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A Quiet Girl and Her Hobbies
Deborah Minton, and Karen
St Louis. Fall, 1972
My junior year, college, Becca took on two jobs totalling about sixty hours a week, and my meetings with her fell to just one or two a week, and Deborah Minton asked me for a lift to Dr Meltzer’s weekly classes on Being and Time. These were held every Wednesday evening that fall at the Meltzers’ apartment off the Delmar Loop.
I don’t remember seeing Debbie before that year. I can’t recall ever seeing her at any of the numerous parties hosted by my major’s Department. And she’d never been in any classes I’d attended the previous spring and summer at Grove College. But suddenly that fall, she was in three: the “Doing Phenomenology” and Heidegger seminars, and the Greek Philosophy Two class.
When I first became aware of Deb, I assumed she was new to Grove College. Her petite smoothness and taciturn behavior led me somehow to peg her as a freshman – after all, prerequisites for upper-division courses were freely waived in the enrollment-starved Department. But it turned out that Debbie was a year ahead of me, and something of a star student to the philosophy and history faculty at Grove… which is to say, to everyone who had routinely read her term papers and test essays. In the classroom itself, Debbie seldom spoke. After classes she disappeared, presumably to her father’s house, where she lived within walking distance of the campus.
“She’s one of those Mystery Students you get from time to time,” said Ed Callahan, the Blarney Professor. “Some of her papers could almost be published, but all she shows of herself is what you see in her writing. In class she makes about two comments each semester. But they’re always so appropriate and so original you can wind up blowing the rest of the week taking off from them.
“What, ‘ you interested in her or something? Kinda strange one, she.”
I was interested. The Mystery Girl aspect drew me – I was and am a fool for extreme introverts. But what first caught my attention were Debbie’s legs. She was small, fine-boned, well under five feet tall. And she had the most well-shaped legs I’d ever seen carry a small woman. Somehow, they conveyed the sweet girlish roundness of small women’s limbs, but without revealing any bulky interruption in the line of calf or thigh. They were long-lined, sumptuous leg-model’s limbs right up to her compact, yet feminine bottom. Knees and ankles were unexaggeratedly trim; the feet were small and well-defined.
Debbie apparently knew all this. Her legs were carefully depilated with wax. Her feet appeared to be pedicured. And for the first warm weeks of school, she wore sandals and very short shorts of European cut… those boxer-silk things that reveal everything but manage to retain sophistication by revealing everything… in chiaroscuro.
Despite the display, I never heard her speak to a nonprofessorial male, before she spoke to me.
“Are you driving to Meltzer’s on Wednesday? To Being and Time?” she almost whispered. “Could you give me a ride there with you?”
Debbie sort of ducked her head as she spoke to me, but kept her eyes on mine. It was a head of indifferent attractiveness, but (those legs!) attractive, certainly. Later, I recognized that Deborah’s small oval face exhibited a subtle erotic intelligence more compelling than mere aggressive assertion: soft to the glance, with even features. Her brown hair was a trim boy-cut of a length uncommon in 1972. Her nose was straight, nicely carved about the nostrils, and its tip moved expressively with each distinct movement of her small mouth. Debbie’s eyes were strange; it took a second glance to see why. By some genetic quirk, the irises were decidedly parti-colored – blue-gray and brown around each pupil. This mix signaled some problem in the iris, so that her eyes were slow to react to changes of light. Debbie usually wore dark glasses in the daylight outdoors. Here in the college cafeteria, though, her face was bare, and suddenly blushing.
“I don’t mean to be forward or impose…”
“Of course,” I said.
The informality of the evening class in the Meltzers’ living room seemed to open Debbie up a little. She talked more in the small group, and even traded small talk with everyone before and after the seminar work. On the commutes uptown and back, the two of us swapped college gossip and incidental details about ourselves.
Debbie was the first in her family to go to college. Most of her fees canlı bahis were paid by a scholarship. Her father was a factory foreman, apparently a guy with some self-cultivation, who was supportive of the aspirations of Debbie and of her older sister. The older sister was a secretary at a foreign consul. Her sister had her own apartment, but preferred her boyfriend’s place. Wednesday was Dad’s bowling night, so he needed the car. That was why I was shuttling Debbie down Big Bend to Meltzer’s. I’d learned this much about her by the end of September.
For some reason, when I talked about myself, I kept quiet about Becca.
Early in October, encouraged by an unusually long exchange of glances between us while waiting for Meltzer to open his door, I asked Debbie for a date. She begged off my suggestion of Friday night. But Saturday we went to some event with another couple from the Meltzer seminar. Sunday afternoon we went to a free concert. I told Becca I had the flu that weekend.
Over the previous year at Grove College, I had gotten into the habit of hanging around the cluttered old suite of Departmental offices. It was particularly well-designed for hanging out. Deb began lounging there as well. Alissa Scarlatti, a new faculty member, rather took the pair of us under her wing. She suggested we both submit papers to an undergraduate journal, and spent some time working with us on our manuscripts.
