I saw Phoebe’s legs from the top of the hill, easily one hundred yards off.  This was for a few reasons.  For one, it was the first of June.  This meant that where there was usually a small horde of undergraduates swarming the lone sandwich shop in the tiny college town, with all but a few summer sessions going on you could have Main Street pretty much to yourself.  For another, it was one of those crystalline New England spring days, with a sky so blue it seemed as if you could just push off the ground and swim to the heavens, and an unfiltered sun so bright that from the right vantage point you could literally see for miles. And finally, they were Phoebe's legs.  Phee' was over five feet ten inches tall.  And a whole bunch of that was legs: long, lean, well-muscled pins enhanced by years of volleyball and tennis.  They were, to be brief, hard to miss.  

Phoebe didn’t notice my approach.  She was leaning back in a metal cafe chair, her face angled toward the sun.  Her eyes were closed and she was smiling, enjoying the warm pressure of the sun caressing her cheeks.  As I crossed the street and got within a few feet of her I realized there was another reason why the beacon of her legs had shone so brightly.  At least two, and possibly three, buttons at the bottom of her knee-length shirt-dress were undone, causing a plain frock to take on the characteristics of a daring cocktail dress. Fully two-thirds of her lovely thigh was available for viewing.   

~

Phoebe was twenty-one, a British exchange student on a year abroad. We had met on the first day of classes, as she was auditing a graduate seminar.  She was lovely.  Her hair, in mid-effort to grow out a short Princess Di cut, was a tousled, blonde mess as if she had just rolled out of bed. Maybe it was that just-been-fucked quality that made it so attractive, despite its apparently unkempt nature.  She had blue-green hazel eyes that peered from under long lashes, as she tended to speak with her chin pointed toward her chest. The British accent – Welsh to be exact – was an exotic twist.  She was quiet and shy, speaking in that lilting whisper that Brits of a certain class sometimes affect.  I was attracted to her, but then so was more than half the class, including my East Indian lesbian friend and colleague, who was always a sucker for what she called “Imperial pussy.” Phoebe would have hardly been Savita's first such post-colonial conquest. Despite a few flirty efforts, I made no connection with Phoebe, and the competition was clearly thick, so I forced her out of my mind.  There were plenty of other coed fish in the sea. 

But then I seemed to run into her all the time.  We'd bump into one another at the Student Union, at the tennis courts, and around town.  We always said "hello," but that was it, until one day we found ourselves walking together on the path from campus into town. I asked her for coffee, and that turned into a drink, and that turned into dinner.  Phoebe came out of her carefully crafted British shell, revealing sharp intelligence, a teasing, cheeky sense of humor, and a talent for storytelling. I was smitten.  Phee' had minor physical flaws that in America might have been artificially addressed in her teenage years. A couple of misaligned incisors would have been straightened. A bump on her nose may have been smoothed out. A beauty mark on her ridiculously long, kissable neck might have been removed.  For me, these were all part of an alluringly authentic package. She was beautiful. I found myself wondering what that long body would look like naked, stretched out on my bed.  

Sadly for me, Phoebe was already involved.  Her choice of the U.S. as a destination for her year abroad was directly linked to a boy she had met in England the previous year.  He was finishing his senior year at a college in Philadelphia and she would travel there by bus on the weekends.  She was a relationship dead-end for me.

But every time I resolved to move on, Phee' would turn up again.  One cold night, after a long, engrossing conversation over too much brandy, we wound up back at my place.  It was hardly my best effort, but owing to the apparent incompetence of my competition, she seemed quite impressed.  After a semester of denied passion for her, my hormones did not allow me to be particularly slow, or gentle.  I still recall her looking up at me, wide-eyed with delighted surprise, as I fucked her with firm, passionate strokes.  She cut the Philly guy loose not long after.  

And so we were a thing, and I fell pretty hard.  We quickly spent most of our waking and sleeping time. In bed, Phoebe fed my ego.  She had very little experience, and so I felt like a Don Juan.  It was fun to introduce her to new things.  And it didn’t take much.  She had never done anything but missionary, never had a guy eat her out, never taken a cock in her mouth.  Phee' enjoyed taking direction and was open to trying most anything at least once.  There was one problem -- one thing that challenged my ego. It was the fact that she could not climax.  To this day,  I have one fetish, and it is the female orgasm. The truth was her orgasm might well have been more important to my fragile male ego than it was to her.  I performed in positions worthy of a circus act. I used my tongue until it was torn. I studied and practiced orgasm-inducing methods like I was going for a thesis defense.  But we had no luck. 

~

I must have stood next to her for close to a minute, enjoying her pretty face, her Mona Lisa smile, and that exposed thigh.  At last, I stepped into her light and cast a shadow across her face. Phoebe opened her eyes and beamed up at me.

“Have I got a story for you!” She laughed.

