Content Warning: This story contains depictions of sexual acts.  If it 
is either illegal or inappropriate for you to be reading this, please 
stop now.  Or at least before you come to the good parts. 

Author: Miles Naismith
Copyright ( c )  1998 Mnaismith@hotmail.com


Distribution Rights: May be distributed freely without modification on
Usenet, Usenet II, not-for-profit web sites, not-for-profit ftp sites,
and news archival services which offer free public access to archived
articles.  All other rights reserved.



CANNON SONG
By
Miles Naismith

Walking toward the particular Gothic arch in a long row of such arches 
that marked the entry to Mike's dorm suite, in that Spring of 1969, I 
was on a natural high.  Trees were greening up nicely after a dreary 
Winter, the evening was cool and pleasant, and my former long term best 
friend, now my girlfriend, was walking beside me. 

My girlfriend was a sight to behold.  The micromini was the fashion, 
and it could have been invented with Karen in mind. At five-ten, she was 
as tall as I am and most of her was gorgeous leg.  At the same time, in 
one of those happy paradoxes so devoutly to be desired, feminists were 
burning bras, leaving women's breasts unfettered before the lustful gaze 
of men.  Karen's breasts were not overly large, but they rode high and 
her nipples dented her shirt enough to make it clear there was nothing 
underneath.  The face that was framed by the flyaway blond hair was not 
that of a classic beauty, but she was cute, and I thought she was the 
hottest thing on two legs.

Life was sweet.

"Tell me again who we're meeting tonight?  Besides Mike?" asked Karen.

"Well, Mike's girlfriend Susan will be there   the one you said looked 
like Annette Funicello    and John will be with Wendy, of course."  
Wendy was John's fiancee.  Mike and John represented two sixths of the 
occupants of the suite that was our destination.  The three of us were 
members of the same eating club, Princeton's closest equivalent to a 
fraternity.

"Please don't drool over Wendy's boobs tonight, Miles.  It embarrasses 
me."

"I don't drool, and you know I'm a leg man," I responded loftily, then, 
grinning, "But I'll try to control the heavy breathing . . ." I flinched 
as she punched my shoulder.

The other two couples had glasses in hand as we entered the suite.  I 
envied Mike and John their location.  The door opened into a comfortable 
sitting room, complete with fancy mouldings and a bay window, that gave 
common space to three fairly large bedrooms.   The suite accommodated 
six, but four of the roommates had gone road tripping to Vassar that 
weekend, leaving the place to us.

After hellos, Wendy said to Karen, "You can settle something for us.  
How do you rate the guys for housekeeping?"  

I looked around.  Hmmm, no dirty clothes in sight, at least some 
horizontal surfaces clear of detritus, including all of the cushions of 
all of the mismatched furniture and most of the floor . . . Hey the guys 
had cleaned up!

"No messier than most men, I guess.  I mean there is a lot of clutter 
around, but no obvious dirt, and nothing in a serious state of decay.  
I'd rate them medium."

"Pay up," John said to Wendy.  Turning to Karen, "She bet you'd rate it 
as 'pigsty.'"

"Hey! What clutter?" asked Mike.  Then sotto voice, "Just don't open 
the door to the armoire."

"Have a drink," said John, handing us the glasses of fruit juice mixed 
with whatever flavor of alcohol that happened to be in stock that passed 
for cocktails among us.

We all sat and made small talk for the duration of the drink, then 
Susan asked John what was on for the evening.

"Well, we kinda figured we could finish the game of Sloe Gin Spades we 
started last time, then maybe some Truth or Dare or something."  Sloe 
Gin Spades was a local rules drinking game, perpetually proposed in 
hopes of getting the girls drunk enough for the "or something" part of 
the plan.  After all this was the Sexual Revolution, and we didn't want 
to miss it.  With no incurable STDs and the pill popular with most 
sexually active students, we were ready to place our bodies in harm's 
way to fight the good fight.  As a strategy in this revolution, however, 
the primary result of Sloe Gin Spades to date had been massive 
hangovers.

"Maybe a movie," said Wendy, looking at Karen.  "Movie," said Karen, 
looking at Susan.  "Movie," agreed Susan, grabbing her sweater.