Despite her gradual openness about her life, Debbie maintained a sort of reserve around Alissa and me that was almost as complete as she kept around everyone else. Even in gossip, she ventured only the most well-considered comments. Her light conversation was often adept, but it was offered sotto voce, without any attempt at chummy brassiness. Her human sympathies appeared genuine, yet oddly conventional for someone so intelligent – almost pre-programmed to avoid any ironic dissonance that might declare individuality. The depths of her being seemed to center themselves on the problems in her reading, and the next set of term papers. If she had any greater personal concerns, she wasn’t letting me know about them.
I noticed a little more warmth between her and Lissa – just a little. About the end of fall semester, I sometimes found Deb already in Lissa’s office by the time I arrived at school. Lissa, too, grew more friendly along the course of the year, but maintained a good portion of her professorial remoteness. After all, she was almost five years older than either of us.
When Deborah and I were together alone, I wound up doing most of the talking. I could only wonder what in the world she was thinking about me, as I jabbered away. Debbie seemed content to follow my lead, just occasionally venturing an opinion, the way a stage manager might suggest a change to a theatre director – a disinterested comment or two, simply aimed to keep the show moving.
“Push it up a little, can you? And I’ll spin.”
We were in Debbie’s hard little bed, Deb sitting lightly twisted on top of me. Since the Wednesday after our first date, Debbie’s room had become a regular stop on my way home from Meltzer’s.
Deb bobbed a little as she dragged a soft foot over my belly, slowly, and turned to face the foot of the bed. Her light tan back exposed to my view, she leaned herself forward slightly, pulling my cock to an intriguingly painful obtuse angle. Then she bobbed her sex more intently along my shaft. The movement of her quim tickled, and I had to laugh.
Debbie glanced at me over her shoulder, and her small smile turned lascivious. Turning back, she slowly fell prone toward my feet, and the ache and tickle along my shaft increased as the keel of her hairy mound nuzzled deeply into my balls, and my stiff cock was pulled 180 degrees along the straight line of my belly.
I had to raise myself on my elbows to relieve some of the pull. I watched Debbie’s small, clear tan ass flex as she floated, face down, on my sex. She carried some of her weight on her knees, and her feet waved before me.
With a quick move of my head, I caught a toe in my mouth and gave it a slow massaging bite. Debbie grunted softly and responded with a new squirm, and a squirt. Pussy about prick made a soft sloshing noise.
I repeated my bite on the next toe, Debbie encouraging me. I caught her smooth perfect calf and kissed up and down the dry soft sole of Debbie’s foot. It smelled mildly of clean leather.
Debbie’s tugs on my cock bahis siteleri grew more sustained, and more urgent. I stiffened myself, the exquisite pain of our straining position eclipsing all the tickle. Debbie’s low, panting moan let me know she wanted to be creamed.
Cradling her right calf to my chest, kissing the hollow of her foot openmouthed and hard, I came slowly into her, through the pins-and-needles ache of my genitals.
Debbie’s father was due home inside the half-hour. There was no time for a second, more relaxing fuck.
Deborah’s little pussy was the proverbial velvet purse of frathouse legend. It was smooth, tight, and supple (subtle), and Debbie could make it beg with the yearning vacuum of deep relaxation, or command with strong pulls along my shaft. She could caress with liquid strokes, and stun with dully thrilling grabs. Debbie wielded her instrument like she conducted her conversation – not without fondness or even passion, but always with reserve, with some sense of secret direction.
On our third evening of full-joining, the new perfume between her legs, which accented her own musk without overcoming it, led me to study excitedly the area to which the scent had been applied. It was only then I realized that Debbie’s muff had been subjected to the same fine-trimmed toilet that her feet and legs had received, its hair scissored and perhaps even tweezed to create an especially pleasing sight at close range. As the evening drew to a close, I expressed my admiration in plain words, and inquired teasingly after Debbie’s “hairdresser.”
“It’s Karen, my sister, of course,” murmured Debbie. She sat up among her pillows in sudden enthusiasm. “We’ve been grooming one another since we were kids. Would you like to see some pictures? I think it’s time you might.”
It was almost time for Pop Minton to return from his evening out. But as I dressed, Debbie scurried naked beneath her bed and drew out a long cloth box, the sort used to store blankets and such. Unzipping it, she took out a large photo album – one of several, I noticed – and riffled through its pages.
“This is it,” she said. She turned to a page and shoved the album over to me as I tucked my shirt into my pants. “There I am at… a few years ago… and that’s Karen.”
The photo was cropped and enlarged, artfully finished. Debbie looked little changed in the picture – perhaps a bit softer in the face, less well-defined in bust, and with a slightly longer, lightly bouffant hair style. Karen, reclining along Debbie’s elvish legs, was about four years older, long-haired, long-headed, perhaps a touch lovelier.
Both girls were naked. Karen was smiling mischievously as she let two fingers walk up the inside of Debbie’s right thigh. Debbie was looking up and away from Karen, a little above and to one side of the camera, her face alert but expressing a wry boredom.
“You’d better go now,” said Deborah. “Take the album if you want. Don’t let anyone else see it. If you do, I really can’t take responsibility for the consequences.”
