clarisse had avoided intimate contact with members of the opposite sex. At the age of eighteen, when her body was beginning to rebel against her self-discipline, she had again been jolted by a young man exposing himself. That had happened at a drunken reception for a novelist in Paris, and everybody had been amused except Clarisse, whose emotions at the time had made her physically sick.It was strange, she thought, entering the women's campus, how with such an active life behind her, she had avoided contact with men so completely. It was probably all the pressure put on her by European suitors that had made her develop the art of social and sexual self-defense at such an early age. Now, at eighteen, she was perfectly competent to check the most ardent advances of some Latin lover or impetuous French escort. And yet she had the feeling she was missing something. And her talk with Daddy had led nowhere-he had as much as given her free rein, for the wrong reasons. It was simply that she couldn't talk to him about her fear. She knew that he thought she had been on the verge of making the crucial decision, and that he thought she would be responsible about it. But nothing could be farther from the truth.And now, on top of everything else, she was a college student, in an intense and competitive atmosphere, where if people weren't sleeping with one another, they were thinking about it all the time. From the first day of school all the girls had talked about at meals in the dorm was boys, their attractions and their approaches. Clarisse had expected some relief from this feminine Chatter, hoping that her fellow students would be interested in more intellectual pursuits. But most of the freshmen girls were from places that, to Clarisse, seemed like small and provincial towns, and they were primarily interested in the prospects afforded by a coed college. At least her roommate had more sense, she thought.They were a funny combination. Clarisse was the perfect young female, with a slim, high-breasted model's body, sharp features, and lovely, shoulder-length black hair. Tamar, her roommate, was the epitome of the average pretty college girl: short blonde pixie hair, a somewhat heavy build with phenomenally large breasts, and a cute but undistinguished face. Tamar was from Los Angeles and while she was very pleasant and intelligent in a modest way, she and Clarisse hardly had anything in common. In fact they had hardly seen each other the first few days, with all the rush and frenzy of registration and choosing classes. Clarisse had been highly grateful when she realized that Tamar wasn't going to be a drag, but was a girl who obviously enjoyed her own version of independence as much as Clarisse did hers.There was a loud honk and Clarisse dodged just in time as a carload of boys and girls shot out of the driveway. She could hear the laughing voices and a beer can fall from one of the windows as the car sped down the street. They were like children, Clarisse thought, children engaged in a mad game of dating and drinking rituals. It was not her idea of college. But like it or not, and she smiled grimly as she considered it, she had the same problem as many of these girls. All the worldliness and sophistication of her life so far didn't give her a single advantage where it mattered most. And that matter was her virginity. There were days when she didn't know if she'd be able to stand the desire she felt, but to even picture herself petting, much less enjoying normal sex, disgusted her.Greeting the girls she knew who were lounging in the hallways, talking about the studying they hadn't done before getting ready to go out for the night, Clarisse headed for her room. She dumped her books on the bunk-bed and sat down, not bothering to take off her coat. The situation really depressed her at times. For instance, in four days of school, She had been approached by nine different boys, most of them upper-classmen, for a date. They were all nice enough, and all of them knew a good thing when they saw it, but she had turned them all down. How, she thought, was she going to get through four years in an atmosphere populated by fifteen thousand intense and interesting students and graduates, without solving this problem. Only when her body really distracted her, usually just before her period, was she forced to attempt self-satisfaction. And only rarely had she ever gone through with it, since the act of fondling herself inevitably stimulated the mental picture she had of an anonymous maleness.Clarisse lay back on the lower bunk, letting her legs dangle over the side of the mattress. Working with her toes she freed her feet from the expensive Italian heels, and massaged each foot in turn with the other. The dinner chimes sounded from downstairs, but she made no move to get up. Even if I meet the most cosmopolitan students who are here, she reflected, I won't have all my usual outlets of recreation. She knew that it would be at least a month before she could go skiing anywhere; she knew no one yet with a fast car except a boy she had met in Paris who had an E-type Jaguar and that wasn't fast enough, at least in a city. There were virtually no water sports, except swimming at the indoor pool and that was dull. She could take flying lessons, which Daddy had recommended as being essential for the modern woman of her status, but that wasn't really exciting. An upperclassman she knew from New York