We strolled down Nassau Street, full of ourselves as only college kids 
can be.  The girls looked great and somehow got into a silly contest 
trying to outdo each other in parodying the hip swinging sexy walk 
stereotype.  Heads turned.  Mike, John and I were really just average 
kind of guys, but we felt like celebrities  with all the attention.  At 
least I did.  It was a bit of a letdown when we got to the one theater 
the town had to offer and found that the feature was some Swedish "art" 
film.  

"These things are *so* pretentious," groused Susan.  "Probably going to 
be rife with symbolism, saturated with gloom, and boring as Hell."  She 
was a math major, but her intonation suggested she'd be changing to the 
drama department soon.

"Better that than that awful Elvira Madigan stuff," muttered Mike, 
fearing we were in for a suffocatingly romantic ordeal.

They had both forgotten that there was yet another well known side to 
Swedish culture.  The movie began with a party, at which one of the 
women attending was accused of being a virgin.  Following some ribbing, 
and derisive disbelief of the woman's protestations to the contrary, the 
woman took a dare, stripped, and screwed her date in front of the 
assembled multitude.  No actual intercourse was shown and there was no 
full frontal nudity, but the baring of tits and ass in an overtly sexual 
context was pretty advanced for the time, and quite erotic in its way. 
The remainder of the film was similarly "shocking".  Actually, I  was 
shocked    or at least embarrassed    to be viewing this explicit fare 
with the girls.   I was even afraid to try and make out in the theater,  
not knowing how Karen was taking this.  I hoped it wouldn't put a strain 
on the rest of the evening.


I needn't have worried.  When we returned to the suite, the film was 
the sole topic of conversation. 

"Do you guys really get so excited over a few bare boobs and butts on 
the screen?" asked Wendy.  "They really didn't show much of the men, but 
it wouldn't excite me if they did.  At least not without knowing 
something about the guy."

"Superficial," interjected Karen.

"Is it better to date a guy you don't really like for status?  Girls do 
that," said I, realizing my mistake only after the fatal words had left 
my mouth.

Sure enough, the debate was on.  So much for Truth or Dare, or dancing 
to the stereo.  These newly minted feminists had to defend their 
position.  The only good result from the male point of view was that it 
was thirsty work.  I don't think the girls kept track of their 
consumption as well as they usually did.

Finally,  Wendy said that she was irritated with the movie because it 
seemed to take an unstated attitude that the Swedish women were sexually 
free, while implying that its American audience could never be so 
adventurous.  Karen and Susan agreed.

 I laughed and said, "But it * is*  true . . . none of us here has the 
nerve to strip in front of the others, much less screw.  Let's face it, 
we're too inhibited to do anything in public."

"I'll bet you couldn't find many Swedes who would be comfortable 
screwing in front of an audience.  The people watching were wearing 
clothes, for God's sake," observed Karen drily.  

 I was forced to agree, but still insisted that, aside from a little 
more freedom permitted by modern birth control, none of us could easily 
free ourselves from the same cultural conditioning that bound our 
parents.  "It is well documented," said I, "That Swedes have fewer 
inhibitions.  If the premise is that American women are less free than 
Swedish women, it's still basically right, even if they exaggerated." 

The women angrily protested that it was not so.  Not  now.  They 
allowed as to how they were children of a new age who would make their 
own rules.  

"I sleep with anyone I want to," said Susan, "I'm just choosy.  I don't 
have my Mom's worries about getting pregnant, and that's what produced 
the old morality."

The debate went on for an hour or so, dealing on an ever more 
philosophical level with this most basic of acts (this was college, 
remember.)   Except for John and Wendy.  For them the debate seemed more 
personal, almost tinged with unspoken resentment.  It was subtle, but 
definitely there.  Something to do with the loss of freedom that 
accompanied the mutual commitment to marriage was my sense.

"Well if you're so uninhibited, let's see you strip now," said John, 
addressing all the girls, but looking at Wendy.  "Put up or shut up,"

"Alright, big man," said Wendy, sarcastically, "Just as soon as you 
guys do." She sounded serious.

I could see that neither Karen nor Susan was comfortable with this.  
For that matter, neither was I.  We were none of us ugly, but neither GQ 
nor Playboy would have given any of us a second look.  I don't mind 
being nude with a girlfriend, or in the locker room, but it would take a 
bigger ego and a better body than mine to strip in this suddenly tense 
atmosphere.

