Part One
My name is Andrew Preston. A few friends call me Drew. This actually is a sex story—honest, it is—but you have to bear with me for a while to understand how it turned out that way.
My last year of high school began in September 1982 and finished in June 1983. In the second semester, which began in early February, I signed up for an unusual physical education class that was truly memorable.
It was unfamiliar in two respects. First, half of it was basically a “history and theory of sports” class and the other half a traditional phys ed class. Secondly, it was co-ed. There were girls in the class! There hadn’t been girls in my gym class since the third grade. Back in those days, educators used common sense and weren’t driven by leftist ideologies. They knew boys played rougher than girls and that girls were at a distinct physical disadvantage to their male counterparts. It was so obvious that no one questioned it. Many of the sports we took part in that semester in 1983 were what I referred to as social sports, such as bowling, billiards and roller skating. They were meant to introduce us to these activities. Nobody took them too seriously.
There was one girl in the class, Pamela Johnston, who was absolutely off her rocker. Pamela was actually not a bad looking 18-year-old brunette. She was about 5’5” tall. She had a cute face and a moderately attractive figure. However, she had clearly been brainwashed by ludicrous feminist propaganda to believe that girls and boys were absolutely the same and they could do all things equally well. This nonsense pertained to sports, too. Her nutty views became obvious during our classroom discussions. She claimed that females were being excluded from high-level professional sports leagues such as Major League Baseball, the National Hockey League and the National Football League solely because of sexism—and not because of any physical differences between the two genders. Her comments provoked loud guffaws among the males in the class, which irked her. Our teacher, Mr. Anderson, just smiled and said, “I think there’s someone in this class who can provide a few facts that will refute what you are saying, Pamela.“ Every male student knew Mr. Anderson was referring to me. I need to turn back the calendar about a decade to explain why he said that.
Part Two
I had been a huge student of sports and their history since I was about seven years old. I date my interest in this topic to watching a hockey playoff game on television in 1971. During an intermission on a Hockey Night in Canada broadcast, there was a trivia quiz about the history of the Stanley Cup. I knew none of the answers, which bothered me. I told my parents that the next day I’d be going to my school’s library to check out every book on hockey history that I could find. I did. There were two of them that I read from cover to cover. Who knew it would start a lifelong obsession for me? Within a week, if someone asked me who won the Stanley Cup in the 1933-34 NHL season, I could reply with confidence. “The Chicago Blackhawks beat the Detroit Red Wings three games to one in the finals. It was a best-of-five series back in those days. Mush March scored a double-overtime goal in the fourth game to clinch the Cup for Chicago.” Obviously, I was not a typical seven-year-old.
Early in the fourth grade, my teacher gave her students a very broad assignment to choose any topic at all, research it, and write a report about it. The whole idea was to introduce us to the wonderful resources that libraries had for us to use. We were given a week to complete it. Every day, the whole class spent an hour at the school library doing research. My topic was baseball history. After suitably absorbing hockey history into my brain, I next wanted to tackle America’s Pastime. I quickly found that baseball’s history was even more interesting than hockey’s, but the resources in my Canadian school’s library were skimpy. There was only one decent book, so I went to the public library after school and found it was well stocked for this project.
On the due date, most of my classmates submitted hand-written reports of about two or three pages. Mine was a whopping 72 pages. It was more than a simple narrative. It also featured graphs, a mountain of statistics, and brief biographies of influential people in baseball history. Miss Kenmore, fresh out of teachers’ college, didn’t quite know what to do. She had intended for everyone to read their reports aloud. She recognized mine was way beyond the norm for a nine-year-old and it would probably intimidate the rest of her students. Furthermore, she herself, knowing almost nothing about sports, could not hope to understand it. “I’m saving your project for the end, Drew,” she kindly misled me. In the interim, she showed it to the other staff members in the teachers’ lounge and asked for their help in dealing with my special gift for acquiring sports knowledge. They didn’t quite know what to do, either. The principal, Mr. Jamieson, eventually came up with the idea that I should present my project to the school’s teachers rather than my peers so I would have a more receptive audience. I did that one day during the lunch period—and deftly fielded questions without consulting any of my notes. I got a long ovation for my diligent research into a topic that only a few of them knew anything about.
