Brandon Attends a Lecture

Brandon Weisz did not think Friday’s mom was weird. Okay, maybe she was a little unusual, but she was also smoking hot. He got were Friday got her looks from, and if she would age like her mom, he wouldn’t complain. He looked up from Margie’s shaking breasts to look at his girlfriend—or, maybe girlfriend, they hadn’t called it anything yet. As they locked eyes, he felt something, butterflies maybe, as she bit her lower lip, playing with her beautiful pussy.
A few days earlier he hadn’t known her name, or at least not the right one, but when he saw her getting railed in the supermarket, boobs pressed against a freezer, calling some guy daddy, he’d felt the same way. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed her like that back in high school.
They ran in different crowds, he was a rugby player, half of the time on the field, the other half partying. She was a bit of a nerd, kept to herself, trying not to get noticed.
But when she asked him if he wanted to hang out, he didn’t hesitate.
Turned out they were not that different at all. She was studying art history, he was studying history. Both at the same university as well. It was a surprise they hadn’t met up earlier. Their first date they had a drink, went on to discuss classical history and ended up banging each other’s brains out. She had slept in his bed since and this was her first time home in days.
In short, they hit it off. They were still in the friend stage of course, but there’d been some serious kissing, and he had a strong feeling she felt the same way he did.
He grabbed Margie’s hips and started thrusting harder. The thought of fucking this great mom and her beautiful daughter, so quickly after meeting her, it felt like one of those overly romantic love stories. He never thought those to be realistic, but as he came over his maybe-mother-in-law, he felt like he just might’ve started to believe in them.

#

“…so the word gladiator can actually be translated to swordsman, but as you might’ve guessed does not refer to a literal sword…”
He couldn’t focus on the lecture. He wondered what Friday’s lecture was about. Perhaps the Mona Lisa, Da Vinci’s painting of the mysterious woman who’s bare breasts were “the most famous boobs of the renaissance,” or perhaps the Girl with the Pearl Necklace, of which experts still aren’t sure if she’s wearing Vermeer’s actual seed, or someone else’s.
“…arena actually means “place with sand,” which makes sense of course, just imagine the clean-up if they’d covered the place in marble…”
Maybe they were talking about Van Gogh and his one ball, after he cut off one of them. He chuckled.
“…so no, technically only criminals were **** in the arena. Gladiators and their female counterparts, while slaves, on general did what they pleased in the arena. Of course, their owners could demand they perform certain actions, so it’s a gray area and still very immoral by modern standards…”
“I wouldn’t mind being a criminal in Ancient Rome,” a girl behind him whispered, “imagine a guy like that **** you right into the sand.”
“It’s not **** if you want it, you dumb bimbo,” her friend answered.
“…it was very expensive, turning someone into the ultimate sexual partner, good enough to put on an engaging show for an audience of thousands. They truly were the pornstars of the classical period…”
Brandon imagined himself in the arena, opposite Friday, dressed in a gladiator’s belt, perhaps one of those nets to catch her.
“…so that’s why, with the rise of Christianity, with its ideals of having sex to find love, instead of seeing it as entertainment, the gladiatorial games were increasingly controversial and eventually banned…”
Love. Was that what he was feeling? No, it was much to early for that. But perhaps, in time, if things were to move in that direction, he wouldn’t hesitate, just like he hadn’t when she’d asked for his number.