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Legs to Die For

by Henry F. Tonn

Part 1 appears
in this issue.


When I arrived at her apartment the following evening, I discovered she was living in a very nice furnished one-bedroom duplex. She greeted me at the door wearing a wrinkled plaid shirt and comfortable blue jeans. I must have looked disappointed because she said, “Sorry. You don’t get to ogle me tonight. You have to study.”

“Is that your new Thunderbird parked out front?”

“Yes. It’s from my daddy. Graduation present.”

“Your daddy must be rich.”

“He’s a plastic surgeon.”

“I’ve never even met a plastic surgeon.”

“Well, you might become one if you’d put forth a little effort. Here, put your books on the dining room table. Do you want something to drink?”


“Then let’s get to it.”

The dining room table was chestnut and octagonal, with a nice arrangement of red silk flowers in the center. The entire room was cheerful, with prints of Dali and Monet sprinkled about. It was not an apartment for one of modest income, and it was obvious that she had excellent taste.

I surprised myself. In three hours I probably put in an hour’s worth of study — pretty good for me. My first exam on Monday was history, and I spent most of the time studying the Hyksos civilization. I didn’t give a damn about the Hyksos personally but our professor was particularly fond of their military proficiency, so I figured he would ask at least one question about them.

Debra had no problem focusing at all. Occasionally I would glance up at her and she would say, “Study or leave,” without lifting her eyes. I had to pretend to study even while my mind was on other things.

At eleven o’clock she snapped her book shut and said, “Pretty good. You have promise.”

“What now?” I said.

“Now you go back to the dorm.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

But she gave me a big hug at the door, leaning over slightly because she was three inches taller than me. It was a good hug and I liked it. Her body was soft and her perfume exotic. I felt a little dizzy. “Come back tomorrow night,” she said. “If you do good, I’ll give you a kiss.”

“I have to study hours for just one kiss?”

“Your choice.”

I goofed off all day Sunday, thinking constantly of her, with no interest whatsoever in studying. But I wasn’t interested in shooting squirrels either, which I thought rather peculiar.

Sunday night I showed up at the appointed hour, and she opened the door before I knocked. “Ah! It’s Sir Galahad,” she said, hands on hips, eyeing me appraisingly.

“My lady,” I replied, bowing slightly. My anxiety around her had not evaporated but at least I was beginning to talk.

We chatted for half an hour before hitting the books. She informed me that she was traveling to Italy right after graduation. Her life was obviously very different from mine. My father was a car salesman and my mother a bank teller. There were six children in the family and none of us had ever left the country. She, on the other hand, was an only child and had experienced all the advantages of being a doctor’s offspring.

I also learned she had been involved with a fraternity guy for the past two years but had broken off the relationship a month ago. “I don’t need any encumbrances,” she said.

I didn’t know what “encumbrances” meant.

I studied a little more history that night and estimated by eleven o’clock that I had learned a quarter of what I needed in order to pass the course. It was going to be el flunko for sure. She, on the other hand, was engrossed in a political science course and had everything in the textbook neatly outlined in colored pencil. She was a straight “A” student and had made the dean’s list every semester since her freshman year. I pondered why she was wasting her time on me.

“You like chocolate?” she asked.


“You like caramel?”


“You like chocolate covered caramel?”


She got up and walked into the kitchen and came out holding a piece of candy. “Chocolate covered caramel,” she announced, and popped it halfway into her mouth, holding it between her teeth. “It’s yours.”

She leaned over and placed the chocolate in my mouth, then pushed it in with her tongue. I made a little grunt and she quickly moved away, eyes dancing. “That’s your kiss,” she said.

I slowly chewed the chocolate. “Not what I was expecting.”

“Expect the unexpected,” she said. “Now, off you go. Good luck with your exam tomorrow.”

“I’ll need more than luck. I’ll need a miracle.”

“Pass or fail, tomorrow night at seven,” she said, patting me on the back. “You’ll get a better kiss if you do good, and no chocolate.” She shoved me unceremoniously through the door and waggled her fingers. “Bye.”

The following night I showed up toting my sociology book. I was getting used to her by now and wanted more than I was getting. I had maturbated three times that day thinking of her and my dick was quite sore.

I laid my books on the octagonal table and said, “How about a kiss to start with? Something to give me inspiration.”

“No, you have to study first.” She was wearing a peach-colored Japanese silk top with billowing sleeves and long pants to match. She looked delicious.

“Just one,” I negotiated. “I promise I’ll study real hard.”

