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(Midterm Maelstrom, continued...)

“Have you started your midterm paper yet?”

You hadn’t even realized that Mike knew you were there. He is slouched in the easy chair with his eyes half-closed and a bottle of beer clutched in one hand. He has been idly leafing through a stack of magazines: American Journal of Physics, Sports Illustrated, Journal of Applied Physics, Playboy.

“Started?” you say, “Well I guess technically I’ve started…”

“Yeah, I figured.” He yawns cavernously, tossing a physics journal onto the shag carpet on top of the centerfold. “I haven’t either. Figured I’d just bust it out the night of.” He swallows the dregs of his beer. There is another one close at hand. With a practiced twist, he pops it open one-handed. “I’m pretty certain Sullivan doesn’t read papers anyway, just scans them for keywords and phrases and grades based on word count.” He takes a big swallow of cheap, mass-produced beer. “Sullivan’s sort of a douche. Have you read his book?” Mike rolls his eyes.

On impulse, you sit down on his lap. It is broad, firm, and comfortable. It is a lap that was made for sitting on. One of his ridiculously thick, Popeye arms automatically comes up around your waist, hugging you. It feels nice.

“You know what I wanted to do with my life?” he asks, semi-rhetorically.

“Play football.” You say.

“Yeah, play football professionally.” You can feel his dick underneath you, through your skirt, through his jeans. It feels pretty nice. You wiggle your butt, more-or-less subtly, and you can feel his cock respond. “But if that didn’t pan out, and I always knew the odds were pretty long, I wanted to be a writer. I want to write fiction, maybe write a novel about sports. My old man was like, ‘No way Mister, you’re getting a degree in the hard sciences.’ So here I am, doing physics. I don’t even really like physics.”

Meanwhile, Mike’s big, meaty hand has found its way up between your knees, up underneath your skirt. Underneath you, his cock seems to be made of tungsten-carbide steel. You wiggle your butt again, deliberately stimulating him, and you feel his breathing change. His hand is stroking, softly stroking the front of your panties under your skirt. It feels very nice.

“Hey,” he says throatily, “Do you suppose I could go down on you?”

“What…? Here? Now?”

“Sure.” Mike is still petting you through your (now seriously moist) panties, and it feels delicious. “Who’s going to care? Them?” The Delmsey twins are sitting in a far corner of the room, facing each other, completely absorbed in a complicated game of Cat’s Cradle which you are pretty sure is an expression of knot theory.

“Them?” His hand moves up and down, stroking you through the thin fabric. Your pussy is drooling, your clit is screaming. On the couch, Lara Cunningham and Professor Sullivan are all over each other, sloppily making out.

“Anyone? I’d love to taste you.” His cock is about ready to burst the fly of his jeans under your butt. There is a roar from downstairs: the Martians, to no-one’s surprise, have been dominating World War II, but now the Vikings, allied with the Comanche, are making a surprise comeback.

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