As we stared at one another, waiting for something to happen, I finally 
said, "Not me.  This is too weird and wouldn't prove anything anyway.  I 
say forget it   let's talk about something else."

Everyone looked a little relieved.  John refilled glasses in the 
ensuing silence.  Then Susan, the quietest of us that evening, said, 
evenly, "I think we can settle this.  There are three bedrooms here, 
each with its own door.  Suppose you three leave the suite for five 
minutes.  Each of us will go into one of the bedrooms and turn off all 
of the lights.  When you come back, turn off the lights in this room.  
Then each of you goes into one of the bedrooms.  We'll set an alarm for 
two hours, and when it goes off, you leave again for five minutes.  The 
only rules will be that the lights will remain off until everyone is 
back out here, and that whatever occurs in the room must be mutual - no 
force.  Oh, and no one will ever speak about what happens in the room."

Never has a speech delivered like a lecture on the proof of a theorem 
given me such an adrenalin rush.  I also got an embarrassing lump in my 
pants.  Good thing I was sitting down.  I waited for the protests from 
the other girls.  I couldn't believe it when none came.

With consummate sensitivity, Mike said, "But if we don't agree to sex 
before we start, we could end up spending two hours just sitting in the 
dark.  How does that prove this great  freedom?"

"Well, Mike," said Susan, "Miles advanced one thesis, and we've 
advanced another.  This is the experiment to determine if either is 
true.  If we agree in advance, there's no uncertainty."  I just love a 
mathematician who can also do empirical.  So rare.

"I can't tell you how turned on I am," I said, "But Wendy, you and John 
are *engaged*.   Do you really want to do this?"  I looked at Karen when 
I said this, silently asking the same question.

Wendy smiled, "I'm not going to change who I am just because I'm 
getting married.  We'll just have to see whether John can accept me even 
if I don't conform to the 'little missus' image.  In fact, I just 
thought that John might end up with me.  That'd prove nothing.  I want 
to change the rules:  we set the one alarm for one hour, set another for 
two, and then you guys change rooms after the first hour.  That way we 
can be sure that each of us will be with at least one person other than 
our own date. We should also ban talking.  It'll be more of an adventure 
if we can't be sure who we're with."

Mike, analytic as ever, noted that if sex were a possibility and if 
anonymity were desired, then the men's clothing would have to be left in 
the sitting room.  Otherwise, the odd piece left in the dark would let 
the women know who had been there. 

Karen and John looked a little uncertain, but after a few glances back 
and forth between the girls, Karen finally whispered, "Leave now before 
we change our minds."   The three of us walked out with our fists balled 
in our pockets, a little hunched over.  I was glad we had decided not to 
strip.  That walk out was embarrassing enough.

The three of us stood in the courtyard outside the entry, almost 
shaking with excitement.  John finally broke the silence, "This is 
stupid.  They'll never do it.  Wendy, for one, is too straight. I'll bet 
we go back and find that they've cooked up some joke to embarrass us."

We all laughed and agreed.  We decided to wear our jockeys so the girls 
could not catch us completely nude if this was a trick.  We talked about 
what we could do to retaliate, but underneath we hoped against hope.  
After the five longest minutes of my life, we went into the suite.

Amazingly, there was no one in the sitting room.  My heart beat faster, 
even as I told myself to expect a glass of water in the face when I 
opened a bedroom door.  We stripped to our underwear and each of us 
stood by his chosen door.  I was closest to the switch, so I shut off 
the lights and opened my door.

The room was black.  I took a couple of steps and promptly hit my shin 
on a bed.  I felt around, but the bed was empty.  At first I thought the 
girls had tricked us by leaving, but then I remembered that the suite 
held six, two beds to a room.  I continued into the dark, feeling my way 
past desks and chairs to the other bed.  It was not empty.

Hearing the breathing of my anonymous companion, I felt for a clear 
spot on the bed and sat down.  Slowly I explored the remainder of the 
bed until I found her, sitting on the edge at the head.  A delicate 
exploration found her leaning forward with her arms clutched around her 
chest.  She was fully dressed.  Not promising body language, I thought 
to myself. 