had taken her for cocktails and suggested sky-diving, but she knew she wouldn't be able to get permission, as a minor, from Daddy to join the club. One of his best friends had been killed in an exhibition free-fall in California and, besides, he thought the sport was ridiculous. It would be no use phoning Madrid to argue about it-when he made up his mind, he made it up firmly.Well, she thought, what did that leave? There were no toboggan runs approaching those she had thrilled to in the Alps. It was a thousand-mile trip to Florida and the only decent skin-diving. She hated mountain-climbing and similar pursuits. About the only prospect was skating in the winter-at the university rink, and that was far from stimulating. As Clarisse lay in the darkening room, vaguely counting the bedsprings of the upper bunk, her mind wandered its complete circuit and returned to the sight she had witnessed that afternoon. The raucous roar of the motorcycle filled her head again and she vividly pictured the strong masculine body hugging the enormous glittering machine. She sucked her breath in again sharply-now there was something! Something she hadn't ever tried.Now that she thought of it, she remembered that a boy had invited her for a ride the second day of school. But his bike hadn't seemed at all exciting, and in his tweed jacket and glasses, it hadn't been an exciting prospect. She remembered now how clumsily he handled the cycle as he had driven away. From her long experience with racing cars, she knew that he had missed his shift, and at the time, had contemptuously dismissed the episode from her mind. But today-that had been a different story. She recalled how startled and excited she had been when the shining machine had leaped high on its rear wheel alone and plunged away with a shattering roar. That was something else entirely. Clarisse absently placed a hand on her stomach, to quiet the fluttering she felt merely thinking about the animal blend of man and machinery."Hey, stranger, what's up? Having a meditation session?" It was Tamar, back from dinner."No-hi, I was just lying here," Clarisse responded, lifting her head from the dark bed."That I can see, barely," laughed Tamar, "mind if I turn on this light.""No, no please do," Clarisse fumbled, trying to regain her composure.Tamar switched on the dim desk light. "Don't you feel well?" she asked, shading her eyes as she looked down at her roommate."No, really, I was just lying here and thinking.""Well, at least take off your coat and think in comfort," Tamar joked. "Did you miss dinner?""It's all right," Clarisse said, "I'll go up to the square later and get something." Clarisse removed her coat and sat upright on the edge of the bed."Why don't I bring you something? I have to go out with one of our football stars, but I'm too tired to make it a late date. And the least he can do as my date is chip in for my roommate's starvation fund."Both girls laughed. "That would be darling of you," accepted Clarisse. The blonde girl had switched on the radio to the university's classical station and was shuffling the clothes in her closet."What should I wear to discourage a horny jock?" Tamar asked."Burlap," replied Clarisse, "it's the stereotype costume of the college.""Oh, that would be a little too blunt," mused the blonde. With a natural oblivion Clarisse hadn't witnessed before in the girl, Tamar unbuttoned her sweater and chucked it aside. As she bent over to remove her skirt, Clarisse was unable to take her eyes from the bountiful breasts which hung captive in the large white cups. The girl was really stacked, she thought, and shamelessly let her eyes appraise the rest of the solid body that stood with its back to her. Tamar stood on tiptoe to reach the clean underwear she had piled on her closet shelf, and Clarisse, as she watched the buttocks flex under the silken panties, felt an interest in this girl's wholesome body she had never experienced before. All the girls she knew abroad were slim and compactly built like herself, but there was something very ripe about Tamar which dispelled the thoughts of the motorcyclist and instead substituted an admiration of the fecund form rearing in front of her."Here's the damn thing," Tamar exclaimed as she drew a clean bra down. Ignoring Clarisse, the blonde girl unsnapped the bra she was wearing, letting it drop to the floor. Clarisse found it hard to believe that a girl her own age could have such fantastic breasts. The amazing thing about them, she thought, was they didn't sag at all, like those of the tired starlets who romped in bikinis on the Riviera. Each creamy globe jutted out from the girl's thick chest, their large ruby tips glowing in the soft light. Clarisse couldn't draw her eyes away as the girl fitted the clean white cups to the sensual mounds which strained at the lace pockets as her arms fastened the snaps in back."I'm going to have to invest in the kind that snap in front," Tamar said, addressing no one in particular. "Every time I dress I think I'm going to break something."Clarisse said nothing, but continued to watch the feline figure as more clothes were added, obscuring the delicious body from her immodest gaze."How do I look?" Tamar swirled in a circle in front of her roommate, the skirt flaring up to reveal the strong shapely thighs."Marvelous," responded Clarisse, choking back the unusual thickness in her throat. "What time are you going to be back?""Oh, a