Lost Girl

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My main lovers in college were Kerry and Kim, with a one-nighter named Bobbie, not counting a number of threesomes and foursomes with friends and strangers. My future wifey, Vera, came along later. There was, however, one girl that I forgot about—literally, forgetting her and rediscovering her three times in four years.

Laurel was short, thin, long nosed, and short haired. I met her my first week on campus, while I was walking from my dorm to one of the student parking lots, a half mile away.

“Where are you going?” she asked brazenly.

“To my car,” I said. “I need to get some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” she asked, sidling up to me.

“Clothes and books and records,” I replied. Then I introduced myself, “I’m Nicky.”

“I’m Laurel,” she said firmly and offered a handshake. She wore a plain boy’s oxford shirt and not very tight blue jeans.

We proceeded to talk about school, classes, and professors. “I really like my History and Poli Sci classes. I think I want to teach someday.” I noticed that I did all the talking and she listened, staring intently.

After we reached the parking lot, she watched me get my stuff from my car and started walking back with me in the direction from whence we came.

“I’m so lonely here. I have no friends. I sit in my room alone every night.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Halfway across campus, she pointed to one of the high rises.

“That’s my dorm,” she announced. “Would you like to come up and see my room.”

“Sure,” I responded, not yet realizing how easy she would be to get.

In her room, Laurel wasted no time. She sat me down on her bed, cupped my face in her hands, and started kissing me. Unlike Kerry—a ferocious open-mouthed kisser—and Kimmie—a tongue-wagger, casino oyna thin-lipped Laurel barely puckered and rubbed her closed mouth against mine.

Maybe she was unaccustomed to entertaining boyfriends, and that was why she started undressing. It was not as if she were revealing breath-taking charms—tiny tits, small nipples, narrow hips, flat ass, and straight, shapeless thighs and legs.

I explored her private property. She had a modest crease shielded by a down of brown fuzz—so different from hot-blooded Kerry’s coarse, black prickly bush and world-class athlete Kim’s wiry thicket. Laurel’s slice of Venus was so petite I feared I was intervening on her virginity.

I went down on her and noted a hint of sweaty odor—she obviously hadn’t planned on having company—but her labia were too clean, almost tasteless.

I propped myself up by my palms as I lowered onto her. Not that I am all that big, but I feared weighing down on her. Laurel barely spread her legs and hardly moved. Thankfully, there was no blood; I hadn’t deflowered a maiden. She smiled sadly after I finished fucking her.

When I left, she said, “I’ll see you again, I hope.”

I said yes and promptly forgot who she was.

Two years passed. I carried a basket full of stinking laundry to the off-campus laundromat and there she was hovering over a top-loading washer. Thus, that was the first time I laid eyes on her since I boned her in her dorm room.

“Remember me?” she said cheerily.

“Of course, I do.” I remembered her face and what we had done, but not her name. We made small talk, in which she recalled all the details about me, right down to my major. It was only when she referred to herself as lonely Laurel did I catch on to her name.

Between loads canlı casino in the washers, side by side, she excuse herself to use the bathroom. In the laundromat, there was an old lady, who said, “That girl likes you.”

“I have a girlfriend,” I said. Actually, I had broken up with Kerry and not yet hooked up with Kim.

“That shouldn’t matter. You’re young, single. You can go out on a little date.”

I really didn’t want Dear Abby advice from a random elder in coin-up laundry.

When Laurel returned from the loo, I helped her with her laundering. I put in a third load of wash while she folded sheets from the dryer. When nobody was looking, I sniffed her underwear. Not a whiff of ladyhood. She must not even masturbate, I surmised.

When we were the only two people left in the Laundromat, Laurel pounced. She went right for my cock—yanking at my belt, squeezing my balls, and crouching between my legs.

I accidently knocked her in the head with my knee when she pulled my cock into her mouth. We both laughed. She must have learned something in the interim because she vigorously and succulently sucked my dick till I shot a mouthful of semen, which she spit back onto my cock, balls, and ass, and then slurped it all back up. Then she mouthed my rubbery manhood till I hardened and came again. This time she spit my jizz all over my groin and chest before lapping it up. She sucked me off a third time, swallowing all my issue, just as our last loads finished in the dryer.

We said goodnight, carrying our baskets of laundered clothes and linens. Yet again, I forgot all about her a day or two later.

Toward the end of my senior year, right after defending my honors thesis, I went to the cafeteria in the student union building and ordered a coffee. I kaçak casino turned and saw Laurel standing behind me in line.

“Remember me?”

She was plain old white bread, not a hippy, flower child, soul sister, or glamour puss.

“Yeah, uh, Laurel, right?” I almost said Laura.

“How have you been?” she asked, inviting me to sit with her with a sweeping hand gesture.

I told her about my honors thesis and plans for grad school. She acted duly impressed and asked for details about my thesis. She kept saying the plural theses instead of the singular thesis. It sounded like feces. That was something of a turnoff, but I tried to be polite.

Then she made her move. “I’ve done nothing but masturbate for four years, except for you.”

“Oh, really?” I said stupidly.

She pulled me by the arm, looked both ways before kicking open the ladies’ room door, and pushing me inside. She made no effort to lock the door or hide our dalliance in a stall. She whipped off her pants and shirt and leaned against the concrete wall, spreading her legs. Her wet pussy glistened and her pubis were matted with sweat. I lunged into her cockpit and this time she thrust, wiggled, and humped, panting the whole time. I slipped out, but she wasn’t done. I slid between her folds.

“Wrong hole!”

“No such a thing!”

“Oooh, I like that.”

I came once in her cunt and once in her crack and she said thank you by covering my spent dick with butterfly kisses.

After fucking Laurel for the third time, I forgot all about her again.

It has been twenty-five years—a lifetime—since we were at Granite State University. My wife, Vera, talked me into going to an alumni event, which I usually avoid like the plague.

I stood sipping a beer, taking advantage of the open bar, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the eyes of a greyer, more lined, and slightly heavier version of Laurel.

“Hi, Nicky! Remember me?”

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