Putting my hand on her cheek, I tried to gently turn her toward me, but 
she resisted.  She was obviously having second thoughts about the whole 
thing.  No more than I expected, I thought. I was disappointed, but 
relieved at least that I would not be the butt of a humiliating joke.  I 
moved into the interior of the bed and sat against the headboard to wait 
out the hour.  I began to consciously control my breathing in hopes of 
attaining a meditative state that would allow my erection to subside.

After a few minutes, I heard her turn and felt a hand on my thigh.  She 
started when she realized it was bare.  In a moment, the hand was back, 
moving up to my face.  I heard her move again, and smelled some floral 
perfume just before I felt her lips on mine.  We kissed, but when I 
started to move my arms, she took my wrists in her hands and put them at 
my side, telling me as clearly as with speech to keep them there.  She 
moved away, and I heard some rustling which I hoped meant she was 
disrobing.  When she returned to our kiss, she pressed against me.  She 
felt bare except for a bra.  A shiver of excitement passed down my 
spine.  Karen had not worn a bra.

We continued to kiss for several minutes, and she did not object when I 
moved my hands to her arms and back.  I confirmed that she was wearing 
her bra and panties. 

As we continued kissing, I tried to move my hands around to her 
breasts, but each time she clamped down before they reached their 
objective.  After what seemed an eternity of this frustration, I 
expected the alarm to sound at any minute.  I decided that I would find 
out whether our intimacy had peaked.  I took one of her hands in mine 
and placed the palm on my face.  With my other hand, I plucked the strap 
of her bra.  Then slowly I smiled.

In context of the debate, the meaning was clear.  As my smile 
registered on her hand, she knew what I was saying.  We sat for a few 
seconds, then she moved away.  I felt hands take mine, one to her face, 
and one to her now bare breast.  Then she smiled just as I had.

Mentally I was happy to concede the argument.  My erection hardened 
beyond what I had thought possible as I held in my hand that breast that 
couldn't be Karen's.  We fell to kissing again, and this time there was 
no objection my caresses on those exciting strange breasts.  Slowly I 
kissed my way down to them, and took a stiff nipple in my mouth.

Kissing and licking both breasts, I moved my free hand up and down her 
body, slowly coming closer to her center.  While she pretended she 
didn't know what I was doing, I snuck up on her mound, and let my thumb 
graze her panties, as if by accident.  She shuddered,  but did not 
protest.  I moved back up to kiss her lips as my fingers became more 
purposeful in their caresses.  The silk of her panties felt glassy 
smooth, and eventually hot and wet above her vagina.  Her hips were 
making tiny, involuntarily jerks as my thumbnail lightly traced the 
furrow of her sex, bumping gently over her clitoris.

I took one of her hands and placed it on the lump in my underwear.  She 
grabbed me painfully hard, and then slid her hand under my waistband to 
take me in hand.

With her hand under my pants, I slipped my fingers under the elastic at 
the leghole of her panties, and began to rub her wet folds.  Moving my 
index finger to her little nubbin, I stroked it with only the most 
delicate pressure.  Her hips immediately began to spasm and she let out 
a moan.  I almost came then, for I was sure that moan had come from 
Wendy.  Visualizing her face and body made the whole experience even 
more viscerally exciting, if that was possible.  Any worry about coming 
prematurely evaporated a second later,  for as her body rocked in a 
sudden orgasm, she squeezed her nails into my penis so hard I was afraid 
I would bleed.  Caught up as she  was in her orgasm, however, I doubt 
that she heard my cry.

As she calmed down a little, I took her hands and put them on the 
pillow, above her head, with her wrists crossed.  She started to lift 
them, but I gently pushed them back.  After several repetitions, she 
left them where I had placed them.  I then began to kiss and caress her 
again, slowly working my way down her body.  This time I did not stop at 
her breasts.  When she realized where I was headed, I felt her tense and 
felt her hands on my head.  Gently but firmly I returned them back over 
her head. With a ragged breath, she left them there as I resumed my 
journey.  I was sure she had never been eaten before.

