Charlie and Mindy Bk. 02 Ch. 05

"Just a minute." She stopped me in the hall. "I need to pee before we leave."

She vanished into the bathroom, and I waited for her. She emerged in a minute or so, and we headed down the stairs and out the door. We went down the front steps to the sidewalk, turned toward the campus, and began our morning march to school. And she turned toward me.

"Oh," she said, "Will you keep this in your pocket for me today?"

And she reached over, holding something pink in her little fist.

I said, "Sure," and I held out my hand, palm upward, under her hand.

She dropped a handful of cotton fabric into my hand. She'd had it tightly wadded up in her fist, and—as compressed fabric will—it sort of exploded as it fell and draped itself over my hand. I looked at it and went into shock. She'd just handed me her panties. Her pink panties. Her little, pink, bikini panties.

And they were still warm.

I gaped at her in astonishment. She gave me her best innocent smile, and continued marching toward the campus.

"B-b-but these a-a-are… b-b-but… y-y-y-you m-m-mean… you d-d-don't…" I stuttered and stumbled on my words, taken completely aback.

"Yes, they are," she said. She continued to march; helpless to do otherwise, I tagged along. Her innocent smile ratcheted up to impish. "And I don't. I did when I came over to the house. But not any more."

Dazed, I considered the ramifications with what was then my excuse for a mind: Short skirt… No panties… I looked over at her skirt, and my imagination ran away with me as I considered what it—that short little skirt and nothing more—concealed.

And I had an instant boner.

She looked at my crotch and detected the commotion. She looked back up at me. The impish smile turned devilish.

"I just thought I'd give you something… ummm… personal to remember me by during the long school day." She said it sweetly and nonchalantly, as though she'd given me a ring from her ear, a pin from her blouse, a bow from her hair, or a hanky from the purse she wasn't carrying, to remember her by for the day.

We were near the campus now. There were people not far ahead, so I dared not try to get her to take back the little pink treasure because that would mean making a fuss—she'd see to that!

With my usual flair for brilliant repartee, I said something like "Uuuuhhh."

"You'd better," she remarked slyly, "put them in your pocket. People will think you're a pervert."

Hurriedly, almost guiltily, I stuffed them into the left pocket of my jeans. She latched onto my arm and marched me into our French class. I needed that; I'm not sure I could have found the way by myself.

A few minutes into the class, I'd begun to recover my equilibrium, when I happened to glance over at her. My attention immediately fastened on the bare thighs that extended, crossed, from her short little skirt. Involuntarily, I thought of what resided—open, now, to any passing breeze—at the juncture of those lovely little thighs. Once I'd done that, I hadn't enough strength to keep from doing it again. And again. And so on.

So much for equilibrium.

She caught me looking a couple of times, and smiled her innocent little smile… as if she didn't know exactly what she had done to me. And that I was going to spend the day in a fog of lustful desire, unable to think about anything but her bare little pussy, airing itself as it wiggled around the campus.

Somehow, I survived French class, and she marched me off to calculus. Her instincts had been right. Munson gave us a pop quiz that dealt with exactly the issues that had puzzled her. Luckily, my own instincts for math were good enough that I could handle the quiz questions even through the Mindy's-naked-pussy fog that enveloped me.

After our calculus class, we walked together back to Koch Hall, where we would separate for our different eleven o'clock classes. She was well aware that I kept stealing glances at her legs and her thighs, and she knew exactly what part of her body dominated my thoughts. And why.

When we were about to part, she looked up at me. "I have a lot of work to do in the library this afternoon after PE. And I'll have to do some more work there after supper."

My lovely little sister looked me in the eyes. And smiled at me. Satanically.

"Why don't we meet at the circulation desk around eight? You might want the red pack."

And she was gone.

The fog lifted a little as I walked into my econ class. For the first time since she'd handed me that little pink scrap of cotton fabric, I remembered with a shock that I was going to get my exam back and find out how poorly I'd done. She'd completely distracted me from my worries.