Mr. Jamieson told me my work was “truly outstanding” and “it was the most impressive project he had ever seen from an elementary school pupil.” I thanked him and asked Miss Kenmore when I would be presenting it to the class. She said I wouldn’t.
Disappointed, I asked why. She picked up a portion of my report and asked me, “Andrew, do you really think anyone in our class—beside you, of course—would understand the impact of the emergence of the Federal League in 1914 on Organized Baseball? Don’t you think that might be beyond them?”
I replied, “Hey, I’m their age—and it wasn’t beyond me.” That remarked generated a few laughs—but I never did get to read my project to my fourth-grade peers. I figured it was their loss!
Anyway, word got out that I, a little kid, knew far more about sports history than any of the teachers in my elementary school. More than once, I was called upon to be the arbiter to settle sports arguments among male teachers. During my first week at high school, I pointed out to my ninth-grade phys ed teacher that he was wrong about certain details pertaining to an incident in the 1929 Rose Bowl game in which a player, Roy Riegels, ran the wrong way with the ball, costing his team the game. He said, “Good heavens! You must be that little kid who is the walking encyclopedia on sports. I’ve been hearing about you for years from other teachers I know! Now you’re finally in high school!” I didn’t know I had become famous beyond my own school—but I took it as a great compliment.
This teacher, Mr. Doppler, liked to test me. One day, just before he dismissed the class, he pulled a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. He said he had some questions for me about Babe Ruth’s “called shot” home run. Before he even began, I said to him, “Oh, do you mean the one Ruth hit at Wrigley Field in Chicago during Game Three of the 1932 World Series? The Cubs’ pitcher was Charlie Root. Lou Gehrig followed with a home run of his own. The Yankees won the game 7-5, and swept the World Series that year, of course.”
He stood there with his mouth opened. “How on earth do you know all that off the top of your head?” he asked me.
“I read,” I simply stated. Then I added, “Perhaps you ought to try it.” That deliberately cutting remark got a huge laugh from the other boys. I figured he deserved that zinger for the high crime of even thinking I wouldn’t know everything about that famous incident in baseball history. Word of that interaction spread quickly. No teacher dared to question the accuracy or level of my sports knowledge ever again.
Now back to the Pamela Johnston story...
Part Three
That day when Pamela ridiculously asserted that women were being kept out of big-time sports because of sexism, she did not know what she had unleashed, although Mr. Anderson certainly had an idea. I went into a long monologue about how women could never hope to compete against men in high-level sports, mostly by quoting the huge differences in track and field world records. Among other things, I mentioned that every woman to have won an Olympic gold medal in the 100 meters had a time that would not have qualified her to even participate in the men’s final that same year.
“You’re making that up!” she accused me.
A few of the boys in my class gasped, knowing Pamela had opened up a can of worms. Mr. Anderson sensed it too. “Pamela, I suspect Drew will arrive for class tomorrow armed with a mountain of evidence to prove he’s right.”
That is what happened. There was no internet in 1983, but I had enough resources at home for what I needed. I did arrive in class with an armload of reference books on the history of the Olympics to prove what I had said was wholly accurate. Of course, Pamela could not refute these facts. She glumly sat in her desk sulking and saying nothing. It was probably the first time in her life when someone had challenged her nutty dogma. I proceeded with an angry tirade about how people of her ilk ignored reality and that “the best sports journalists and commentators in the world were, without exception, all males.” I then suggested she “ought to go home and bake brownies like a good little girl.”
When Mr. Anderson said that my comments had gotten out of line, I wasn’t having that, either. “Sir, what I’ve so eloquently stated this morning are pure facts. If she can’t accept them, that’s entirely her problem. Heck, even the best chefs in the world are males. The world record holders for speed typing and taking shorthand—traditional female fields—are both men.”