As I approached her mound, I raised myself up and slipped her panties 
down and off her legs.  Her hands suddenly hit my shoulders, but they 
had returned to the pillow even before I could reach them.  She did not 
resist as I spread her legs and covered her with my mouth.  Slowly and 
gently at first, I licked and explored with my tongue.  Slowly but 
surely my tongue began to center its explorations on her clitoris.  
Again her hips began to buck, and I used both hands to hold her while I 
flicked my tongue as fast as I could.

Again her orgasm came with sudden intensity.  Unable to control my own 
lust any longer, I moved up and slipped into her while she was still in 
the throes of her orgasm.  My entry seemed to precipitate a new series 
of shudders in her.  She was a tight, warm pressure around my erection, 
squeezing on every inward thrust.  The sensation was almost too intense 
to be pleasurable.  Although I prided myself on my ability to defer 
ejaculation to prolong the pleasure, no mental discipline in the world 
could have stayed me from those few compulsive thrusts to orgasm as soon 
as I was in her.

As I virtually collapsed on top of her, I felt her shudder again as my 
softening member slid from her.  We were languidly kissing when the 
alarm went off.

I pushed myself off of her and off of the bed.  I felt around for my 
underwear, which I had managed to get off at some point.  As I found it, 
I felt something soft and fuzzy, like a sweater, although it could have 
been a blanket.  Only as I left the room did I think that Susan alone 
had worn a sweater that night.  

I'd been sure I'd been with Wendy, wondering what John would think when 
he arrived by prearrangement at this room next to find his fiancee nude 
and wet.  Now I was not so sure.

As we had agreed, I stumbled through the darkened sitting room to my 
next assigned bedroom.  I blushed with embarrassment when the erection 
of one of my friends grazed my hip as we passed unseeing.  But then I 
was in the new bedroom, and my penis was miraculously hard again.

More confident after the last encounter, I stripped off my underwear as 
soon as the door closed.  I felt my way to the far end of the room and 
found the occupied bed.  An exploratory hand found my nude adventuress 
stretched out on her stomach.  I slipped in beside her and lay down.

At my gentle tug, she rolled to her back.  My hand caressed her breasts 
and then moved lower.  She limply let me spread her legs and rub her wet 
vagina.  With a resigned sigh, she began to pull me between her legs.  I 
began to sense that something was not quite right, a feeling that 
intensified as I heard an almost silent sniffle while she reached to 
guide me in.

At the sound, I moved back and sat on the foot of the bed.  I wasn't 
hypersensitive about political correctness or the absurdly strained 
definitions of sexual harassment and rape that it spawned (they hadn't 
been popularly reported back then), but I'd long ago decided that 
recreational sex was only worth the potential hassles if the girl 
appeared to actively enjoy it, not just tolerate it.  
With my retreat, the sniffle evolved into active crying.  I stretched 
out and embraced my bedmate as best I could, considering that she had 
drawn up in the foetal position.  I also broke the rules and spoke, 
trying to comfort her.

After a few minutes, she cuddled to me a little and the crying 
subsided.  When she spoke, it was Wendy.

In fits and starts, the cause of the crying began to emerge.  
Apparently her first partner had been John, recognized by a mole on his 
back.  She was sure that he had not recognized her as she willingly 
engaged in sex with him.  She was sure he hadn't cared who it was.  As 
best I could tell, she was upset both because he had not recognized her 
and because he had been so willing to bed a stranger.  Words like "just 
like a goddamn man," "can't think of anything except his dick," and "if 
he really loved me he would have . . ." came through the sobs.  And 
then, after she had decided to get back at him by fucking the brains out 
of whoever showed up next, I had rejected her.   Or maybe it was 
something else . . . coherency was not at a premium just then.  I 
suppose I could have defended John, pointing out that anonymous sex in 
the dark was just what had been proposed and agreed to, by her, no less.  
But by some sweet miracle of dumb luck, I did the right thing.  I just 
kept quiet and held her.

A few minutes of silence followed her torrent of words, and then I felt 
a small fingers on my penis.  It had drooped, but now fought its way 
back to full staff.  "I haven't been very fair to you, have I," she said 
quietly.

"You don't have to do anything for me," I said.  "You have proof in 
hand that I find you sexy, but you've always known that anyway.  Hey, no 
obligation."

She kept her hand there and whispered, "Uncle Miles?"