I sat there, in a cold sweat, now, and nervous as a whore in church, while Prof. Schulte handed back our tests. He was a younger guy—late thirties, I would guess—pretty easygoing, but passionate about his subject. In spite of his pleasant personality, he did have a reputation for being moderately tough with grades.

He handed the exams back slowly and methodically, peeling one student's blue book at a time off a stack of twenty or so of them, reading out the student's name, and handing the blue book to the student in question. They seemed to be in no particular order, and I was surprised to see that he knew almost everybody's name. But it wasn't encouraging to see that most faces fell when people opened their blue books and saw their scores. I steeled myself accordingly, preparing for the worst.

He was about halfway through the stack when he called out "Charles Magness," turned to me, smiled, and handed me my blue book.

"Thank you, sir," I said weakly as I took the exam from his hand. I couldn't smile back; I couldn't even meet his eyes. I noticed that my hand trembled a bit as I set the blue book, unopened, on the desk in front of me.

A moment of truth had arrived. I stared unhappily at the front cover of the blue book. After ten or fifteen seconds, which seemed more like an hour or two, I screwed my courage to the sticking place, opened the blue book, and looked at the inside cover, where he'd written a number and a note, both in red ink.

I'd been prepared for a shock, and I got one.

But the shock I got wasn't the shock I'd thought I'd get. He'd given me 94%—four points above the minimum A. And under the number he'd written, "This was a very well written exam. Keep up the good work!"

I stared at the grade and the note in wonder. And then I collapsed, limply, back into my seat; the plastic back bent under my weight. I looked again, to confirm that I'd really seen the number I thought I'd seen. It was still there; it still said "94%"—still in red ink.

I almost laughed out loud.

He was still handing out papers and still had at least a third of the class to go. So, still leaning back, almost reclining in my seat, I stuck my hands in my pockets to relax and wait until he was ready to lecture. Unexpectedly, my left hand wrapped itself around Mindy's little, pink, cotton, bikini panties. There was a mighty throb in my crotch, and the fog closed in again.

I took my hands out of my pockets as quickly as was seemly, taking great care to be sure that nothing pink came out of my left pocket with my left hand.

And, a minute or two later, as Dr. Schulte began to lecture, my nose itched. I was trying, not very successfully, to take notes with my right hand. So I reached up to scratch with my left hand. And as I scratched, I happened to inhale. My hand, after just that very brief contact with her panties, her sweaty panties, carried Mindy's scent—the unmistakable, unforgettable, intoxicating scent of her pussy. I thought I heard my cock go "Sproing!" as it snapped to attention. She had given me "something personal" to remember her by, all right.

And her fragrance was addictive. After that first whiff, I couldn't stop my hand from shuttling back and forth between pocket and nose. I wanted to pull those little pink panties out of my pocket and cram my face into them. (After the class ended, I went to the men's room, locked myself in a stall, and did just that. If not for our assignation in the library that evening, I'd have beaten my meat right then and there.) I figured I was doomed to the fog for the rest of the day.

I found my way home for lunch. And, as I ate, I remembered that I still had a history exam to get back. The unhappy tension returned. But now I knew that Mindy had given me an antidote of sorts. It was in my left pocket, so I put my hand in the pocket, and I fingered her panties. And I made sure to sniff my fingers when I took my hand out of my pocket. The result was one of the strangest mixtures of emotions I've ever experienced, but it was certainly better than the pure apprehension that thinking only about the history exam brought me.

When the time came, not much later, I went off to my history class. But even with my hand in my pocket clutching my little pink pacifier, I felt like I was a condemned man walking the last mile. Nervously, I walked into the classroom and took my seat. a couple of minutes later, at one o'clock on the dot, Dr. Liddell walked in with the stack of blue books under his arm. He proceeded to return them in much the same way Schulte had done in my econ class two hours earlier.

If Dr. Munson was an older man, Dr. Liddell was a fossil. He was also scholarly, cranky, accomplished, cantankerous, precise, unforgiving, and demanding. Very demanding.

It was said that, in his distant youth, he had taught at Princeton and at Harvard, and that—although he had been on this campus for decades—he found students here to be uninspired, incompetent, indolent, and undeserving.

