She moved out of the dorms the day after she found cum on her sheets. Oh, she’d made an excuse, claiming terrible allergies—but it was the cum. Until then, it had been relatively painless to deal with her roommate and her roommate’s string of boys. A month and a half into college, Monica hadn’t suspected it would set the tone for the next three years. She didn’t date. She mostly avoided people in general. Still, she expected to fall in love. But with each devoid year, that expectation devolved into frustration. Then she met him.

He loved her, she knew it. He just... couldn’t show it, not here, not now. But that’s all right, she thought, she’d waited this long and she could stand another six months. Not until he made love to her, she told herself, even though the thought of it made her tingle. No, she was waiting for love, waiting to prove that everything everyone said was wrong, because you can find that one special man, who will make you a woman—his woman—and the happiness of finding that one person will rightfully be magnified by her commitment to herself.

It’s just too bad he’s married. But separated! I’m not a whore, Monica thought, I’d never break up a marriage. She was crossing the quad, alone in her thoughts, and it made her feel like a spy, because no one would ever suspect it. Except her sister, and Ben. But they were safe, mostly… They were her handlers, or maybe they were fellow spies, all on the same side.

Her sister hated it. The idea, that a student and professor were romantically involved—even though they hadn’t done anything, yet—was abhorrent. Aja had dated, unlike Monica, and she knew what boys were after, even when those boys were thirty-three.

“You remember Ryan?” Aja had said, immediately, as if cued, when Monica finally confessed to her. “You remember how nice he was, how sweet and smart he could be, so that even mother liked him?” A pause, then her whole body stiffened into a regal posture, “You don’t know the real reason why I stopped seeing him.”

“The real reason?” Monica loved that moment. Whenever things were boring her in O-chem—and it was so often lately—she’d go back and say it again, “The real reason? I thought you said…”

“No.” And her eyes grew wide and she clicked her tongue and shook her head and for a second, looked just like their mother. “No. That’s what I said. No. When I went to Los Angeles with Tracy… Ryan went with us.”

Monica gasped in response, but it wasn’t disapproval, though that’s what her sister believed, it was excitement. “You didn’t!”

“And when we were there, we spent the whole day together. We talked, and talked, about everything. And we went out… and I drank. And I felt so excited, so… such lust, that I almost told Tracy to spend the night at her boyfriend’s house.” Here, with wide eyes, she drew her thumb and finger together, barely touching, so that Monica could only see a speck of light between them, “And she would have done it. And I would have done it.”

Monica gasped again, and then she was so flushed that Aja surely thought her sister to be filled with shame.

“But it was only because I’d been around boys—like that—that I didn’t. I was ready.” She glared at Monica. “You are a little girl, and you don’t know what boys can do, to make you think that you want it more than anything.”

What could they do, Monica had thought, what and how? “You won’t tell mother, will you?”

“I won’t.” Aja replied softly, and channeled their mother again, “But you be careful, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

Ben was different. Ben had told her to leap on him and shower him with kisses and seduce him. His face lit up whenever he talked about it, and he grinned with evil delight every time he gave her that advice. And Monica would always yell at him and act very embarrassed and proper, and then storm off. And Ben would smile that enormous smile and she’d always look back and shake her head.

And then she’d sneak off, to the lab in the basement of the Fritzhof Building, or the bathroom on the second floor of the library, the one that was private. And when she was sure she was alone, she’d meet with Professor Weston. Dr. Weston.

“Dr. Weston,” She’d say in that voice she practiced in her car, so breathless that it was barely audible. “Dr. Weston, I’ve, I’ve tried to wait.” And then she’d moan, a long, “Ooooh. But I can’t.” And she’d drop her head and look up at him and say, “I’m a good girl, but it’s too much, even for me.”

And her hand would touch the very top of her breast, just the tips of the fingers. Running along the curves, and then down, to find a hard, dark nipple. With a squeeze she’d feel the tingle run down, warming her stomach, warming her special spot.

“But we can’t Monica,” He’d respond, “It wouldn’t be right, not for me or you. We have to…”

“No James,” She’d cut him off, just barely touching his lips with her finger. And then her other hand would caress his rod, “No, this is what we have to do.”

Barely thinking, she’d unbuttoned her pants, and was rubbing her spot. Fast at first, and then slower, as she thought about pleasuring him and how he’d pleasure her. She licked her fingers and thought, that’s his tongue, his tongue on me. In me. Her other hand, desperate, ran from breast to nipple, finally holding her neck, then holding the wall, holding herself up.

She’d caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, once. Legs spread wide, in those silly boots. Her hand deep in her panties, her face flush, her eyes half-closed. What Ben would give to see her like this, she’d thought, and then it came. It built up in her stomach and her thighs. She felt so warm and electric, and then the first wave would crash into her. She tried to keep quiet, but it was so hard. Once, she’d really let loose, and she wondered if someone in the library, walking by the door, had heard her and what he’d think.

Last time it felt so good that she just leaned against the wall for a few minutes. The cold ceramic against her back, her bottom, trying valiantly, and failing, to cool her off. And then, she’d follow the ritual, re-buttoning, re-zipping, making herself presentable again. She’d never been caught, never be caught, because she wasn’t just a spy. No, Monica was a master spy.

Her phone buzzed, and it was like those shock paddles doctors use to restart a failing heart. She looked around and realized she’d walked past Jersey Hall, walked practically off campus. Her phone buzzed again, she was late. It insisted, and it said ‘Lita’ just as insistently.

“Hey girl,” the voice rang out, “What’cha up to?”

“Class.” Monica responded, her tone matching her pace. “Late!”

“Really?” Lita sounded honestly disappointed. “Blow it off, come shopping with me.”

“I can’t go shopping,” Monica responded, “I’ve missed this class twice already! Remy’ll kill me!”

“Pleaaaaase.” Lita put on her best pout, she wasn’t very good at it, even when it was earnest. “But I need some air, girl, and the freshest air is at Deisel.”

“I can’t.” Monica was in front of Jersey, there was no reception in there, Lita was making her late. “Really. I want to, but I’ve got to be in this class.”

“Monica, you have to. I promise I’ll make it up to you. We’ll study, real hard. Just, later. Come on.”

“Oh. All right! But you’re responsible for my downfall!” Monica closed the phone, grimaced at the building and considered sticking her tongue out at it, but decided against it.

Lita was in front of the steps on Second Street. Beautiful Lita, blond and elegant. “The hottest girl at State,” Ben called her.

“Well, who’s the second hottest?” Monica had replied, jealous, but only intellectually.

“It’s a rotating position at second.” And then that smile.

“But I’ve got the same build,” Monica sometimes wanted to retort, “And I’m a full cup larger! And I’m Persian! And I’ve got beautiful, long, black hair like the Princess from Alladin!” But she never said that. No, all she’d ever said about Lita was, “Yeah, she doesn’t like you.” Monica only said it once, but it had the proper effect.

“Doesn’t like me, what’s not to like?!” Ben was too skilled at being pompous to show any real hurt. He was fine, Monica always acknowledged, intellectually. Not fine, like “Let’s get a burrito at the Caf for lunch,” but fine, as in, “Oh my, that brother is fine!”

Lita never explained her distaste for Ben and Monica never pursued an explanation, fearful that it would add fuel to Ben’s argument: “That anyone who says they wouldn’t date a black guy is racist.” Sometimes he’d add, “Same goes for any guy who says he’s only attracted to Asian girls or blonde girls or whatever. Racist. Me,” And that smile, “I’m attracted to hotties of all creeds.”

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