She ordered avocado toast, and I, a B.L.T., as she recounted her morning.  I knew where she had been: posing nude for an art class. That, along with pulling pints at the V.F.W. a couple of nights a week, was Phoebe’s source of cash for the summer. When she had told me about the posing option, I had encouraged her.  Two hours a session, three sessions a week, paid surprisingly well.  And, the idea of it kind of turned me on.   

Phee' began her story between bites of her brunch.  There were ten students, four men and six women, as well as the female instructor.  Phoebe was put into a pose at the instructor’s direction and then had to hold it for an achingly long time – twenty minutes at a stretch.  She was animated in the telling. She was clearly humored, excited, and proud of her experience. As she waved her hands in explanation, illustrating the angle of her poses, her boobs jiggled under her dress.  I realized that as with the buttons at the bottom of her dress, the buttons at the top were likewise open one or two more than normal. Her bra had also gone missing in action.  Phoebe caught me looking.

“Quite right,” she laughed, with an extra jiggle and a giggle, reading my mind. “I couldn’t be bothered with underwear after sitting around naked for two hours!”  Ah, so under that shirt-dress was nothing but pure Phoebe. My cock stirred.  

“Anybody hit on you?” I asked lightly, revealing more jealousy than I intended.   

“Pretty sure the teacher is interested,” Phoebe laughed.  “And a bearded guy gave me this sketch,” she said, unrolling a parchment.  “He wrote his number on the back,” she added with a wink.  The sketch was pretty good.  I was impressed.  I was also freshly reminded of Phoebe’s beauty. 

Phee' went on to describe the drawing process, how the students took turns getting shockingly close to her. One by one they would come up, ask her questions, or have her slightly modify her pose.  One of the students commented on the symmetry of Phoebe’s breasts. Another asked that she arch a bit more so he could better see the dimples in her lower back.  And they all were struck by the long crescent-shaped scar that ran across Phoebe’s left rib cage – the lifelong result of a horrific childhood bicycle accident.  It was something Phoebe had come to accept but was still self-conscious about.  So much so that she chose bathing suits expressly to cover the scar.  But after being admired by twenty-two appreciative eyes, she was now speaking of the jagged scar tissue with pride.  I found myself getting hard as I, too, admired my pretty girlfriend, just a few undone buttons from being naked in front of me. It was somehow all the hotter that she was relaying the attraction strangers had for her nude figure. 

“So,” Phoebe finally said after I had paid the bill, “shall we?” The original plan had been to take her and her Scottish roommate, Isla, shopping at the mall in the next town over. I groaned at the thought.  

“Do we really want to spend this beautiful day at the godforsaken mall?!” I protested.

“No, you’re right.  I don’t want to go to the mall.  I want to go to your apartment and I want you to fuck the life out of me,” Phee' said with deliberate intensity.  She was smiling, but it was clear she was also deadly serious.  She stood and gleefully gave me a quick flash of one of her "symmetrical breasts," before grabbing my hand and urgently leading me away. 

My place was just about a mile downhill from the main village.  It was a pleasant walk, especially on a lovely day like this one.  This was especially so when your horny girlfriend was talking about how much she needed cock.  She stopped several times to pull me to her and kiss me.  Right there on the tree-lined sidewalk, she would guide my hand to her ass or to her breast while moaning into my mouth.  This was not the demure, largely submissive lover that I was used to! Posing nude had clearly awakened something within her.  

Phoebe’s dress was off before I got my apartment door closed.  I bent her over the back of the couch and dropped to my knees.  I nuzzled her thighs, ass and pussy, escalating from light kisses to licking and probing.   

“Fuck me!” Phoebe hissed impatiently.  I complied, jumping up to free my hard-on from my jeans and thrusting into her extraordinarily wet crease. “Pull my hair!”  My god, it was so much fun to have Phoebe directing me for a change, demanding what she wanted.  She grunted and moaned as I moved within her, my cock and balls slapping against her sopping vulva with a satisfying wet spank at the end of every thrust. 

“I need to suck you,” she declared after a few minutes of hard fucking. I pulled her to her feet.  She kicked off her flats and ran into the bedroom while I struggled behind her, my Levi’s still around my thighs.  

Quickly enough, I joined her naked on my bed. As she had advertised, Phoebe immediately attacked my cock.  She had been new to fellatio when we first got together, and while a good sport, she always seemed tentative.  Not so on this spring morning.  She was almost clinical in her exploration.  She measured how much she could get in her throat, challenging herself to take more with successive efforts.  For a prolonged time, in apparent fascination, she explored every detail of my head, running her tongue along the flange and savoring the dollops of pre-cum.  She took my balls into her mouth – a first for her.  She even gave my perineum a long and gentle lick – a first for me. Phee' narrated all along the way, like a very horny scientist, about how things tasted, looked, or felt.  It was a depth of curiosity she must have always had, but just now had the confidence to reveal.   

