Knocked Up on Valentine's Day

by Amy Brent

  She held up the book so I could see the photo of Wynn and tapped a long fingernail to the book. “Wait a sec, this is your man’s best friend? The one you told me about? Rich dude, lives on the beach in California? Used to teach psychology here at Midwestern?”

  “Yes, that is the Wynn Driver that Holden is always talking about,” I said with a nod. “They’ve been best friends since their freshman year at college. I think Wynn was sleeping on Holden’s couch when he landed that book deal and got stinking rich.”

  “I think I saw him on Ellen,” Izzy said, narrowing her eyes at the handsome face in the tiny photo. “So, this is the man who will fuck anything with a pulse,” she said, pressing two fingers to her wrist. “Well… lookee here… I just happen to have a pulse… And a thinking vagina…”

  “I never said that he would fuck anything with a pulse.” Izzy was wearing a pair of black lace panties and a tee-shirt with no bra. It was her usual attire when we were home alone. I glanced at her long legs stretched out in front of her, feet on the coffee table, ankles crossed, and poked her with an elbow. “But I’m pretty sure he’d be all up in your hot chocolate bidness.”

  “Well, my hot chocolate bidness might just have to let him come all up in here if he ever comes to town.”

  “He’s coming into town later tonight,” I said. I could hear the anticipation in my voice. If Wynn was half the man Holden proclaimed him to be, it might prove to be quite an interesting weekend.

  “That man right there is coming here? What for? Why would anyone escape this shitty little town and come back?”

  “He’s speaking at the psyche conference this weekend. He’s staying at Holden’s for a few days.” I nodded at the book. “That’s why I’m reading that book, to get an idea of who he is and what he’s all about.”

  “Well, my vagina is thinking that maybe he can check your vagina’s pulse while he’s here,” Izzy said. “Or check your internal temperature with his big, thick thermometer cock.”

  “How do you know he has a big, thick thermometer cock?” I giggled at the concept of Wynn Driver taking my internal temperature with his cock, which Holden swore was nearly a foot long. The thought made the juices between my legs start to flow.

  “Look at those eyes,” Izzy said, holding up the book. “Man looks at you like that, it means he has a big cock to back that shit up.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Hey, you said him and Holden were gangbangers.”

  “I said they had done three-ways before. I never called them gangbangers.”

  “You say three-way, I say gangbang,” she said, her dark eyes dancing with delight. “I’ve never been gangbanged myself. Wonder what it would be like. Having two cocks going at you at once. How does that even work? One in your mouth and one in your pussy, like book ends? Or one in your pussy and one in your ass… Lordy… talk about a tight fit…”

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” I said with a sigh, even though I had wondered—and dreamt of—the same thing myself several times since learning that Wynn was coming to visit.

  “Am I asking the wrong person, really?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “What does that mean?”

  She shrugged one shoulder and flipped more pages. She wasn’t reading. She was just avoiding looking at me. “Well, it’s just that, you know, out of everyone I know you are the most… shall we say… experimental and open when it comes to sex?”

  “So?”

  “So, if the opportunity to do the nasty with your boyfriend and his best friend came up, would you say yes, or would you say no?”

  “Holden is not my boyfriend.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.” She turned sideways on the sofa and tucked her long legs beneath her. She poked me in the arm with a stiff finger. “Come on, Jude, fess up. If Holden Moss and Wynn Driver wanted to do double duty on that cute, tight ass of yours, would you say yes, or would you say no?”

  “I’d say that was none of your business,” I said with a smile.

  She gave me a “point proven” smile in return. “See. I thought so. Whoo, girl, I see some gangbangin’ in your future. Just don’t let them two big cocks stretch you out at once. That pussy might never be the same.”

  “Whatever,” I said, forcing a smile. Izzy was right. It was true that Holden and Wynn had double-teamed lots of girls. Holden had told me stories about their adventures that got me so worked up I literally raped him on the spot. And I’d be lying if I said the thought of having sex with both of them at once had not entered my mind on more than one occasion. I loved having mad sex with Holden, but we were two consenting adults who were not caught up in petty jealousy or commitment. We fucked each other like breeder rabbits, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t fuck others, as well.

  “You’re awful,” I said, trying to tug the book from her hands. She pulled the book away and clutched it between her mounding breasts. “And you’re also full of shit.”

  “How am I full of shit?” I asked.

  “What’s your vagina really thinking, Jude?” she asked with a sly grin. “Lord knows the poor thing has been working overtime since you took up with Professor Holden Moss. Is there room in there for this Dr. Wynn Driver dude?” She leaned over and lowered her voice. “One big cock in your pussy and another in your ass? Mmmm mmm good…”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Jeez, Izzy, stop!”

  “Who knows,” she said, head bobbing, eyebrows arched. “Maybe they have a third buddy who could shove his cock in your mouth while they’re going at you from the other end. What would you call that? A four way? A quadruple fuck? What?”

  “Izzy! You’re awful. Stop it!”

  “You stop it,” she said, holding out the book with Wynn’s picture showing. “Hell, if you won’t fuck them both maybe I will.”

  I snorted a laugh and snatched the book from her hands. “Oh yeah, and then Earl will kill both of them.”

