Ilene Grows Up-A Nest Story

Ilene Grows Up

Installment 2

This evening would be her first time at home with an Italian. For as much socializing as Ilene had done during her six years of dating, beginning at age twelve, she had never met many "ethnic types" the variety of men in Prairieview, Nebraska, was indeed limited. Now, finding herself in the middle of Boston, America's great melting pot, the prospect of tasting spices beyond salt and pepper both frightened and excited her. A light knock on the sculptured wood door of her Beacon Hill flat came right on time, but Ilene paused before opening it. She had been in town since August, and now, eight months later her head was still swirling with thoughts of how he'd rejected her advances. Dr. D'Angelo was the first man to have ignored her, and she had not yet come to understand the dynamics of their relationship. Maybe tonight would shed some light, but she doubted it. After all, it was only a business meeting.

Of course it's just a professional meeting. Any ideas I might have had went up in smoke last month. He rejected me, didn't he? All he wanted was a fucking slave! What am I thinking? He's not like mommy's man was, he's kind. Besides, I love being with men, don't I?

The man at the door was Vern D'Angelo, Ph.D., an Associate Professor of History at Northeastern University, who'd been spending entirely too much time thinking about this little History 101 student from seat 6B. His last affair had brought an already shaky marriage close to the same point as his academic field, and he was firm in his promise to his wife to avoid entanglements. (A lifestyle of one night stands, however, was quite acceptable. It was perfectly in synch with his newly found Confucian code demanding that he treat his wife with respect, consideration, and dignity whenever they were together, that is. What he did when they were apart was simply another matter.) For Ilene, the tack she had to take to improve her wobbly scholastic record was clear. She'd gotten through the first semester with average grades, but that wouldn't cut it for admission to law school. Drastic measures had to be taken before mediocre performance became a way of life.

Her seat, 6B, was on the aisle, six rows up from the stage of a small, steeply-sloped lecture hall, which put her body and the teacher's eyes at the same level. The day after Ilene got back her first test adorned with a red C-, Associate Professor D'Angelo first began to notice this very average girl in his class. But why now? What was new? Why hadn't his sweeping, experienced eyes spotted her before this? Ilene Butrynelle had the ability to turn men on, and she'd been doing so since her earliest teens. It was for that reason, among others, that her sexual exploits were legendary back home in Nebraska. Being a Japanese-American, her thin body, modest breasts, and straight black hair presented an overall bland appearance whenever she wished, and remaining anonymous was exactly what she wanted at least while she was still new to college life in Boston. But those very same features which allowed her to blend in with the crowd served her well in another way; when she so desired, just a change of clothes and a bit of make up guaranteed that every male within seeing distance would stop and look when she passed by. Everything hinged on her dress and her attitude. That small, beautifully proportioned body, tight ass, flowing jet black hair, and sparkling oval eyes that screamed I want you enabled her to be a temptress. And this very tempting lady was the new Ilene who appeared in History 101 after she made both her poor grade and her decision to seduce Vernon Alfonso D'Angelo.

The "new girl" shifted about in her seat unhindered breasts pressing against an open, red silk blouse and Dr. D'Angelo was watching her more than his notes; he fought to regain control of both his lecture and the swelling in his pants. The class grew restless as his heretofore dynamic, active teaching style deteriorated to a boring monologue. "Okay class, let's hang it up for today. Continue reading chapters 18 and 19 in your text for next Monday. Enjoy your weekend. Miss Butrynelle, please remain after class."

Walking confidently toward the podium, Ilene permitted herself a slight smile. Phase one was successful: he'd noticed her. The rest, she thought, would be easy. Most associate professors have graduate assistants who normally serve as their only staff. Working on advanced degrees, these "grad-asses" mostly carry out the dirty work, from providing their professors with reams of research notes and gallons of coffee to picking up their dry cleaning. In spite of this less than respectful treatment, being asked to serve as a grad-ass is an honor usually reserved for the brightest and hungriest of the post-grad crop: the position is seldom bestowed upon under classmen.

"Miss Butrynelle, you've impressed me with your questions. Despite your grades you seem to possess a sharp, analytical mind unusual for an undergrad. I'd like you to be one of my special assistants. Interested?" Taking this all in at one time was too much for Ilene. Having expected an invitation for dinner and drinks, what she heard was completely unexpected. In the past, men had only wanted one thing from her, and she was an acclaimed expert at giving them something quite different.

