My friend Stuart and I have known each other since high school. We later wound up going to the same college — about 100 miles from where we grew up — and sharing an apartment just off campus. This was something my parents had serious doubts about, and to be honest, I did, too. I mean, Stu can be a fun guy, but he is also a few kinds of trouble. He’s much more of a partier than I’ve ever been. He’s frequently rowdy and always down for a good time.

He’s also good-looking and athletic with a chiseled chin, fucking dimples, the whole show. He’s a gym rat with a sly-fox smile. People compliment him on his eyelashes, for fuck’s sake. My gram once said to me, “Your friend is a very pretty young man.”

He’s also a horndog of the first order, and back in high school, even girls who knew better managed to get sucked in by his damn looks.

I assumed he’d figure things out a little bit more as he got older. If he cleaned up his act, as they used to say, women would be showing up at our apartment at all hours as if through a revolving door.

As it turned out, he righted his ship somewhat. He could still play the clown as a college freshman, but he didn’t overdo it. I saw him get buzzed, but I never saw him get flopping-down drunk. But he didn’t stop running his trash mouth about sex.

He’d say, “Jake, look at that one. Her uncle must own a silicone factory.” Or he’d go, “Dude, I’d do every woman at this party, but that one over there looks like she’s been skipping breakfast. She needs some Stu meat!”

Thank God he kept his voice down when he carried on like that. At our apartment, he would try to get me to debate him about various women’s anatomy or their propensity for particular sex acts. Did his lab partner in his biology class shave her pussy or have a full bush? Would that waitress at the local diner deep-throat? Swallow? Toss a guy’s salad?

Sometimes, to my later chagrin, I’d get drawn in and play along. Stu could be very funny, especially after we’d both had a beer or two. But other times I would tell him to scale it back a little bit.

“You’re too fucking politically correct,” he told me.

“You know, Stu, you’re gonna alienate people. Maybe being a little more PC wouldn’t hurt you,” I argued.

Though I’m just an average-looking guy, I was doing better in the romance department than Stu. Early in my first semester, I had started dating a young woman named Naomi — a music student who was smart, funny and really cute. At the time, I had no illusions that she and I were soul mates, but she was good company. She was sexy and funny — a pint-sized bundle of giggles. The two of us soon grew more intimate. But I didn’t want to bring her to the apartment when Stu was there.

One rainy weekend, Stu went back to our hometown for his mom’s 50th birthday, and I cleaned and “de-Stu-ized” the apartment. I even rewashed the dishes he’d put away with specks of dried tomato sauce and cheese still on them. That Friday night, Naomi came over, and we stayed inside and had a grand fuckfest that lasted until midday Sunday. Naomi really liked sex, and she was good at it. It amused me to think that I didn’t have to argue with Stu about whether Naomi was shaven or had a full bush down below (for the record, she was tidily trimmed) or whether she deep-throated (she did — sparingly but with gusto). I kept all that to myself.

One evening later that semester, I was at our kitchen table, trying to read about medieval history, when Stu crashed through the front door, acting like a coke-addicted ferret.

“Jake! Jakey, man! This is unreal. You are not going to believe it.”

I asked him what was up.

“She’s here! I thought she was out of my life. Our lives. But she is back to fulfill her destiny — by which I mean, sucking my cock until the last drop of jizz has been extracted by her big, pillowy lips.”

“Who are you talking about? Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

He plopped down on the other chair at the table.

“Mrs. B!”

“What?”

“You heard me right. Mrs. B! Grete. Except she’s not a Mrs. anymore. She divorced her husband.”

Stu rattled on, “What kind of idiot guy would divorce her? It’s wrong on so many levels. Mr. B must be gay or something. Or maybe just stupid. She’s perfect, Jake! She’s even more perfecter than she ever was. Remember, you used to call her…what? The goddess something.”

“The Goddess with the Heavenly Bodice,” I said.

Honestly, just saying those words out loud made my peen twitch and tingle a little.

So, OK — let me back up and write a paragraph or two about Mrs. B.

When Stu and I were juniors in high school, our English teacher — a codger named Mr. M — had to have a serious operation. He was expected to be out for the rest of the term. So, Mrs. B was called in, and, of course, we figured she’d be middle-aged and boring. Were we ever wrong! When she first set foot in the classroom, all the guys suddenly went dopey. Some of them might have otherwise chortled and leered a little, but they were momentarily intimidated and tongue-tied.

Mrs. B was five-ten if not more, with Viking-like features and what seemed to be bushels of naturally blonde hair. Her breasts were twin mountain peaks. Her legs ran from the floor to forever. Please excuse the cliché, but she was drop-dead gorgeous.

All of a sudden, guys who hadn’t cracked a book since winter break were fascinated by Henry David Thoreau and Washington Irving. But it turned out Mrs. B was a tough teacher. She didn’t put up with the crap that teenage boys have piled on substitute teachers from time immemorial. Many of them — Stu, especially, along with this stoner named Richard — reverted to form and acted like Beavis and Butthead when they thought she was out of earshot, muttering crude remarks and chortling like horny hyenas. I was one of the few guys who’d behaved myself.