It was also said that he could have retired many years ago but that he enjoyed flunking students too much to have done so. He had a reputation for being generous with F's, liberal with D's, parsimonious with C's, stingy with B's, and niggardly beyond belief about A's. But his was the only history course that fit my schedule this fall, and I needed a history course. The courage I'd displayed when I'd signed up for this one now seemed folly.

I recalled that, on Friday, after I'd left the econ exam feeling good about how I'd done on it, I had deluded myself into thinking I'd been wrong. I'd had no good feelings at all about this history exam; I'd known from the time I'd turned it in that I'd done a poor job on it. And I knew that lightning would not strike twice. I prepared myself for the ax-blow that was about to fall on my neck.

At least, I consoled myself, I'll only have one bad grade to figure out how to compensate for. Filled with dread, I fingered the little pink pacifier in my left pocket. It helped.

Liddell, too, seemed to know all of our names. How do they do that? I asked myself. He was about three-quarters of the way through the class when he called my name and turned to hand me my paper. He looked at me impassively as he gave it to me.

"Thank you, sir," I said, weakly again, but with a little more strength than when Schulte had handed me what I was now thinking of as The Surprise. I did manage to meet Liddell's eyes, but they looked as though they had been chiseled out of cold gray stone.

I set the blue book down on my desk, as I had done with the other exam, and he moved on. There was a note, written in red ink, on the front cover. None of the exams returned to people sitting near me had anything written in red ink on their outside covers. The note on mine said "Please come in during my office hours to discuss this examination with me."

Oh, sweet Jesus! I said to myself. I fucked it up so badly that he wants to tell me to get the fuck out of his class!

I riffled through it and saw notes, written in red, on every page. I was about to cry, Fundamental Code be damned, before I had even read his comments. Then I decided that I would be a man, take my medicine, and look at the score. So I turned to the inside front cover of the blue book.

That cranky, stubborn old son of a bitch, reputed to be unable to write the letter "A" on any student work, had given me a 91%.

I floated on air for the rest of the afternoon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Around supper time, it occurred to me that I was going to have to admit to Mindy what an asshole I'd been. That dampened my spirits a bit. But, I thought, I had already done the really hard part of that. I'd recognized that I had treated her like dirt, and I had apologized for it. I had scolded myself, and I had acknowledged that I didn't deserve to be her friend—let alone her lover. I had believed it when I said it—and I still believed it.

She had accepted my apology and shown me how much she loved me whether I deserved it or not. Moreover, the proof—the little pink proof—was still in my pocket, where it had been pacifying me (and causing me to have random boners) all day long.

What I now had to do would be easy by comparison. All that remained was for me to confess that, even though bad performances on my exams would have been awful defenses for my bad behavior, I didn't even have those miserable excuses for being a shit.

I was man enough to handle that. Especially with Mindy's panties in my pocket. They had reminded me of my manhood again and again throughout the day—by causing it to make tents repeatedly in my pants. I reached in and fingered the pink fabric—just to be sure, I told myself, that her panties were still there. They were. And I sniffed my fingers—just to be sure, I told myself, that I still loved the smell of my little sister's pussy. I did. And I knew that I'd lied to myself. I knew that I'd fingered and sniffed for the same reason she'd given them to me: Because we were both healthy young perverts, and we both damned well knew it.

I spent an hour or so after supper going through the blue book Liddell had returned, and I paid careful attention to all of his comments. A few of them were positive, but most of them were very critical of what I'd written. One of the less negative ones, for example, said about my answer to his second question, "You have succeeded here in answering the question I asked you, but at far too great a cost. Your writing rambles and is poorly organized. You have written four paragraphs, when four well-chosen sentences would have sufficed."

Another said, "I am quite sure that you did not mean to say that General Braddock was an 'obsidian' man, although that is what you wrote. I suspect that you meant 'obstinate,' and he certainly was that."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I arrived at the circulation desk a minute early; the red pack arrived with me. Mindy was already there, waiting for me. I could read the tension in her face as I approached. I saw it begin to dissolve as, in her turn, she read my mood. She'd seen that, whatever the news had been, I was relaxed about it.