  “Might be worth it,” she said, smacking her lips. “Two big cocks at once. My, my, my what a lovely way to go!”

  Yes indeed, I thought as I stared at the photo of Wynn Driver, with the image of Holden Moss clearly in my mind.

  What a way to go.

  CHAPTER FOUR: Professor Holden Moss

  I’d been sleeping with (I suppose that is the politically-correct term these days) Jude Allen for a few weeks when I found out for sure that my best friend in the world, Wynn Driver, was coming back to town. Actually, I was the one largely responsible for bringing him back to Midwestern. The real surprise was that he was willing to take time out of his Hollywood lifestyle to come back and visit those poor souls he left behind at Midwestern.

  Our local Midwestern Psychology Association, which consisted mostly of psyche department academics, psychotherapists, psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, mental health professionals, and the like, was having its annual meeting, and who better to address the theme of this year’s gathering—Psychology & Sexuality in The Modern Age— than my old pal Wynn, who had literally written a bestselling book on that very topic.

  It did not take much convincing from me for the association board, which was made up mostly of women who had had sex with Wynn when he was a professor of psychology at Midwestern, and women who missed their chance but still wanted to fuck his brains out, to unanimously vote to have Wynn as the keynote speaker on Sunday night. There would be a dinner on Saturday night in his honor, followed by a book signing, and a cocktail party slash meet-and-greet. I found it funny that a group that had frowned upon Wynn’s teachings for years now saw him as their golden child celebrity. I guess getting on the cover of Psychology Today Magazine didn’t hurt. And I knew that there would be a number of female association members lining up to go home with him on Saturday night.

  Wynn would call it “like shootin’ fish in a barrel”.

  I called it just another night in the charmed life of Dr. Wynn Driver.

  Wynn was due in Friday on a late flight, would be crashing at my place for the weekend, and
probably expecting to get laid several times while he was in town.

  Given the amount of talking I’d done to him on Facetime about the hot new grad student that was sharing my bed, I knew that Wynn’s curiosity had been peaked. Especially when I told him I’d mentioned our threesome adventures to Jude and she seemed interested in perhaps learning more.

  And to Wynn that meant he would expect a little taste for himself while he was in town, Jude willing.

  Jude was a twenty-two-year, old grad student majoring in psychology, and one of the most amazing young women I had ever met at Midwestern University. She was not only drop-dead-gorgeous, with long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, tall, voluptuous, big tits, round hips, big ass, and best of all, she had an insatiable appetite for sex that nearly matched my own. She was also smart, witty, charming, driven, dedicated, and had a biting sense of humor and a fierce independence I rarely saw in young women her age.

  Of course, Midwestern University had a policy that discouraged—but did not strictly prohibit—its professors from fraternizing (again, the politically-correct term) with students. But Jude was old enough to make her own decisions and she was the one who seduced me in my classroom at the start of the summer term, so how could I possibly say no when she sat in the front row and flashed her pussy and then casually invited me to “fuck her brains out” after class? She said she was a nymphomaniac with a Teacher’s Pet fetish, and I was lucky enough to be the teacher she had chosen to bestow her favors upon. It would have been down right rude of me to say no. Right?

  It wasn’t as if the thought of having a threesome with Wynn and Jude had not been brought up in conversation, at least not directly. Jude and I had been together for a couple of weeks when the topic turned to crazy things we’d done, this after having spent the past hour fucking in the hot tub next to the pool at Jude’s apartment complex.

  We were a little drunk and had already fucked a marathon, but Jude said she had never had sex in a public hot tub so that became our plan. That was another of Jude’s things. She liked having sex in public places—restaurants, bars, public restrooms, the changing room at Macy’s, cars, parks, pools, locker rooms, my class room—places where we might be caught at any minute. She loved the danger of it, the uncertainty. I must admit, I did, too. No place was immune to our call of the wild.

  That night, we waited until midnight for the pool to close and for the other residents to go back inside before we snuck down to the pool, stripped naked, and went at it in the warm waters of the hot tub like two horny dolphins.

  As Jude and I tended to do when we were in the throes of passion, I guess we made too much noise, and by the time we had cum together like wet banshees we looked up to find that we had an audience. The pool area was surrounded by apartment buildings on all sides that were three stories tall. Practically every light in every building had come on and people were standing out on their balconies watching us have sex. When we were done, we got a standing ovation and hoots and hollers from our audience. Jude didn’t seem to care. She just laughed it off, stood up naked to take a bow, grabbed me by my quickly shriveling dick, and told me to come inside so we could finish our fun in a hot shower.

  An hour later, we were lying on her bed sipping wine, still damp from the hot shower, when she playfully gave my cock a tug and asked, “So, that was pretty wild. What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done?”

  “Wild as in?” I needed clarification of the word. To a guy like me, wild could mean a lot of things.

  “You know. Wild. Spontaneous. Crazy. Unbridled, unexpected sex with someone you never thought you’d fuck.”

  “Someone I never thought I’d fuck... hmmm…”

  She rolled her eyes and started petting my cock and balls as if they were a hairless house cat. “Yes, duh, quit stalling and spill, Professor Tight Ass.”