couple of hours at the most. Listen, how about if I bring you a hamburger and some tea? Sound good?""You're a dear," the dark girl said, "have a good time," she barely got out before Tamar had grabbed her coat and disappeared.Flopping back on her bed, Clarisse heard the girl's swift steps echo down the hall. The image of those tawny thighs came back to her, strangely mixed with that of the rearing, snorting motorcycle. Shivering with feelings that her tired mind couldn't sort out, Clarisse curled up on her side and shut her eyes. How was she going to live with this tension, she thought to herself. Why had Tamar, of all the exotic girls and women she had known all her life, stimulated her so just now? Palms together, Clarisse tucked her hands between her thighs, bunching the skirt tightly against herself as her thoughts tumbled over each other and she fell asleep.* * *It seemed like only five minutes later when a hand gently shook her shoulder and stirred her awake. "Wake up, dream-girl, it's chow time," purred a voice in her ear. Groggily, Clarisse rolled over, her hands, which had still been folded like a little girl's between her legs, falling to her sides. Opening her eyes she saw Tamar bending over her in the soft light, holding a paper bag in one hand."Here, eat and ye shall be satisfied," smiled the blonde, handing her the contents of the bag as Clarisse sat up, shaking the sleep from her head. "Satisfied!" she drowsily snorted, mechanically trying to arrange the take-out meal on the nightstand."I don't get ... no-o ... satisfaction," crooned Tamar, as she lazily undressed, once again revealing the sumptuous body to Clarisse's alerted stare. In a few seconds, though, she had grabbed a bathrobe and darted into the bathroom.Clarisse settled reluctantly into the business of eating, listening to the shower fall like rain on a boat-deck during a squall at sea. Just as she was sipping her tea, Tamar re-emerged, patting her nude body with an enormous Turkish towel. "Clarisse," she said, "the wallflowers in this dorm hate you for being beautiful and not going out every night, the way they'd like to. But I must confess your self-control is something I could use. I don't know why I go through the routine of dating these guys. I guess it's just something to do.""Why?" Clarisse asked, interested for the first time in another girl's date, "is it that bad?""It's not that bad, it's just that every time-oh hell, I don't want to bore you with high school gossip.""No, really, Tamar, I'm interested-go on," Clarisse said, all of a sudden obsessed with a desire to know what her roommate did."Well, it's really nothing-or probably tame compared to the kind of thing you're used to, from Europe and so forth," Tamar started. "You know, a typical American college date. The boy has a big car, he's a drag, you go to a drive-in movie. At approximately fifteen minutes after the credits, he suggests you both get in back. You do, for some insane reason. After five minutes, he moves next to you, on the pretext of screening his legs between the bucket seats-Detroit's great contribution to juvenile delinquency. Then comes the heavy arm around the shoulders. Next, just like clockwork, comes a few kisses in the ear and some mumbled formula, while you stare straight ahead, trying to pretend you're paralyzed-that's part of the game, even though you want it as much as he does."Clarisse was shocked by this candid statement, but listened with fascination as Tamar sat naked in the chair opposite her, smoking a cigarette like a nightclub comedian and continuing."Then comes the delicate advance feelies-the old light-as-a-butterfly approach, to convince you he really knows what he's doing. But his breath all this time sounds like the wind machine in a high school play." Both girls laughed and Tamar shifted in her chair, ignoring Clarisse' gaze which, despite herself, roved over the portions of the girl's figure the draped towel left uncovered, fixing once again on the bare breasts which stood out so arrogantly."He brings his hand-as stiff and cold as a corpse's, to the front of your blouse or whatever, and fumbles around with the buttons. Meanwhile there's more slobbering in your ear, or if he's an intellectual, up and down your hairline, right?" Tamar mimicked the motions with one hand on her breast and her head cocked coyly. Clarisse didn't move, transfixed by the sight of the blonde girl's hand caressing her own breast, in spite of the intended humor of the acting. "If you're lucky, he stays on your nipples, once he's gotten you stripped to the waist, long enough to really arouse you. Usually you just freeze from the cold as he moves on, unless you go into a clinch, but that only slows everything down.""You mean you just, must keep sitting there?" Clarisse stammered."Well, I don't, not always. By the time he's played with my boobies, I'm usually kissing him, unless he has bad breath. But I usually play with his pants, just so he doesn't get disheartened. That really sets them all off-it's such a big mark of honor with them. But, anyway, then comes the long period while he figures out what kind of skirt you have on and how he's going to go about removing it. But that's only if he's an amateur or really bullish. I like to keep my skirt on, since I have a thing about going down in the midst of a thousand or more people. But he gets his hand up your legs and then it starts getting good."Clarisse ground her