"How'd they go?" she asked.

"Okay," I said. "How'd your library work go."

"Fine," she said. "Ummm… is 'okay' all you have to say about those tests? After all that drama?"

"Ummm… wellll…" This, it seemed, was going to be a little harder than I'd thought.

"Go on," she encouraged me. She knew that I was in no pain, even though I was clearly cold sober, so she didn't quite know what to make of my behavior.

"I got a 94 on the econ test and a 91 on the history test," I blurted out, deciding that I'd get it out in the open, take the scolding I knew I had coming, and be done with it.

Her eyes widened, her body stiffened, and she stood there, totally silent, for a few seconds. I waited for the explosion, thinking that maybe the library had been a bad place to give her this news.

She grinned. It was a true, broad, deep, heartfelt grin, showing no trace of anger or resentment.

"Oh, Charlie!" she squealed. "That's wonderful!"

She bounced up and down a few times. She reached up, grabbed my neck, pulled me down, and gave me a big, loud kiss—a big smack, right on the lips. People turned and stared. I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible—which isn't very when you're six feet tall and weigh one-hundred-ninety pounds. Especially when the most wonderful woman in the world is standing right beside you making a scene.

She let go of my neck, grabbed my hand, and dragged me toward the east door of the building—the one that opened on the city side, and not the campus side.

"C'mon, you," she said. "We're gonna go and celebrate!"

"Y-y-y-you're not angry?" I stuttered out as she pulled me through the exit.

She stopped right outside and turned to look at me. Her left eyebrow arched upward.

"You know," she said, "I probably should be after the way you behaved on Thursday and Friday. You acted as though the world was going to end. But I just can't be mad at you for getting a couple of A's.

"I knew you could do it. I knew it. And you did!"

She started off again. She was headed for the park—which, given how much noise we wanted to make, was probably a good idea.

But then I remembered.

"Uh, Mindy?"

"Yeah?"

"You got a Western Civ test back today, didn't you?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Did you do okay on that?"

"I got a 96," she replied.

It was my turn to grin.

"That's great!" I said.

"Well, yes. It is. But I'm used to it. And I'm not used to having you do what you did!"

And, as we walked through the last of the light that cascaded from the library doors and windows, she gave me another of those wonderful heartfelt grins.

We walked on into the gathering darkness of the evening. After we'd gone a hundred yards or so, she had another thought.

"God," she said, "Old Man Liddell gave you an A! Liddell! I've only been on the campus for a month, and I know about him! He doesn't give A's."

"Mindy," I said, "I couldn't have done it without you. You've taught me so much about how to study and how to learn. It's as much your grade as it is mine. Thank you so much!"

She looked at me. It was too dark for me to see her expression, but when she spoke, I could hear the grin. It sounded like the evil one.

"You did the work, Charlie, and you earned the grade. But there's a little bit of truth in what you said. So we're going to share the reward when we get to the park. And after, we're going to Sarge's and I'll buy you a couple of pitchers of beer."

My cock twitched in anticipation of the "reward" we were going to share in the park. I broke my hand out of hers and snaked my arm around her waist. Her arm wrapped around me. We pulled each other close and kept walking.

And, a little bit later, when we'd gone another few hundred yards and we'd gotten well out of earshot of anyone on the campus, she spoke again. "And, by the way, I still don't have any panties on. You have them."

The instant boner lasted until she softened it, in the park, on our quilt.

After my little sister had screwed me silly again, she kept her promise to take me to Sarge's and buy me a couple of pitchers. (Actually, not quite two pitchers—she drank a mug-full from each herself, and got about as high as she usually permitted herself to get.) She kept me just sober enough that she thought I'd be able to get home without attracting the attention of campus security after I took her back to her dorm.

(To be continued)

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Comments are welcome. I don't comment on my own stories, so I have no way to respond to anonymous comments; I will try to respond to others.

—CarlusMagnus