About a week Later, Pamela came to class armed with an article from some feminist journal. It was about how women were making huge strides in track and field, and that, if the current rate of improvement continued, they would overtake men’s world records within a decade. She had gotten it from one of the girls’ gym teachers—Miss Forbes--whom I understood to be a leftist political radical. She was also rumored to be a lesbian. With her short-cropped hair and mannish wardrobe she certainly looked to be one.
I openly laughed at the author’s assertion. “Pamela,” I said, “It’s March 11 today—not April Fool's Day. Nobody who follows sports even casually believes that nonsense. It’s totally flawed logic.”
Mr. Anderson had Pamela read the brief article to the class and invited me to refute its premise. “Certainly, ” I said. “The problem is the author is citing the times of track events that women have only begun competing in recently, such as the 5,000 and 10,000 meters. Of course, they are going to make big strides in lowering the women’s world record in the first few years, but eventually that will level off. It’s like when you first learn how to type. You might type 15 words a minute to start. With practice, a week later you might type 30 words per minute. Then soon you might reach 40 or 50 words a minute. However, common sense dictates that level of improvement won’t go on forever. If you really have a knack for typing, you might eventually attain 70 words a minute, but you won’t improve much beyond that.”
I’m not certain that Pamela was bright enough to really understand my analogy. All she said was, “Drew, you just don’t want to admit this will happen—because it will. Someday women will overtake men in track and field and when it happens, somewhere I’ll be laughing at you.”
She handed me the silly article. I put it in my binder. “Thanks for this, Pamela,” I told her, “I’ll reread it. I usually prefer to read nonfiction, but I occasionally read fiction for the sake of variety. This malarkey is fiction in its purest form.”
“I’m going to miss you two when you graduate, ” Mr. Anderson told us with a chuckle. “You are very entertaining—especially you, Andrew.”
Unbeknownst to her, Pamela had given me a great idea that would one day force her to be my bedmate for a half day of fucking!
That night I reread Pamela’s article, laughing my way through its absurd premise. I then created a rough draft of a formal and highly creative wager. I typed it up, using carbon paper to make a second copy for Pamela to keep. I was going to issue a challenge and formally present it to Pamela Johnston in front of Mr. Anderson and the students of his special gym class.
The next day in class, I asked Mr. Anderson if I could formally respond to the contents of Pamela’s article. “Of course,” he replied. “I sort of expected you would, Andrew.” Mr. Anderson swiftly announced I had something to say. I don’t think he expected a formal presentation, but I walked to the front of the classroom to speak. This is what I said...
“Classmates, yesterday we were treated to high comedy when our esteemed sports expert Pamela Johnston, seated there in the second row, presented a scholarly article of dubious quality. It asserted that within the next 10 years that female athletes would overtake men’s athletes in track and field and break their world records. Of course, anyone who follows sports or who possesses a scintilla of common sense knows that will never happen. Therefore, I am taking this opportunity to offer Pamela one of two options. Option #1 is this: She can admit that article was pure bushwa and that women will never break men’s world records in athletics. Or she can do Option #2, which is take part in a special wager I have created. I have taken the liberty of formally typing this up so it will be very official.
“It reads, ‘This is a formal wager between Andrew Preston and Pamela Johnston. If any world record in athletics held by a female athlete is superior to the same world record held by a male on any date between March 15, 1983 and March 15, 1993, Andrew will donate $10,000 to any charity of Pamela’s choice. However, if such an athletic feat does not occur over that same period, on March 16, 1993, Pamela is obliged to spend 12 hours of that day, from 12 noon to 12 midnight, having sexual relations with Andrew in a room at the Plaza Hotel. This includes anal intercourse.’”
Of course, the class immediately went into an uproar. I’m sure the clamor could have been heard several classrooms away.
“You can’t be serious!” Pamela shouted.
“I’m dead serious!” I retorted. “If you are so certain that the author of that crazy article is right, you should jump at the chance of relieving me of $10,000 in 1993. It’s easy money for your favorite charity. You have nothing to worry about, right?” I produced a pen and signed the document. I told her to sign the paper, too. She didn’t, of course.