The girls seemed to like her. Maybe they felt sorry for her. I mean, they knew the guys talked about her the same way they themselves had endured all the time. But Mrs. B didn’t need to deal with the guys’ crudeness directly. She had poise and class with an air of whup-ass. Besides worshiping her, I admired her attitude.

Then one day, two weeks before the end of the school year, Mr. M was unexpectedly back, and we figured we’d never see our statuesque goddess again.

But back in the present, Stu dropped a bombshell: “She has a job on campus here. She works in the library.”

“You went to the library? Are you kidding me?”

“I got lost. It’s a big campus. Anyway, I told her you’re here, too. She remembers you. You and I should go see her.”

“Wow.”

“I’m gonna get into those panties of hers sooner or later,” Stu said, with a faraway look on his face — his fucking chiseled, dimpled face.

Stu and I dropped by the library together the next afternoon. My stomach was flipping and flopping. Jake was right — our former substitute teacher was sexier than ever, a Nordic princess. Her hair was cut much shorter than it had been nearly two years earlier. She also seemed calmer and more confident than ever. She said she was glad to see me. I’m sure I came off like a nervous chipmunk. I wasn’t clear about how I would address her, but she said to please call her Grete.

“I remember you,” she said. “You were one of the quiet boys.”

What surprised me — though it probably shouldn’t have — was how she seemed to be having such a grand old time with Stu, a guy who’d been so immature and rude about her not that long ago. Had she really never noticed any of his idiocy? Then I thought: Oh, yeah. Why don’t I ever remember the way of the world? Beautiful people are drawn to other beautiful people. After a few minutes, I excused myself and left the two of them there, chatting and gigging. Didn’t Grete have work to do? Maybe Stu was right. Maybe he would get into her panties after all. Fuck.

It seemed I was right. Stu and Grete actually began hanging out together! They would go running on the track at the athletic center or out for coffee when she was on her break at the library. Then one night, Stu showed up at our apartment about midnight with a big, dumbass grin.

“Don’t say it,” I told him. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

“It was batshit crazy, Jakey.”

I snapped at him, “I said I don’t want to hear about it. You’ll make it seem ugly. I’m not kidding. I’m going to study now, and then I’m going to bed. I don’t want to hear one word of it.”

After that, Stuart would drive to her house a few nights a week, or so he said. It was an inconvenient 15-mile drive, so Stu asked me if she might stay the night at our place sometime or at least drop by for a “flash fuck” after her shift at the library. I told him no way. Not while I was his roommate. Not while I was there.

One weekend, it was my turn to go back to our hometown for the weekend. I had no Friday afternoon classes, so I decided to leave town early. But I had a few errands to run first, including getting an oil change for my junk heap of a car. A little before 4 p.m., I headed back to our place to pick up my bag and check the mail. But when I stepped into the apartment, I heard a ruckus coming from Stu’s room.

It was Grete’s voice, and she was furious. At first, I couldn’t hear exactly what she was screaming. But then I heard, as clear as day, this priceless sentence: “You can burn in hell, you motherfucking little weasel!”

“Unlock me!” Stu hollered back. “Come on, Grete!”

“You’re on your own. Narcissistic pretty-boy shithead!”

It was all very embarrassing. I tried to make some noise to let them know I was there. Maybe this was some kind of role-playing thing they were doing, though they both sounded extremely convincing. I went into the bathroom and slammed the door hard. I locked it and flushed the toilet.

“Jake, is that you!” Stu called out.

I said nothing.

“Jake! Jake! Help me. This bitch is crazy!”

“You’re the bitch,” Grete screamed at him.

Again, I kept quiet.

There were some odd sounds, but the yelling finally stopped. I put the lid down on the toilet and sat there. Several seconds later, there was a knock on the bathroom door.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Jake, is that you?” Grete’s voice was soft, subdued.

“Yeah.”

“Open up, please.”

I did, and there she was, wearing Stu’s ratty flannel robe. She appeared to be naked underneath. Lots of boobage showed. She wore a strong, musky fragrance and a collar around her neck with little spikes on it.

“Do you know what kind of little shit you have for a friend, for a housemate?”

“Yeah, he can be a shit,” I said quietly.

“He’s a lying son of a bitch, too. Come out of there. Come with me. I want to show you something.”

I was trembling a little. But — mesmerized by the tone of her voice — I did what she requested. We stepped inside Stu’s room.

There he was, sitting in the chair across from his bed. His right-hand wrist was handcuffed to the arm of the chair with a set of handcuffs. But they didn’t look like real handcuffs or even like “sex toy” handcuffs. Instead, they seemed to be a rinky-dink plastic set made for kids to play at cops and robbers. But they must have been sturdier than they looked, because Stu hadn’t extricated himself from them. His left wrist was secured to the other arm of the chair with one of his ties, which had a pattern depicting Gotham City’s Bat-Signal. Stu was otherwise nude — except for his socks and a pair of electric-green women’s panties with a yellow daisy print. 

“He told everybody he got into my panties,” Grete explained with a sneer. “So, good!  He’s now in my panties.”