I winced.  I had known this was an "Uncle Miles" moment from the 
instant I heard Wendy's voice, but I didn't want to hear the words.  Not 
now. Not with her hand *there*.

Wendy and I had a relationship no one else knew about.  It started 
years ago when she thought she needed a male friend to confide in over 
some problem with John.  A Dutch uncle.  Uncle Miles.  As the trust 
between us grew, so did something else.   A special love.  Not the kind 
she felt for John, nor the kind I was coming to feel for Karen, but 
special.  Intimate.  Neither John nor Karen would ever have understood 
without feeling threatened. The words  "Uncle Miles" had come to be the 
key to that special room where we admitted our vulnerability to each 
other, allowed ourselves to admit our feelings. It also invoked the seal 
of the Confessional.  Nothing said there was ever mentioned outside, 
even between us.  She didn't turn that key often. 

"Uncle Miles?"  This time it was a plea.

"Uncle Miles," I agreed.

"You know I'm going marry John."

"I knew before you did, I think."

"You know I'm going to be that little missus.  Faithful and loyal just 
like my Mom."

"It's the only way you could be."

"Miles, I was ready to fuck whoever came through that door.  But I 
don't want that any more."

"I know.  No obligation."

"That's not what I meant.  I want you to make love to me.  Just this 
once."

For the briefest instant I wondered whether this was going to be wrong.  
No more adventure, no anonymous sex in the dark.  Something that could 
kill our relationship forever.  Something that could kill my friendship 
with John.  But I had to do it.

The words had been tender; the sex was not.  It turned out neither of 
us was into foreplay.  She quickly pulled me into missionary position 
and guided me into her.  I almost came immediately, but fought it off 
and stayed hard.  I continued to thrust until she moaned and came.  As I 
started again to thrust, she pushed me off, saying she had to move.  
Quickly she was on her hands and knees.  Doggy style was new to me, but 
I figured it out. 

I wanted it to last forever.  Thanks to a forced mental recitation of 
Horatio at the Bridge (the only poem I had memorized in high school,) I 
was not even close to coming when she had her next orgasm and fell 
forward on the bed.  I followed her down and continued to thrust as she 
tilted her hips up to help.

Suddenly we were startled by the alarm, and I disengaged.  Wendy 
quickly sat up and pulled me back to her as I stood up by the bed.  One 
hand went around to my back, and the other encircled the base of my 
erection.  Then I felt soft lips parted by the head of my penis.  Her 
warm, wet mouth moved down my shaft while her hand moved up.  I felt her 
tongue on the underside of my glans, following the ridges.  Although I'd 
performed cunnilingus on some of my dates, this was my first time on the 
receiving end of oral sex.  The physical sensations were exquisite, but 
very idea of me in Wendy's mouth was even more overwhelming. In less 
time than it took to describe it here, I came. I think it surprised her, 
but she gamely held me inside until the last spasmodic quivers had 
ended.  Then it was over.

I quickly donned my underwear and left the room.  I heard the other two 
guys already there, getting dressed as I pulled on my own clothes.  We 
slammed the door to let the girls know that we were gone.

For five minutes we stood in silence in the courtyard, scarcely 
believing what had happened, and, more bizarre yet, that the *girls* had 
talked themselves into it.  I spent the time wondering whether I had 
just made a big mistake.  When we returned, the girls were dressed in 
the living room.  We quickly parted company, and Karen and I walked back 
to my dorm room.  

On the way, I asked her if she had been able to recognize who she had 
been with, half hoping that she would reveal what had happened to her.  
Strangely, being with Wendy had made me feel even closer to Karen.  I 
truly cannot tell you whether I would've rather been assured that 
nothing had happened in Karen's room, or whether I wanted to hear that 
she had shed her inhibitions with strangers in the dark.  I never knew, 
though, because she never said a word about what happened for the 
remainder of the time we saw each other.  But then, neither did I.


*******
Credit where credit is due - This story read rather like a lecture in 
first draft.  I needed help.  Janey Urquhart graciously agreed to do 
some editing and to give me advice.  She helped me figure out how to fix 
it, and I did the best I could.  Thanks, Janey.  BTW, I was not so crass 
as to ask her to proofread after she had given me so much time on the 
important stuff; the credit for proofing errors must go to me.

Miles Naismith