“Are you afraid you’ll lose because you know I’m right and this article’s author is a crazy leftist nutbar?” She said and did nothing.
However, a few male classmates started chanting, “Sign the bet! Sign the bet!” until Mr. Anderson got control of the class.
“This is definitely a first in my educational career!” he stated. “This doesn’t involve me, so you two can settle this between you.”
Of course, word of my proposed wager spread like wildfire throughout the school. Younger boys whom I did not know were congratulating me on my unique way of “putting that crazy girl in her place.” Whenever Pamela walked down the hallway, she was subjected to chants of “Sign the bet!” from male students from every grade. She was in a bind. Pressure was mounting. She knew she had to sign the wager or tacitly admit that she had bought into a ridiculous feminist ideology. I heard from a female classmate that Pamela had sought the advice of Miss Forbes who had given her the article. On some level, even this bulldyke realized that the author’s futuristic prediction was pure fantasy.
The school’s principal, Mr. Hightower, caught wind of my challenge and tried to get involved. He told me my bet was inappropriate. I disagreed. I reminded him that every day there were horny boys at this school who tried to coerce girls into having sex with them—and the girls held the upper hand because they could always refuse. The same thing applied here. “There’s nothing fundamentally different from those sexual proposals compared to mine—except that I drafted mine into a formal agreement,” I said. “I can’t find anything in this school’s rules that my proposed wager violated. I’ve done my homework.”
He couldn’t dispute that, so it was a very brief meeting. “Go back to class, Andrew, ” he said with a defeated sigh. “You and your sports expertise can be a real handful sometimes.”
“You’ll miss me in September when I’m not here,” I told him. “Besides, as a rational male, you know full well that I’m right. It’s a sucker bet. Come to the Plaza Hotel lobby in about ten years and wish me well.”
Two days of chants eventually took their toll on Pamela. On March 17, 1983, she unenthusiastically announced that she had enough faith in the author’s premise to sign the bet—which she did in front of Mr. Anderson’s class. I told her to mark March 16, 1993 in her datebook and to dress nicely when she showed up at the hotel. “After all," I noted, "it is a classy place and I’m a classy guy.” I further informed her that I had reserved a suite for that day—and I produced the official confirmation receipt for it. Mr. Anderson laughed at my little extra bit of chutzpah.
I kept the original document; I handed her the carbon copy and implored her not to lose it. I would store mine in a safe deposit box at my bank. Before I did that, I got permission from the school’s secretary to make a few photocopies of it. I delivered one to Mr. Anderson, one to the principal, and another to Miss Forbes. She didn’t know me, but as I gave her a copy of the wager, I happily introduced myself as the guy who was going to famously fuck one of her feminist minions up the ass in March 1993. She recoiled at my remark, probably because she knew she had been the catalyst for this entire episode.
Part Four
I had zero contact with Pamela Johnston after graduation day until late in 1992. That was understandable. We weren’t exactly good buddies who would meet for coffee occasionally to rehash our high school days. It was patently obvious that I was going to win the wager. Women had indeed made great strides in athletics, but they were not coming anywhere close to beating the male world record in any of the disciplines—not in 1993 or in 2093, either.
If Pamela had thought I’d simply forget about our famous wager, she was sadly mistaken. Monday, March 16, 1993 was a date I was long looking forward to. In 1992 I sought to find where Pamela Johnston was now residing so I could remind her that she was about to lose the bet—just as I had predicted she would in 1983. One of my ex-classmates had kept fairly good records of our school’s alumni, so she gave me the address where she had sent an invitation to Pamela for a 1989 reunion. It was in a city about 30 miles away.
With my victory all but a certainty, in late October of 1992, I contacted the local media about the wager as I considered it to be an amusing human-interest story. Even though I was a minor celebrity in my hometown for being a prolific writer of sports history books, the local TV stations wanted nothing to do with it because of its sexual angle. At least that’s what they told me. The same went for the local daily newspaper. I suspected the truth was they didn’t want leftist gobbledygook exposed as nonsense.