Eventually, Phoebe became more earnest in her efforts.  She sucked my dick in and out, deeply, with increasing pace while cupping my balls.  I had never before cum in her mouth.  She had been reluctant and I was not one for force or surprise.  I figured she would get there in time. And this morning appeared to be that moment.  I gave her arm a gentle pull, my usual non-verbal indicator that I was close and therefore she should stop.  She pushed my hand away.

“Baby, if you keep that up, I’m going to blow,” I groaned.  Phoebe, her mouth full of cock, moaned encouragement.  That did it, and holding her head still, I released my load.  She struggled, as was to be expected, to swallow anything after the first explosion. Most escaped her mouth and rolled down my cock onto her hand.  She exhaled deeply and smiled at me with great self-satisfaction.  “Not nearly as bad as I expected!” Phoebe said with a loud laugh.  

I pulled her up to me and kissed her, then set about to return the favor.  I gave her body a full tour with my lips and tongue, up and down, fore and aft, then concentrated on the liquid center that lay amidst her thick tangle of strawberry blonde down.  Eating Phoebe was hardly new.  It really isn’t satisfying sex for me if I don’t spend some time down there, whether it is foreplay, play, or after play.  But this time I passionately renewed my mission to try to finish her.  Phee' was certainly more turned on than she had ever been before.  Perhaps this could be the time. 

I teased her with my lips, tongue, nose and breath until she was positively flowing, then concentrated on her clitoris, alternating with gentle sucks, light circles, and a firm flattened tongue.  I spread her smooth, wet lips apart with one hand to reveal her tiny clit peeking out from under its hood. Then, employing a method I had only recently derived from my exhaustive orgasm research, I hooked two moistened fingers behind her pubic bone and applied gentle but constant pressure.  Meanwhile, I put my tongue to work on and around her clit with more focused dedication than I had given any task in my entire life. Phoebe was not usually vocal, but today was different, as it was in so many ways. 

“That feels good.  Really good,” Phee' said as her hips began to undulate in time with my tongue.  I matched her movements, sliding my fingers back and forth, ever so slightly.  We went on like this for some time, as I ate her hungrily. 

“It feels sort of like I need to pee,” she eventually said.  No woman I had ever been with had ever said such a thing.  I didn’t care. I briefly broke my tight embrace of her pussy to say exactly that. If she let loose with a stream of urine, at least I would have induced some kind of physical reaction.  But, in the end, there was no pee, nor an orgasm, nor anything. Absent a climax, both our passions waned after twenty minutes of non-stop cunnilingus.  My tongue and fingers were practically numb.  I pulled my mouth away, and kissed my way up Phoebe’s lovely torso and chest, then entered her.  I moved slowly. It was more of a loving embrace than fucking. 

“Seemed like we were almost there,” Phoebe whispered. “I got worried, though.”  

I looked her in the eye. “Worried?  That you would pee?  I doubt you would.  I think it’s just a feeling you aren’t used to. And fuck if I care.  Just let go, Phoebe,” I implored.

Phee' gave me a curious smile and then rolled me onto my back.  I managed to stay inside her and she immediately commenced fucking me in cowgirl.  She dictated the pace, sliding back and forth as much as she posted up and down, grinding against my groin.  Faster and faster she went until she suddenly dismounted and dropped her curly blonde pussy back onto my mouth. With difficulty, given the angle, I worked a finger against her g-spot once more, and held my tongue flat and still, as Phoebe ground against it.  There was half a shudder and she collapsed to the sheets, her chest and neck flushed in red splotches.  

I knew it was a major faux pas to ask, but I couldn’t help myself. “Um, did you?”  

“I…think…so," Phee' said haltingly. "Something happened.  Like a…ticklish sneeze.  If that was a ‘Big O’ I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.  But it was nice,” she said in her usual cheeky way.  We spent the rest of the afternoon fucking, licking, napping, and fucking and licking some more, all in hopes of getting another “ticklish sneeze.”  We never got another one, but it sure was fun trying.  

I wish I could report that from that day on, Phoebe was forever transformed into an orgasmic goddess and that we lived happily ever after.  Neither proved to be the case.  She was transformed: more confident, more sexual, more self-assured in and out of bed.  But, we never managed more than the rare “ticklish sneeze.”  Eventually, she had to go back to Britain.  I was to follow.  However, a year later, a combination of selfishness, fear of commitment, and the distraction of other women, had me still anchored in the U.S.A.  In due time, we succumbed to the inevitable long-distance break-up. We are still friends, all these years later, and share an intimacy that is uniquely ours.  I cherish it.  And I cherish the image of Phoebe, smiling up at a clear spring sky, the warm sun on her face, pleased with her own beauty.