Ilene had a sexual eccentricity all her own: She loved beating-off men. Not in the same way that young girls do, based on curiosity more than anything else, nor as some women do, as a "favor" to the guy for spending a few bucks on them, and not even as a self-preservation measure practiced by some girls: "If I jack him off he'll stop trying to fuck me." For Ilene Butrynelle, hand jobs were her way to achieve orgasm. And the more a man resisted the longer he tried to keep from coming at the insistence of her little hand the more powerful was her own orgasm when he lost it. And sooner or later they all came. From the skinny little neighborhood boy to her huge, handsome high school math teacher, no man could hold off when Ilene took his hard shaft in her soft hand and began to rub. This was the legacy she left behind in Nebraska, and these were the thoughts flashing through her mind as she stood in the hallway with Dr. D'Angelo outside just a pecker-length away. Tonight, for the first time since she'd accepted the grad-ass job a month ago, her professor was knocking on her apartment door. But everything had been business with him one-hundred percent. More reading and writing than she had ever believed possible occupied her days, and transcribing her sketchy notes for his pleasure consumed her nights. Soon after starting work for Professor D'Angelo, she lost all hope for an easy A; every manner of seduction she'd tried was for naught. In fact, the friendliest comment he'd ever made to her was "Pour yourself some coffee, too." She was convinced that phase one of her master plan had failed, and now she was just too damn busy and too tired most of the time to think about anything except her work. So when he told her this morning that he'd stop by in the evening to pick up some photo copies, she thought nothing of it; just more business. Blandly, Ilene unlocked the door.

With a quick smile she ushered Professor D'Angelo into a small library/den/ sewing room, whereupon Ilene scooped up a stack of neatly collated notes and copies of several Civil War documents. Handing them over to her professor, she couldn't help but laugh, because conspicuous on top of the pile was a spicy narrative taken from an Alabama soldier's diary. One day Dr. D'Angelo had paraphrased the story to his class as a good example of historical credibility: "Can we accept as truth those written accounts of history witnessed by the participants in them?" Her professor laughed too as he glanced at the document that had just been proffered by his little student. In what had been called the Case of the Immaculate Conception, a Union soldier crawling on his belly through the grass had fired at an Alabama soldier who was standing right in front of his own home. Behind the target on the small verandah were seated several members of Johnny Reb's family, including his younger sister, Caroline. Due to the trajectory of the minne ball and the alignment of the principals, the bullet passed directly through the Confederate soldier's scrotum, into Caroline's vagina, coming to rest squarely in her uterus, but causing almost no damage to the girl. Amazing. Now if this happenstance wasn't unbelievable enough, the rest of the story is even more incredulous. While on its vengeful path, the bullet picked up some sperm-laden semen from the brother's shattered testicles, and dutifully deposited its active cargo right next to Caroline's ovaries. A doctor was summoned who removed the smiling chunk of lead, and proclaimed, "No cause to worry." That same doctor was summoned again nine months later to deliver the baby. They smiled together at the re-telling of the event, and the mood in Ilene's apartment quickly changed to happy. And then it hit her. Ilene was no fool, but she'd overlooked the obvious solution to her problem. If she couldn't get the grade she wanted through seduction, then continuing her grad-ass duties for the rest of the year would serve the same purpose. Even though it meant a lot of hard work, her A would be guaranteed, so why not continue working for him and enjoy life? It made sense.

"Life Is What Happens To You While You're Making Other Plans" were the words burned into a wooden plaque on the wall in Ilene's little work room. Neither one flinched when the tidy stack of papers slipped to the floor in a heap. Their eyes met, Vern tossed his jacket over the back of an old deacon's bench, and welcomed her through the tunnel of his outstretched arms. "I didn't think you'd even noticed me, Professor D'Ang..."

"Shhh, just let me hold you. And from now on, it's Vern." Dr. D'Angelo had indeed noticed Ilene's attempts to become more than a grad-ass, but to ensure his own safety he had been very, very careful. More than one colleague had recently been set-up by their female grad assistants and, subsequently, fired for reasons of moral turpitude: Vern was far too cautious to jump at the first overture from a new student. Unhappily, the price he'd paid for his caution was a daily set of blue-balls as he fitfully watched Ilene's lithe little body scampering about his office. But the stakes were just too high for indiscretion; first, he had to be sure. Vern was a patient man, so when he finally did decide that Ilene wasn't a Dean's Office "plant" or a feminist crazy, it was only after weeks of quietly investigating her background. Now, his hopes of engaging her in some heavy breathing seemed certain to occur, and Dr. D'Angelo was more than ready.

Ilene's original plan to engage him in her unconventional sex play was no longer necessary now that she'd decided to remain his dutiful assistant, but here they were. And he seemed to be holding the cards. Since she was still attracted to him, however, two insurance policies made more sense than one, so why not go with the flow?

God, it's going to happen at last. He wants me and I want him in spite of all the bullshit. I want him to take me and teach me how to fuck, and then I want to wake up next to him in the morning and fuck him some more. I can do it this time. I can... just as soon as I stop thinking about mommy and Aunt Bea.