However, there was one small, local, independent, right-of-center, weekly newspaper called the County Sentinel. Its publisher thought my story was a godsend. It was given plenty of coverage for their handful of readers. A journalist wrote a feature story about the 1983 bet and wanted to do at least one further follow-up piece as March 1993 approached. The Sentinel sent a reporter to verify the 1989 address I had for Pamela was still correct. It was. The newspaper even paid for the registered letter I sent to Pamela, dated October 28, 1992, to remind her what her ridiculous feminist belief in 1983 had wrought.
“Dear Pamela,” it read. “This is a friendly note from your old high school classmate, Andrew Preston. In case you had forgotten, you and I both signed of formal wager in 1983 that will soon be resolved. You should recall it was about the prospects of any female athlete exceeding a world record in athletics superior to a male athlete before the middle of March 1993. The deadline of March 15, 1993 is fast approaching—and, if you follow sports closely, which I highly doubt—you will be aware that no female athlete anywhere in the world has come close to achieving that feat. I tried to tell you this would be the case ten years ago but you refused to look at sports history or listen to common sense. You said I was wrong and you would have the last laugh. Well, dear Pamela, it looks like I will have the last laugh on you.
“If no female athlete beats a male world record in athletics by March 15, 1993, you must pay the penalty. As we both agreed in a formal document, that penalty is 12 hours of sexual intercourse with me in a suite in the Plaza Hotel on March 16, 1993 from noon until midnight. In anticipation of my winning the bet, the hotel room has been reserved for nearly a decade. You do not have to pay for it. You can consider the suite rental as my treat. Assuming the likelihood of my winning the bet, I expect you to meet me in the lobby of the hotel, near the front desk, at about 11:45 a.m. on March 16, 1993.
“I have not seen you in nearly a decade. I truly hope you are well and still physically fit and somewhat attractive because I intend to give you a thorough fucking for the entire 12 hours. (Remember, our agreement included anal intercourse, too.) You need not reply to this letter. If you do, my address is atop this missive. Just show up at the appointed place on the appointed date and time to pay off your lost wager. Kindest regards, Andrew Preston, Horny Sports Expert.”
I never got a reply—what a shock!—but Pamela certainly had been reminded about the bet. Some of her high school friends had read the story in the Sentinel and had mailed her copies of it. She even did an interview with the same reporter I had. Pamela said she had forgotten all about the bet “until very recently”. If she lost, she said “she would be a good sport about it and accept the consequences.” However, she was still hopelessly naïve about women’s sports when she added, “There are still more than four months until March 15. Maybe some female athlete somewhere will save me between now and then.” The newspaper also spoke to Pamela’s older sister, Claudia. She referred to me as a “male chauvinist pig who was using my knowledge of sports to take advantage” of her sibling.
When I was asked for my reaction to both their remarks, I told the paper, “First, if Pamela Johnston honestly thinks any female athlete will break any male athletics world record by the middle of March, she should wait at the airport to pick up Amelia Earhart because she ought to be safely landing her plane any day now. Secondly, if Claudia Johnston wants to make it double or nothing, I’m willing to pay $10,000 to her favorite charity, too, if I lose the bet. We all know that won’t happen. But when I win, she’ll have to jump in the sack with me too and put out.”
Part Five
As the middle of March approached, the Sentinel decided to have as much fun as possible with this story. At 11:59 p.m. on March 15, 1993, I was photographed holding printouts of all the men’s and women’s world records in athletics. The men’s marks were, of course, all superior. This surprised no one with a working brain. That picture appeared on the newspaper’s front page under a large headline that said, “See, Pamela, I told you so!”
