Late night seminar grind with Lucille

Several hours after dinner, Lucille invites you over to her dorm room. The double is decorated like a haunted house on Halloween, complete with blackout curtains and fairy lights that somehow make the room dimmer; an anatomically correct skeleton sits in the corner of the room posed like Rodin’s Thinker. Even the posters hung up on the wall—My Chemical Romance, Joy Division, Jimmy Eat World, Jacques Derrida—make it immediately clear that Lucille’s roommate shares her fondness for black clothes, way too much eyeliner, and deconstruction.

“You write like you talk,” Lucille says, as she finishes reading your paper.

She shuts the lid on your laptop, and leans back in her chair, starting to roll a joint. The slim girl is wearing fishnet bodystockings that do little to conceal her skin. If it weren’t for her black bra and panties, she’d be functionally nude, but you’re already thinking very dirty thoughts over her smooth thighs and cleavage and tiny waist.

“Perfectly?” you ask, giving her a sly grin.

“No,” she says. “With a goal in mind.”

“Yes,” you agree. “The point of language is to communicate. I am to achieve that goal.”

Lucille rolls her eyes at you, sticking up her middle finger, and then she lights up her joint, taking a slow drag of it.

“That’s not it,” she says. “But you know what answer I’m looking for. What’s your goal? Give it to me straight, and I’ll give you what you want.”

“What, a hit of that joint?” you say, reaching your hand out.

To your surprise, she actually passes it to you.

“That’s not what you want, so you can have it,” she says as you take your hit. “Let’s start with how you write. Why you write like this. Tell me more.”

Even though you’re only just starting to feel the high seep in, the way Lucille’s talking makes you feel like you’re already there and beyond.

“What do you mean, why do I write like this?” you frown. “I write to make a good argument.”

“That’s secondary,” Lucille shakes her head, taking back the joint. “Keep talking.”

You stare at her—more properly, ogle her up, drinking in the sight of her skin, and she gives you a bewitching smile, the joint twirling between her fingers like a conductor’s baton.

“I wrote this paper to finish the assignment,” you eventually say, thinking that you know what she’s getting at. “To get a good grade. To please the professor.”

“Very good,” she says, her smile growing fractionally wider. “But no cigar, not yet.”

She takes another hit of her joint, and then blows a perfect smoke-ring to put a Cuban salon to shame.

“That wasn’t it?” you ask, growing confused. “What are you looking for?”

“If only you could see what’s right before your eyes,” she says, leaning forwards, her tits coming together just so. Oh, how much you’d like to reach out for those puppies, grab them, maul them, fuck her…

Instead, you stare at the poster of Derrida, and say: “I… write because I am a product of my experiences? Or… that it’s undeterminable, because writing is ontologically bound up with notions of truth that have been deconstructed and…”

Your voice drifts away as, even in this high state of mind, you realise you’re way out of your depth here. Lucille simply laughs, shaking her head, passing the joint back to you; you gladly partake.

“An amateurish answer,” she says, “wrong in more ways than one. You were closer, earlier.”

“Then I don’t know,” you grit your teeth. “What’s the answer? Just tell me!”

“Giving up means you don’t get what you want,” she says, rising from her chair.

“I don’t even know what it is that you think I want,” you say, watching her nubile form approach you, that sway in her hips a deliberate thing to keep you focused on her.

“So you’ve given up. A pity,” she says, pursing her lips. She leans forwards and brushes her lips by your ear, whispering: “What you want is to fuck me.”

“I… uh...”

“Am I wrong?” she smiles, drawing back an inch, her nose brushing past yours.

“I d-do...,” you stammer weakly.

“You talk the way you do, because you want to get in my pants,” she says, her voice breathy, low. “You write the way you do, because you want to get in my pants.”

“This assignment… it was just an assignment,” you protest. “I wasn’t trying to fuck you…”

“And yet, how did you pick which side of the argument to back?” she asks. “I’ve seen you in class, the way you listen to what we all say, silently calculating in your head the precisely right things to do to try to get into our pants. Am I wrong?”

“You’re right, but there’s more to it than that,” you say, and all of a sudden, Lucille’s tugging at your pants, pulling them down.

“Not much more, I’d wager,” she laughs, tapping the side of your head. “You didn’t get the answer, so you don’t get to fuck me. But you got close, and you admitted to it.” She pauses and smiles. “You’ll get partial credit for that.”

You stare at her dumbly as she pulls your cock out, giving it a languid stroke.

“See? You’re all riled up already,” she smirks, putting her face close to your turgid member. “Positively throbbing. The body doesn’t lie.”

And with that, she engulfs your cock in her mouth, the wetness and heat overwhelming your senses, sending your primal pleasure centers into overdrive. It’s a stunning feeling that makes your knees weak, for the way she works over your length, slobbering, kissing your cockhead, sucking you off, it all is almost too much to handle.

“Fuck yes,” you groan, as you look down at her dark hair, free-flowing past her shoulders while she bobs over your cock.

And then you look up and meet eyes with the cold white bones of the skeleton Thinker, a wide smile arrayed on his cracked skull. Hollow, lifeless eye-sockets stare back at you.

“Oh fuck!” you exclaim. “I forgot that was there!”

“So long as you don’t forget that I’m here,” Lucille manages to mutter through a mouthful of your cock.

“How could I,” you say, “when it’s so good, feels so goood…”

Her technique is surreal, the way she works your balls as she licks your shaft, and then the way she takes your full length down her throat without so much as a gag, just pure deepthroat, the clench of her muscles a heavenly sensation down your pulsing cock. It’s all you can do to resist face-fucking her there, but you know it wouldn’t be right, she’s in control today, and for a good reason, you let her pleasure you, bringing you ever and ever closer to the big finish.

It comes as she deepthroats you once more, your moan of pleasure signalling a release of your cum deep into her throat. It comes out a steady stream, one that Lucille takes without blinking an eye, her hands gripping your waist tight as the waves of joy carouse through you, that orgasm such a powerful thing.

“Shit,” Lucille pants as soon as its over. “You could’ve at least warned me that was coming.”

“It’s what you wanted,” you tell her, and she gives you the finger again.

“A girl invites a boy to her room at a midnight hour on the pretense of studying for an assignment on sex. It ends with a blowjob and a gallon of cum down my throat,” she says. “Do you really think I got what I wanted?”

Lucille +25