The impersonality of her warning was a little chilling. I gathered up the thick album, bussed Debbie goodbye, and left.
As I turned right onto the main street from the Mintons’ neighborhood drive, I met Pop’s car turning in. He took no notice of me.
At home in my bed, door locked, I turned the pages of Deborah’s album. The pictures all maintained the sisterly theme, and sure enough, the sisters’ toilette was the most common subject of the photos, which ranged in quality from well-composed snapshots to exceptional studio art. I really couldn’t tell, but it looked as if several photographers were represented, with the most elaborate pictures having been taken in the last several years. In the earliest photographs, Debbie looked exceptionally waif-ish; the last photos might have been taken the summer before we met, and I presumed that they were.
I had never before been presented so bluntly with the acts of lesbian love, least of all involving someone I knew as well as Debbie, and it was with a discomforting knot of excitement in my stomach that I studied the most explicit pictures.
The active roles seemed evenly divided between Deborah and Karen. It was apparent that Karen was the more comic of the two. Debbie took the role of straightman, reacting to Karen’s sallies with cool fondness, occasionally flaring into well-acted passion. While a smooth, almost abstract prop was used bahis şirketleri in several pictures, most of the shots used only the combs, brushes, blades and tubes of everyday grooming. There were also bedtime scenes, often playing on the way Deb could wear summery pajamas to especially exciting effect, or how Karen could drape bedclothes teasingly on her longer body.
“Wow,” was all I could say to Deb in the office suite the next morning. “I didn’t know you were so… so… into… so…”
“Karen and I are both hams,” Deborah smiled. “I think it’s surprised a lot of people. There’s really little meaning in those shots, you know.”
Alissa entered with two folders holding our latest MS drafts, and we left our discussion at that.
Debbie’s small size made it easy to try more athletic things than I’d ever done before. Her repertoire was more subtle, better educated, than any I’d enjoyed. It included the use of touch that can be oblique to sex itself, that was only hinted at by previous experts like Mulroney’s Linda: acupressure to spinal nerves, and to nerves at joints, that will turn erotic in proper context; massage deep into the abdomen that will turn any context erotic; touch deep to the genitals that obliterates any distinction between pleasure and pain; touch deep to the throat… stuff that extends even male “satisfaction” well off the bed and humming into the next day. It was quite a while before I would chance onto someone my age who knew as much as Deborah. At least another year before I could slow Becca down enough to begin teaching her all I learned.
Deborah was the first to rim me, and be thoroughly rimmed by me. Before her, I’d always underplayed the pleasures and beauties of the butt, thinking all that stuff to be, sort of, gross. Again, it was her small, yet perfect, size that seemed to help pull me along. Oddly enough, we never buggered. Fingers and tongue supplied enough spice to our other games… games that brought me closer than before or since to the funnier fetishes. Deborah was sparing in the use of sexual appliances. But she was the one who introduced me to the “seven knots to heaven” technique, involving smooth cord, bolo knots, and yeranus. Without her cool skill and the peace of her sister’s apartment, it’s possible that the exquisite joy of this orgasmic aid would have been kept from me forever…
Soon after Christmas, we had begun visiting Karen’s unoccupied apartment early in the afternoons every Sunday, remaining there into early evening or until it was time to move on to the student rush at a particularly good concert or play. My Fridays and Saturdays usually remained Becky’s.
But I think Debbie and I were in love; some kind of love.
Karen’s DeMun neighborhood apartment was sunny in the front room, and sunny in the back. The bedroom was recognizable from the latest photos in the sister album. The bed was large, and photo lighting apparatus was stowed in every corner, as well as in the big closet. Other apparatus could be found in the bedroom, also.
” ‘ you… into this thing, too?” I asked, lifting something strapped onto the bedstead.
“Not with you,” said Deb, too quickly. “I… like to pose. It’s a pose.
“The lens is what turns me on, Rich,” she said, definitely. In the course of the long afternoons, we would look at other albums. Each album had a loose theme, each featured Karen or Deborah or both. Appearing with them was a small host of blandly handsome men. Most of them were considerably older than the sisters. Some of them were more stagewise than others.
I thought my adventures with Becca had dulled any urge toward jealousy I could feel. But the pictures of Debbie entwining herself with this long series of well-oiled older men tugged at me, uncomfortably.
“Maybe it’s because I don’t know them,” I conjectured.
Debbie was flattered by my jealousy. “Believe me, there’s seldom been much to know…”
“The pictures of them with Karen don’t make me feel any better. Hey, this set looks like commercial production work!”
“Shhh, shhh…” smiled Deborah.
“This bit with you bound in a ball is funny.” I forced a laugh and turned the page. Page two featured the DebbieBall – and three oily brown men.
I quickly turned to the next page. Then turned back, full of dread, and fascinated.
“A pose,” said Deb.
“We still have those straps here,” she said. You want to try The Ball?”
I only met Karen once, briefly, at her office. Whatever Deborah thought of cameras, or of Karen’s slick older boyfriend, she avoided including me in the picture. Then, late in the spring semester, Alissa Scarlatti had her Jug Wine Seminar on Plato’s Symposium.
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