That same reporter/photographer drove me to the Plaza Hotel at 11 a.m. to see if Pamela would show up. To my amazement, I had a small cheering section waiting for me in the lobby. Most of the people I did not know, but one or two I recognized as former high school classmates. The principal, Mr. Jamieson, apparently forgot about my invitation, but Mr. Anderson, now retired, was seated in a chair beside the front desk to surprise me. He shook my hand and told me, “I wasn’t going to miss this date. I didn’t need the stories in the Sentinel to remind me to be here.”
At 11:42 a.m. a 28-year-old female entered the hotel. Mr. Anderson recognized Pamela before I did. “Look at that, Drew! I believe your paramour has arrived,” he softly told me. “Good for her for honoring her debt.”
She shook Mr. Anderson’s hand and greeted him warmly. Next, she coolly approached me and half-heartedly offered her congratulations. She stated, “Well, it appears you were right, Andrew. That author was dead wrong. I was big on feminism in those days. Look at the mess that has gotten me in!” Her attitude was certainly a pleasant surprise to me. She even agreed to pose for a photograph with me for the Sentinel.
I got the room key from the desk clerk and we headed up to a ninth-floor suite. My fans, whoever they were, applauded me as I waved to them when Pamela and I entered the elevator.
“So, what’s new?” I asked her.
“Not too much,” she said. “It’s a typical day. I’m just here to have 12 hours of sex with an old classmate from high school whom I despised.”
“What a coincidence! So am I!” I replied. “Honestly, I’m not all that repulsive, Pamela. You could have lost this bet to several different guys in that gym class who were and are still really ugly.”
“That’s a comfort,” she said sarcastically.
“Really, Pamela, this situation, odd as it is, is not uncommon. Have you never had sex with someone you didn’t like? Hell, men do it all the time.”
“Well, if you put it that way, my answer is yes. I was married for about two years. My husband and I grew to dislike each other after a very short time—but we still had sex regularly. This afternoon won’t be a whole lot different.”
“That’s the spirit!” I exclaimed. “I’m sure I still don’t like you either, Pamela, but why should that stop us from enjoying a good 12 hours of fucking each other?”
The suite was lovely. It had a king-size bed as its most prominent feature. I had never engaged in an “anger fuck” before, but I was reasonably certain my frolic with Pamela would qualify as one. I attempted to embrace her, but she held up her hand to stop me.
“Pamela, I’m already aroused,” I informed her. “Please tell me you’re not going to welch on the bet now, are you?”
“No, but I’m just following our written agreement to the letter. We’re supposed to have sex from 12 noon until 12 midnight. Look at the clock. We got here early.” Indeed, the digital clock in the room showed it was only 11:57 a.m.
I applauded Pamela’s way of stopping me in my tracks. Of course, I knew it was just a delay of 180 seconds, so I used the time to remove most of my clothing. When the clock showed 12:00, I was clad only in my briefs. They were concealing an erection. I was really looking forward to banging this kooky girl from yesteryear.
I offered to help Pamela undress, but she declined. “I’ll do it myself,” she said. She undid her brown top to reveal a bra that was designed to lift her assets. Then she removed a similar colored skirt and shoes. She had dressed nicely for the occasion, as I had suggested in 1983. Off came her panty hose, leaving her in just a white bra and panties.
“You have kept yourself in shape, ” I told her. “Good for you. You probably weigh about the same as you did in 1983.”
“Just a few pounds more,” she corrected me. “Drew, I’d say you are about 15 pounds heavier than you were at the end of high school.”
“Sad but true,” I admitted. “I was probably too skinny in high school, though. Enough of this polite chitchat, Pamela. I want to collect my bet. Let’s see your goodies.”
We both removed the last of our garments and climbed onto the bed. I had no idea how the defeated and humbled Pamela Johnston was going to be as a bedmate, but she turned out to be a pleasant surprise. We embraced for a while and then began to kiss as if we meant it. My hands, of course, were naturally drawn to her tits. They were quite round and jiggly. They were definitely her best asset. I merrily groped them while we exchanged kissed on each other’s face. My dick was rock hard. Normally I advance slowly with my lovemaking, but I figured this was a special circumstance.