  “Well, let’s see…” I honestly had to think about it for a minute because I had done some pretty fucking wild things in my time.

  I had lost my virginity to my best friend’s slutty mom, Lois Raintree, when I was just sixteen years old. Her husband Alvin was a chemical salesman who traveled all the time. So, Lois was lonely. A lot.

  I still remembered it like it was yesterday. Me and her son, Jimmy, had just come in from varsity football practice, both of us hot and sweaty and smelling like dirt and grass. She told Jimmy to go take a shower because he was stinking up her kitchen. When we heard the shower turn on, she kissed me hard on the mouth, gathered her flowery sundress up and over her round ass, pushed her beige panties down to her ankles, bent over the kitchen table, and ordered me to “ram my young cock into her like a derrick drilling for oil”. She was from Texas, I guess.

  So that was the start of my wild sex escapades, but that was probably too tame a story for Jude. I fucked Mrs. Raintree all through high school. She was a great teacher who taught me what to do, how to do it, and what not to do. Lots of women have thanked me profusely over the years for the skills I learned from her. My graduation present was a blowjob in the front seat of her husband’s Chrysler New Yorker in the school parking lot.

  Sigh. I wonder where Mrs. Raintree is today.

  She’d be… sixty-ish…

  Okay, never mind.

  I’d had every kind of sex imaginable, in every place imaginable, with every kind of woman imaginable. I was not a snob when it came to women. I loved them all. Younger. Older (well, not sixty). Tall. Short. Thin. Fat. Blonde. Brunette. Red Head. White. Black. Latino. Asian. And I’d had (mostly) incredibly hot sex with them all.

  For some reason, the particular thing that came to mind in answer to Jude’s question was the first time Wynn and I double-teamed a Russian History professor by the name of Marsha Clarkson, who, by the way, still taught at Midwestern and was always good for a booty call any time, day or night, even if she was already in bed with someone else, usually one of her lesbian lovers.

  “Well?” Jude prodded, tugging my cock like she was playing with a yoyo. “You gonna tell me or not?”

  “I was just thinking about which of the ten thousand wild stories to regale you with,” I said, narrowing my eyes at Jude’s beautiful face and pretending to be deep in thought.

  “So, hurry up and pick one before my hand gets tired.”

  “Well, let’s see… do you know Marsha Clarkson from the history department?”

  Jude blinked at me. “Professor Marsha Clarkson? Russian History? Short, a little pudgy. Dresses like a lumber jack? Haircut like a dude?”

  I smiled at the description. “Uh huh. That’s the one.”

  “Yes, I know her,” Jude said cautiously, giving me a suspicious eye. “Isn’t she a lesbian?”

  I chuckled at the look on her face. “Well, let’s just say she plays for both teams.”

  “Okay… go on…”

  “So, one night me and my pal, Wynn, were having drinks at the Royal Crown Club on Fifth Avenue. Do you know it?”

  She gave me a nod, followed by a roll of her eyes. “Yep, stuffy place where academic assholes like you go to drink and hobnob and brag about how important you think you are.”

  I smiled again because she could not have been more wrong. “Actually, the RC, as we academic assholes who frequent the place call it, is an academic meat market of sorts. All the professors and administrators from Midwestern go there to drink and… well… meet people.”

  Her eyes grew as wide and her lower lip dropped. “Wait a second, are you telling me that the Royal Crown Club is a swinger’s bar for professors?”

  “You might call it that,” I said, though she had hit the nail directly on the head. “I prefer to call it a social club for well-educated, highly-intelligent individuals—”

  “You man academic assholes,” she said, her hand moving again, now gently milking my cock with her fingers. I felt myself growing hard—again—in her hand.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “Where academic assholes go looking to get their pipes cleaned by other academic assholes.”

  “It’s a sw
inger’s club where professors go to fuck other professors,” she said accusingly. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  Her fingers went tighter around my cock as it grew in her hand. She gave me a demure smile and said, “Okay, tell me more.”

  “Well, one-night Wynn and I were there having drinks and Marsha Clarkson comes in with a group of women who, as you call them, appeared to be of the lesbian persuasion.”

  “Let me guess; bad haircuts, lots of flannel, hiking boots.”

  “That and the ‘I Hate Men tee-shirts, yes,” I said. “Anyway, the place was crowded so we invited Marsha and her party to sit with us.”

  “Let me guess again,” she said with a thoughtful look. “You and Wynn were so devastatingly handsome you converted the entire table to heterosexuality and fucked them all right then and there.” My cock kept getting harder as her fingers slid faster over the veiny shaft. “You basically swiped all the drinks off the table, bent old Marsha over, and gave her the hard and fast fuck in her tight little arse hole.”

  I smiled and tried to focus my thoughts as the blood began to flow from my brain to my cock. “Not quite. Actually, the other women looked at me and Wynn like we were from another planet they would rather die than ever visit. However, after a few drinks, things loosened up tremendously and Marsha started rubbing my thigh under the table. I looked over and Wynn, who was sitting on the other side of her. He had a devilish grin on his face because she was rubbing his thigh with her other hand.”