She reached over and gave me a peck on the forehead. “That’s it. There is a time for everything and now is the time to study.”

I sighed deeply and opened my sociology book. “The pain is great.”

She chuckled happily.

At exactly 10:45 she slammed her book shut and got up and stretched. “Getting late,” she said, strolling casually over to my chair. She slipped smoothly down onto my lap and let out a brief sigh. “Time for treats,” she announced.

She pulled my head forward, and I wrapped my arms around her waist and began kissing her neck and throat. She rested her hands lightly on my shoulders.

I had always been fascinated with neck kissing since the day I saw Paul Newman doing it to Elke Sommer in the movie, The Prize. Now I found it was a pretty easy maneuver once you had a willing girl.

I kissed and slurped my way up to her chin and then to her mouth where she opened her lips and rammed her tongue against mine. An electric charge shot through my body and my dick began to revive, growing hard for the fourth time that day. I desperately tried to keep it down, but to no avail.

She quickly got up and moved away. “Okay, that’s it for tonight. I don’t want you getting too inflamed. I have to break you in slowly.”

“I’m already inflamed,” I insisted, squirming uncomfortably in the chair.

She laughed. “Don’t be greedy. Tomorrow is another night. You get to think about me all day.”

“That won’t be hard to do.”

Thus it unfolded each night. We would study for a couple of hours and then fool around. She doled out her favors carefully, with forethought, as though they were in limited supply.

On Tuesday night she was wearing a soft white blouse and comfortable, floppy blue pants. She announced, “No bra tonight. You get to think about that for the next two hours.” So I stared at the same paragraph for what seemed an eternity.

But finally the magical moment arrived, and she sat on my lap again and pressed her breasts into my face. They were soft and cushiony, and a fresh, clean, luxuriant odor emanated from her body. My dick got so hard I thought it was going to lift her into the air like a pole vaulter. But this time she remained on my lap and laughed periodically as I nuzzled her. I tried to remove her blouse but she wouldn’t let me. “Another night,” she said. “Don’t be so impatient.”

On Wednesday night she wore the same peach-colored Japanese outfit as before but would not let me touch her until 10:45. Then she announced, “We’re doing something different tonight.”

She wandered over to a small table beside the kitchen and produced a pair of handcuffs from a drawer. She held them up with a smile and instructed me to sit on the sofa, a big, overstuffed Naugahyde creation with a colorful green Indian throw rug draped over the back.

Turning me around, she shackled my hands carefully, then rearranged me on the sofa. She dangled the key enticingly before my nose. “Your freedom,” she said.

“I don’t need freedom,” I assured her.

She laughed and straddled me and opened her Japanese peach top. She grabbed me by the ears and offered her breasts to me, alternately. They were very white and firm, shaped like apples, with delicate pink nipples staring at me.

“They’re not large,” she said, “but they’ve been called perky. Would you call them perky?”


“Now, which one would you like first?” she inquired. “This one? Or this one? This one? Or this one?” She moved her breasts back and forth before my nose, holding my ears tightly. “This one? Or this one? Which do you think looks better? This one? Or this one? This one? Or this one? Which one would you like to taste first? This one? Or this one? This one? Or this one?”

And when I finally lunged at one, she laughed and pulled back, holding me away. “Naughty. Naughty. We’re being impatient, aren’t we? This kind of behavior will not be rewarded.”

This game lasted for what seemed an exceedingly long time. But eventually, blessedly, she capitulated, and pressed her breasts snugly into my face. I closed my eyes and nursed like a baby — a bit pathetic, I suppose. But now she was no longer regarding me with that mocking smile.

On Thursday night she greeted me in a red plaid Scottish outfit with a short, pleated skirt, cut low at the waist, showing off her belly. I backed her against the wall, kissing and groping her for ten minutes before she insisted there was going to be some studying tonight whether I liked it or not. I didn’t like it, but she sternly informed me there would be no “treats” without some learning, which was all a farce because I was flunking everything and had no ability to focus on my studies anyway. But she made the rules and I was obliged to obey them.

I actually learned something this night because I brought my English literature textbook with me even though I was taking an algebra exam in the morning. But there was no possibility of passing the algebra exam, so I preferred to waste my time reading Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, which somebody told me was interesting, and it was. When I was finished, she leaned over with genuine enthusiasm and said, “Great story, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said, and threw myself on her. She screamed, and we wrestled around and ended up on the floor where I began to bite her bare stomach while she laughed hysterically. Then everything became soft and cuddly, and we removed some of our clothes, and then most of our clothes, and then all of our clothes, and after the kind of lengthy foreplay that leaves one punch-drunk but ready for more, I received my first blow job, glorious and memorable, but short and decisive: all of seven seconds.

