Dactyls by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 2006, 2009 This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission note must remain attached. Abstract: Two college students put a different spin on how to study for a poetry test "This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hemlocks..." Paula nudged me sharply in the ribs. "Don't go reading Wordsworth to me. You know I hate that." "It wasn't Wordsworth, it was Longfellow; I was quoting Evangeline:" 'This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks / Bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, / Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic' "...and I was trying to explain about dactyls and spondees." Paula and I were in the same poetry class. I had signed up for the class to meet girls, and Paula was the result. She was a few inches shorter than I and extremely limber. I was vocal in class and smarter than her in academics, she was vocal in bed and more knowledgeable than I in sexual acrobatics. It made for a good relationship all around, except on those occasions where Paula's mind insisted on abandoning all pretense at interest in our grades. "Dactyls, ducktails, who cares. And I thought spondees were like landowners in Spain." "That's grandees, hon, and keep flying off on tangents like that and we'll fail the test this Friday, which is why we both should care." I wasn't terribly worried about the test for my part, but Paula had struggled all semester with this course. I forget how many poetic forms there are, but we were discussing dactylic hexameter. It's the kind of form used in the old Latin epic poems -- and in Evangeline. Each line has six "feet", all but the last being a dactyl. What's a dactyl, I hear you ask. Well, as best as I can explain it, it's a word or set of words that sounds like "HARD-soft-soft" when you say it. "THIS is the FOR-est pri-ME-val...". Now I hear you asking why anyone would care. Please, don't encourage Paula, that's her attitude as well. Oh yes, and a spondee is a two-syllable combination that gets the same amount of stress. Not like the stress that studying with Paula was giving me. A different kind of stress at times, I'll grant. My fingers were tracing out rhythms on the printed page, while hers were walking up the inside of my leg, looking to creep under the edge of my shorts. I swatted lazily in the general direction of her hand, which had no effect whatsoever on her. She slid her fingernails in and scratched my balls teasingly. "Wanna see *my* hemlocks?", she said. "I shaved all the moss, but I'm wearing garments of green tonight." I looked up from my book, and the sight presented to me drove the remnants of concentration from my brain. Paula was sitting up with one well-sculpted leg extended outward, a thin strip of dark green panty nestled damply between well-defined thighs. Her free hand was tapping rhythmically at the top of the panty slice, TAP-tap-tap, TAP-tap-tap. "Dactyls, right?" she said. Her eyes fluttered and she took a sudden breath, clenching her thighs around her hand. I could smell her arousal. She could feel mine. Her thumb did something interesting, and I decided to go with her agenda. I stood up to shuck my shorts, and Paula smiled while she slid out of her panties. She tugged me down by my erection, curled her feet around my rear and pulled me inside her. One or both of us moaned; my lips found hers and we made good use of the bed -- first in missionary position from urgency, then more slowly with Paula on top. Her dark nipples bounced hypnotically high on her chest as she climbed to her second peak, draining me of any residual strength. Later, after Paula had pulled off to leave me in the wet spot, she came back and smacked me in the face with a damp washcloth. It smelled of sex. "I got it," she declared, "Women are dactyls, men are spondees." She grabbed my cock and jerked it by way of demonstration, up-down, up-down, rhythms of two. I wasn't sure about her simile, but I rose to the challenge of helping her demonstrate it. /END/