She grabbed her cell phone and took several pictures of him.

“So I have something to remember you by,” she said.

I swallowed and found my voice to say, “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“No?” Grete asked. “He didn’t tell his good friend — his housemate — that he was over at my place every night fucking me? A blatant lie, by the way.”

“He didn’t tell me. I told him I didn’t want to hear about his sex life.”

“That’s very strange,” she said with a mocking tone. “He told everybody else a lot of shit. My co-workers Phoebe and Cathy. They heard him on his cell phone out on the bench by the library saying all sorts of crap. Probably to Richard, that stupid friend of his.”

“Not true,” Stu protested.

“Not a peep out of you, or I’ll gag your dirty mouth!”

“Come on, Grete,” he begged her. “Can’t I at least explain myself?”

“No! I told you to shut your lying mouth.”

She went to him, knelt and peeled off a sock from his foot. She wadded it up and pushed it inside his mouth. She took a picture of that with her phone, too.

“The things he said about me. He said I had fake tits,” she huffed indignantly.

Grete pulled open the front of the robe she was wearing and out popped her stupendous breasts. Her pink nipples were aroused and erect — perhaps from anger rather than lust. They were amazing, in any event.

“Do these look fake, Jake?” she asked. “Touch them. Do they feel like fake tits?”

She grabbed my hand and put it gently on one of her breasts. I hadn’t had a lot of experience with medically enhanced mammaries, but hers seemed genuine to me. Genuine and spectacular.

Stu was struggling valiantly to expel the sock from his mouth. Eventually, he managed to spit it onto the floor.

“Oh, look!” Grete exclaimed sarcastically. “The little cuck spit out his gag. That tongue of his is good for something after all!”

“Grete, come on,” he tried to reason.

She stopped him.

“Do I have to put this stupid sock back in your mouth? Is that what you want?”

Stu shook his head no. He seemed more exasperated than embarrassed, to be honest.

I removed my hand from Grete’s tit, but she grabbed it again and put it back on her boob. She opened the robe fully, and it dropped to the floor.

“Phoebe told me she overheard Stuart saying I had a smelly cunt. Can you imagine that, Jake? Could you please put your face between my legs and tell me whether I have a smelly cunt?”

I felt weird about it, but I couldn’t disobey her. I knelt and placed my nose beside her pussy lips, which were crowned with a little fluff of blonde hair.

“So, Jake. Does it smell?”

“It smells good,” I told her. It’s…fragrant.”

“Very good answer,” she said. “What an insult, him saying that about me. You may kiss and lick down there if you’d like.”

My mouth moved to her labial folds, and I began to lap them with my tongue. Her clitoris was hard. The moment was intoxicating — and surreal.

“Look at this, Stuart. Look how talented your friend Jake is at pleasuring me with his mouth. You could learn a thing or two from him, if you had half a brain. He doesn’t ignore my clit, either. And he’ll be rewarded.”

She soon had me up on Stu’s bed with my pants pulled to my ankles. My dick was engorged, pointing to the ceiling.

“Aha!” said Grete. “Now this is a penis that knows what it’s meant for! Not as useless as your lazy, limp dick, Stuart. Look at it. It’s as hard as a meat hook.”

She put her mouth on my prong and began to suck me. I’d had some good head from women before, including Naomi. But Grete sucked cock with ardor and finesse. It was my best blowjob ever!

After a while, she came up for air.

“This dick is too good not to put to better use,” she proclaimed. She pushed me back, so I was prone on the narrow twin bed. She stripped my jeans and boxer shorts completely off, then produced a condom, which she quickly placed on my raging boner. Then she hovered above me, straddling me in order to insert my manhood in her twat.

The wet warmth of her sweet pussy engulfed the full length of my cock. We found a rhythm, and for several moments I forgot my dumbass roommate was watching us fuck. For a short spell, it seemed to be just the two of us: Grete and me.

But then I heard the rattle of the kiddie handcuffs as Stu resumed trying to get out of them.

“Are you learning anything, you miserable liar?” Grete called out to him, moments before she gasped and shuddered in orgasmic rhapsody. The force of her explosion prompted me to shoot my load inside her cunt with a final ecstatic thrust.

What followed was a bit weird for all three of us. Stuart and I remained silent as Grete dressed. She set Stu free from the handcuffs, collected her things — including her panties, which Stu had shucked — and left. I took a shower and went to my room. Within a half hour, I was on the road to my parents’ house.

When Stu and I finally talked about what happened, it was a brief, stilted conversation. He mumbled that Grete was “one crazy bitch.” Within a month, he’d dropped out of college, which he’d decided was not part of his career path. Last I heard, he’d given up on corporate life and joined the Navy.

Grete’s path crossed mine a time or two on campus, but our eyes didn’t meet. At some point, she moved on with her life elsewhere.

I started living with Naomi during my second year of college. We married two years ago — and we’re still together. I’d never worked up the nerve to tell Naomi about my bizarre encounter with the former Mrs. B, but maybe now that I’ve written to Penthouse Letters, I’ll finally find the nerve to tell her!