“I want to fuck your tits this second, Pamela.” Accordingly, I pushed her down onto the center of the enormous bed, straddled her, and placed my penis between her two luscious mounds. I took the initiative to squeeze them together to surround my excited dick and had a happy minute or two just drawing it back and forth. To me, Pamela seemed to be enjoying the experience, too.
“Before I come, it’s time to put my penis where it’s supposed to go,” I said.
“Up my ass?” she asked.
“No, that will happen later,” I noted. “It’s pussy-fucking time.”
Pamela dutifully spread her legs, and I shoved my manhood inside her without much ado. Her shaved pussy was like a glove, drawing me inside her. “Ooh,” I said. “You have a nice cunt, Pamela. I’m going to enjoy this.”
I was not exactly gentle with her. I roughly thrusted my shaft in and out of her with great gusto. We got into a rhythm where each thrust made a satisfactory smacking noise. This was indeed very enjoyable. I usually inform my bedmates when I’m going to ejaculate, but I did not announce it with Pamela. I just fired away, uttering a groan of total pleasure.
“Wow, I enjoyed that!” Pamela confessed. The clock read 12:22 p.m.
“We still have about 11½ hours to go,” I reminded her. “I certainly hope that will be the first of many cum shots.”
I pulled out of Pamela with my penis still semi-erect. To my surprise, she immediately rolled me onto my back and fucked me cowgirl style. Wow!
“You seem to be enjoying this as much as I am, Pamela,” I announced. “But we don’t like each other. How can that be?”
“Who cares, Drew?” she replied angrily. “Keep your dick hard and give me another shot of semen.”
“Yeah! Who cares?” I agreed. I came again in about 20 minutes. This time I spread my seed across her lower abdomen.
“This is the stupidest relationship I’ve ever had in my life—and I’ve had a few doozies,” Pamela told me. “I think we were somehow destined to do this. Let’s keep on fucking until there’s nothing left in your balls.”
I was dangerously close to that point already. I expended my last reserves in a side-by-side position in which I enjoyed cupping Pamela’s tits immensely.”
We did spend the full 12 hours—in fact, the whole night—in that hotel suite. We had a shower together. Copulated some more. Had a bubble bath together. Fucked some more. Ordered pricey room-service meals, and fucked while standing up, which was a bit of a physical challenge because I was about seven inches taller than Pamela.
After our meals of prime rib, we simply relaxed in bed together. I held Pamela snuggly in my arms, occasionally playing with her hard nipples. We were silent for about seven or eight minutes. Finally, Pamela reminded me of something.
“Aren’t you required by our contract to fuck me up the ass?” she asked. “I’ve never done that before. I’m curious about it.”
“I haven’t either,” I replied. “The only reason I included it in the contract was because in 1983 a guy in my homeroom was bragging about having done it with a girl who refused to have vaginal sex with him so she could ‘remain pure’. He said it felt great.”
“There’s nothing purer than a girl who’s taken it up the bum,” Pamela joked. “But I want to try it as something new.” She got out of bed, went to her purse, and returned with a small jar of Vaseline. “I understand this is supposed to help.”
It did. Somehow, I had enough stamina for a fourth ejaculation. It wasn’t much in the way of volume, but this one went into that particular crevice in Pamela’s anatomy. After due deliberation, we both decided that we preferred old-fashioned, tried-and-true pussy-fucking over the anal alternative.
We woke up in each other’s arms at about 6 a.m. After some smooching, Pamela announced she had to be at her office, located about 40 miles away, by 9 a.m. Neither one of us quite grasped the nature of this relationship because we had been so surprisingly compatible as sex partners after hating each other as classmates.
Pamela stated, “I’m so confused by what’s happened since yesterday at noon. So, what is next for us, Drew?”
“I have to work on my new book for a few hours today. As for you, do what I told you to do in 1983: Go home and bake brownies like a good little girl!”
She gave me a nasty look as if it were back in Mr. Anderson’s class again.
“I’m just kidding, Pamela, my dear,” I told her as I took her hand and kissed it. “Just kidding.”