knees together as her roommate's words suggested the feeling to her, starting a slow tickling ember deep within her body."I love it when someone really knows what he's doing. It's practically as good as the real thing, especially if he's got big fingers. But, I'm telling you, I really go off like a bomb when they get inside my pants. It's the same with us all-past the point of reason, right? When he really gets in there, I lose all control. I just get into his pants and work on him as fast as I can, in order to keep him going and . ."What do you mean, you work on him?" blurted Clarisse, embarrassed by the admission of her ignorance."Hey, come on, you weren't born yesterday. You want every detail? Get serious. It's more than most of us can do to think about it afterwards, but at the time, well, it just happens. I never go down on a guy, though, unless, he's really put himself out for me in the same way, and then only in private. Well, so what happens? You're just starting to peak, and like the day of judgment, he's all over you. It's all you can do to hold on to him, and you don't really want to, but he needs it as much as you do. Only bang, he comes, and it's all over. You're still high and you've got a handful of nothing, and instead of bringing you off, he settles back with words of truce or some big, profuse apology, like he's not usually like this. And you say to yourself, I know; only before and a little later. So you suffer in silence and he brings you home, all very gallant and gentlemanly, and that's another exciting evening in your wide, wonderful day. Crap!"Tamar got up and dropped the towel, stretching herself in a giant yawn with her hands over her head. "I'm going to start staying home and studying, unless I get a serious thing going.""You don't actually do this all the time," Clarisse asked falteringly, unable to digest everything she'd just heard from the blonde's flippant mouth."I don't suppose I'm worse than any of the rest of us. But I need it when I need it and I can't see any reason to stew over it. What about you? You must have something going-you're always so relaxed and unconcerned. Do you have some steady, a secret lover? Hell, I don't want to pry; we're all entitled to our privacy, but none of the young innocents in this prison seem to appreciate it."Clarisse didn't answer immediately. She realized she was now really meeting the girl she'd be living with for a year. And she was disturbed by the same shivering excitement she'd felt that afternoon. Normally, Tamar's description of the torrid date would have struck her as girlish and immature. But as Clarisse sat on the bed, trying to sort out her reactions, she knew she was learning about a part of her own country which she had never given any thought to. Sex had always been a matter of sophisticated jokes or worldly confidences shared with her most intimate and mature friends. Now all the tension in her, especially the confusion aroused that afternoon, was coming to a head."Actually, I don't have a steady," she said, wondering how much she should tell the cocky blonde."Well, I didn't assume that you did, at least just yet," Tamar said. "Anyway, I had you figured for someone who's above that sort of thing. Hell, a girl like yourself must have been dating grown men for as long as I've been going out with high school jocks. You know, there's a rumor going around the dorm that you were a model in France?"Clarisse forced herself to laugh. "Not quite," she volunteered. She was feeling more uncomfortable with every moment, watching Tamar's nude body. The blonde had crossed one leg over her knee and was paring her toenails, bending down for a close look at her foot. The heavy breasts hung in the shadows by her body and the towel in her lap only barely covered her femininity in the contorted position.Clarisse cleared her throat anxiously. "Tamar?" she said, as the other girl looked up into her eyes, "do you, well, do you really like that sort of thing-with men?"Tamar swung the slanted leg to the floor, looking intently at Clarisse. "Honey, it's about the only way out. Doesn't the urge ever get ahold of you?"Clarisse didn't know what to say. The conversation was trapping her on unfamiliar ground. She felt a slight dampness under her arms. The room felt very warm. In spite of her blinking, trying to focus her eyes in the dim light of the room, Tamar's beautiful body seemed to loom everywhere in front of her. Her feelings were reaching the point they often did in her day-dreams, but this time she couldn't generate any shame. Only an insatiable curiosity about the blonde, tawny body sitting so close to her."It certainly does," she faltered at last, breaking what seemed to be an endless silence as the two girls stared at each other. "But I, well I simply ... Tamar?" The other girl cocked her head quizzically. "Tamar," Clarisse admitted softly, "the truth is I'm a virgin-believe it or not."Tamar gave a low whistle, her face assuming a momentary expression of incredulity. Clarisse decided to stumble on."The rest of the truth is that it drives me crazy-the urge, that is. I just never got around to sleeping with a man. I actually don't think I could. They're all so, well, just awful and ugly."Tamar, to her surprise, got up from her chair and crossed the room, plumping herself down on the mattress next to Clarisse. "Honey, you've really got it bad. Did something bad happen today?" she inquired in a kind voice.