On Friday night she greeted me wearing the same tight green dress she was wearing the first day I saw her, and since exams were over for both of us, she locked the door carefully behind her and guided me into the bedroom. “Guess what kind of panties I’m wearing,” she said, stretching out on the bed and regarding me through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Green and silk and lacy,” I replied.

“A very good memory,” she complimented me, opening her legs and slowly pulling her dress up. “If you squat down there at the foot of the bed, you can get a peek at them.”

“I think I’d rather eat them off your body,” I said, unbuckling my belt.

It is unnecessary to go into details of what then transpired, suffice to say that I emerged the next morning enervated, satiated, somewhat mangled — and a man. We had breakfast of toast and coffee at the octagonal table and she looked adorable in her pajama tops and tousled hair. Her gaze was one of genuine affection.

“Come by tonight and I’ll have my final surprise for you,” she said, green eyes brilliant in the morning sun. She ran her tongue suggestively over her upper teeth. “I’m leaving tomorrow, you know.”

“I can’t imagine what surprises you could possibly have left.”

“You’ll be amazed,” she said.

I staggered home and gave my two roommates the finger when they snidely asked where I’d been, then collapsed into bed and slept the morning and afternoon away. At seven o’clock, however, I was back at her apartment as per instructions, wondering what she could possibly have left in her repertoire that I hadn’t already seen. And, just as she promised, she really had a big surprise for me: she wasn’t there.

I knocked on the door several times but received no answer. Perplexed, I peered through the living room window and surveyed a denuded room. The furniture was still there but everything that made it her home was clearly absent: the Dali and Monet pictures, the silk flowers on the table, the Indian throw blanket on the back of the sofa. It was obvious she was gone.

Still perplexed, I knocked on the door next to hers and an attractive young girl with long auburn hair answered. She was wearing a yellow halter top and very short shorts.

“Yes?” she said.

“I was wondering what happened to Debra next door,” I said. “I was supposed to see her tonight at seven.”

“Oh, she’s gone home,” the girl replied, glancing briefly at the door. “She piled everything into her Thunderbird today and left. In fact, I helped her carry out the last of her stuff.”

“Wow. I can’t believe it. She told me to come by tonight.”

“Well, she must have gotten her dates mixed up,” she said, attempting to be helpful. “She’s graduated now. I think she’s going to Italy for the summer.”

“Yeah, that’s what she told me.”

I stood there on the landing with hands in pockets, trying to figure out what to do next. Surprisingly enough, I felt more bewildered than disappointed.

“You’ve been dating her?” the girl asked. She was a little wisp of a thing, with very pale skin, light blue eyes, and tiny freckles on her nose. She could not have weighed more than ninety pounds.

“Yeah, for the past week or so.”

“Sorry,” she said. She stood primly on one foot, the other curled behind her.

I put out my hand. “I’m Robert,” I said.

“Debra.” She stepped on to the porch and shook my hand. “Another Debra,” she laughed.

“Another Debra? Two of you under the same roof? What’s the likelihood of that happening?”

“It’s a good thing we weren’t roommates,” she said with a little giggle.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Debra. You planning to be here this summer?”

“Looks like it.” She pushed some strands of hair from her face. “I’ll be here mostly because my parents live only twenty miles away. No sense in going home.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I need to catch up on some courses. Hey, maybe we can get together. Listen to some music or something.”

She eyed me closely. “Sure. I have a roommate. We can all get together.”

“Great.” I began backing off the porch. “Summer school starts up in a couple of weeks. I’ll come and knock on your door.”

“That’s wonderful, Robert. I look forward to seeing you.”

“Same here.” I gave her my most winning smile.

“I’m sorry about Debra,” she said. “She just must have forgotten.”

“Probably so,” I agreed. “Well, in a couple of weeks.” I waved.

She waved back. “Bye,” and gave me one last smile before she closed the door.

I walked halfway down the block and then paused to appraise my surroundings. Spring had sprung and the trees were green and the flowers were bursting into bloom. Several cars passed while I was standing there and I waved to them all. A little tune popped into my head that I had heard recently on the radio, and I began to hum it as I resumed my stroll back to the university. There was a bounce to my step and a slight swagger to my gait.

Copyright © 2015 by Henry F. Tonn

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