On the wrought iron bed in the window bay they silently undressed each other, savoring the new sights bit by bit. Ilene was amazed at the youthful tightness of Vern's body at forty-four the Italian professor could have passed for a kid in his twenties. His well defined musculature (only partially hidden by a carpet of thick, black hair on his chest) brought a look of eager anticipation to her face. And then she looked down. In all her experience with dozens of men Ilene had never before seen such a massive chunk of manhood. Long, thick, rising, with a bulbous purple head that could effectively plug a sink, the sight of this incredible shaft quickly changed her initial wonderment to awe. She barely heard his words, "Don't worry, Ilene, I'll be gentle."

In spite of most men's fantasies, Vern's huge member had, for the most part, been more of a curse than a blessing. Sure, he'd enjoyed beaming with pride at the respect accorded him by locker room sightseers when he was younger, but there was definitely a downside to owning such a gigantic tool. More women than he cared to remember had been scared-off after seeing his donkey cock, and most of those who did stick around had learned the literal meaning of "painful love." To Vern's further regret, precious few of those brave women who did take him on ever returned for an encore. Playing together on the feather bed, enjoying each other's bodies, Ilene took the lead by wrapping her long, thin fingers around his stately member. But try as she might, it was just to big for her to fully encircle. Vern, thinking that this was merely foreplay, laid back and allowed her to rub and caress him to incredible heights of excitement. But when she drew his mouth to a long, caramel-colored nipple, increased the speed of her stroking and whispered, "Just let me bring you there," he immediately knew what this little freshman was all about.

Years of experience had taught him that the most certain way to lose it was to fight too hard against coming. By resisting too much, an experienced woman usually won the game (which had indeed been the reason for so many of Ilene's conquests). Remaining calm and passive under such trying circumstances would occasionally give the man a chance, so Vern fell back into the pillow, shook his head, and tried to think about Gettysburg. Ilene was relentless in her quest. Using every technique she knew she was slowly bringing him to that point of no return to that moment of truth where every man shoots his load. Now, however, a new factor had entered into the picture: fatigue. She had never before stroked such a heavy penis and she was tiring fast. Frequently changing hands had helped at first, but both arms were now aching from the incessant beating both she and her partner were taking. And then it happened. Just a short, barely audible gasp as Vern sucked in a breath of air a little too quickly: the telltale sign of his imminent orgasm and her victory.

Now grinning, with renewed vigor she matched the cadence of his shaking body with her long, light strokes. She kissed him on the lips in a tender circular motion and again brought his mouth to her small breasts. As she rotated her nipple against his tongue, she lightened the grip on his cock, whispered some pleas of encouragement that he let himself go, and increased the speed of her hand. With a sudden shudder, the most violent spasms she'd ever seen rippled through Vern's body as his giant prick released its immense load of creamy, thick juice all over her little chest and the most formidable man she'd ever known, and her own matching orgasm was the strongest she had ever felt. Ilene wailed with delight at the sight of his ejaculation, and her own orgasm followed immediately. From head to toe, waves of warmth enveloped her entire body especially deep within her throbbing loins.

Well, I blew it again, didn't I? I wanted to let him fuck me but when I saw that enormous cock just waiting to be jacked-off I couldn't stop myself. Why? Why does it always have to be this way? Am I sicker than I realize? And what about those four people in mommy's bedroom? The men are strangers and one of them is hurting her but Aunt Bea is laughing at the other guy.

Her thoughts turned again to days past to the time when her date, a high school football star, blew his rocks shortly after having been so macho about not coming "at the hands of a slanty-eyed kid." And then she remembered that very first experience with her two stupid step-brothers as she whacked on both their cocks at once, playing "race" the loser being the one who came first. And finally, she thought of Mr. Moormanski, the burly math teacher who'd tried so hard to mount her as she beat him off behind his desk one afternoon after school. There were so many men and boys in those days, but tonight's session with Vern was the best ever. She'd overwhelmed the most daunting cock ever.

Vern D'Angelo reflected, too, but only as far back as the day he'd first noticed Ilene sitting in 6B. "How the hell did that little girl get to me like this?" he wondered. The fact was, he'd been jacked-off by an expert, and by the time he'd realized what Ilene's game was all about he was too far gone to recover. The incredible ecstasy he experienced while coming under these strange circumstances made the event as fulfilling as any fucking he'd ever done, but now, with the scent of their juices co-mingling in the air, he gritted his teeth and made a silent pledge: I will fuck her. Spent, heaving, and exhausted they collapsed to the mattress. Both were silent, reflecting on their first sexual contest together, and both coming to grips with the renewed knowledge that however great one may be there's always someone better just waiting to challenge the title. She had won this time. Barely. The next session might well produce different results.

They turned to each other smiling and embraced. Drifting off, they both felt that this was only the beginning of a relationship which would cause each of them to change. What they didn't know was just how bizarre those changes would be. The future would tell the story.