A Visit To Tig.

Or, Dr. Tig, as she now is. 

This 5’1” ginger-haired firecracker will never see general practice, or, for that matter work in a hospital. She is going to disappear into the mysterious world of medical research. She’s already working on a PhD (Hmm, will that make her Dr. Dr. Tig?) and she has already been approached by big pharmaceutical companies offering her indecent amounts of cash to go and work for them. I’m proud to say she told them in no uncertain terms to go and fuck themselves. Good for her. Her intellect is going to be used for the service of humankind. I would expect nothing less of her. 

Oddly enough, I didn’t spend the entire flight with my eyes tightly shut, gripping the armrests and trying to mentally will the aircraft to stay up. I won’t say I enjoyed it, but I did look out of the window once or twice. 

When I rocked up at her university college (the porters know me by name now.) she ran across the sacred turf of the lawn (Fellows only!) and flung herself at me, wrapping her arms and legs around me and giving me a bear hug. Now, Tig is someone who can work 48 hours straight with no food or drink…or shower. Sometimes, she can smell a little sweaty (Girl sweat is something I adore.) and she did on that day. My hyper-sensitive nose dissected the myriad of scents that make up Tig and told me 80% girl sweat, 10% the usual fustiness that comes from living in rooms in an ancient Cambridge college, and 10% vagina. Fresh, moist vagina. Tig is capable of working so hard she doesn’t realise she is horny. I’ve known her faint because she forgot to eat or drink anything. Her needs between her legs barely register. 

Her thesis, completed in just over a year, was accepted on first reading, but in typical Tig style, she forgot to go to her graduation ceremony. Honestly….that woman! 

Back in her rooms (why, I wonder, do these old colleges only have two settings for their central heating? On, or superheated?) she clattered around trying to remember where mugs and coffee might be kept, and then opened her fridge. Mistake. A bottle of almost solid cheese that had once been milk prompted a 20 minute discourse on the actions of microbes, and the decomposition process of milk. And then without missing a beat in her speaking, she simply said “Sure an’ all, will yers fuck me brains out?” When I’m near her, her Irish accent comes out to play. I looked at her in a grubby dress that she’d obviously worn for the last 48 hours - or more - and she looked so desirable, and I mean really desirable. Unshaven legs, hairy armpits, sweaty, and totally fuckable!  But I realised that I didn’t want that. Oh, I could have dragged her to the bed and screwed her senseless, but I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to make love to her. 

I walked over to her, and kissed her. Almost immediately, I felt her soften and melt in my arms. A murmered “Oh…yes” told me I’d read it right. I found the zipper and slowly, notch-by-notch, slipped it down her back and the dress fell to the floor at her feet. She tasted fabulous. Her tiny, rock solid tits with their ‘cherry-on-top nipples were so eminently suckable, I spent ages on them. Her scent…her 100% natural girl sweat reminded me somewhat of the locker room back at school. I led her over to the bed, shedding my own dress one-handed ly in the process. (I wasn’t wearing underwear.) 

Taking a girl’s panties off, slowly, gently, kissing down her belly and over her mound as you go is one of the most erotic things in the world. I gently spread her legs, and her sex seemed to open of its own accord. I leaned forward, savouring her scent. Again, my nose dissected it to perfection. 99% arousal, 0.9% sweat, and 0.1% pee. What could be more heavenly?

Well, since you ask, I’ll tell you. The moment I sucked her clit into my mouth, she came! Hard! The pent up orgasms of, well, months burst out one after the other, and with each one, she became wilder and wilder. After her fourth cum, she….hmm…let me see…..nope, I can’t find another suitable word. After her fourth orgasm, she raped me. Finger fucking me almost violently. Anally fingering me, causing me to squirt heavily.’Yer dorty fekckin’ bitch. Again!” 

Suddenly, we were on the floor. Tig straddling me, and anointing me with her cum, me straddling her and obeying her command to “Piss all o’wer me. Ya cunt.” Three hours of unbridled, uninhibited, at times tender, at times violent sex. The kind of sex only two girls can have. She knew, instinctively knew, when I suddenly felt a need for pain and her perfectly timed slap across my tits was exquisite. Tig enjoys being spanked too, but that wasn’t enough. She indicated an old riding crop - a left-over from some previous student, and I raised welts on her bum which, was it hours or days later, I kissed gently, tasting her blood. 

Three days. Three days I shared that brilliant, fiery, wonderful girl’s bed and board. Three days of sexual exploration. Walking around Cambridge in only thin summer dresses with nothing underneath. Fingering one another surreptitiously in public, amidst the tourists. Tig and me sitting at “The Backs” spread-legged, flashing people in punts ineptly trying to propel themselves along The Cam. The ancient and familiar King’s College Chapel behind us looking on. 

I know, as surely as I know that if I let go of a hammer it will fall, that the moment I left her rooms to go home, she will be back in her books, sated for the time being, and focused 100% on her work. They’ve actually given her her own lab space now, something that rarely happens. What do you do after a PhD? There’s no higher academic accolade. They’ve asked her to teach, but so far she’s resisted. I suspect sooner or later she will become a Don, and spend her life among her books and test tubes. She’ll never marry. Of that I’m sure. I’m equally sure she ‘won’t make old bones’ as my gran used to say. The star that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. 

I’ll continue to brave the mysteries of air travel and go and see her every few months for as long as she wants me to. And I’ll continue to relieve her pent-up sexual frustrations - in other words, I’ll be her unpaid whore. I’d love to get her to spend some time at home with me, but I think she would fret too much. We’ll see. Maybe the college will need to retire her rooms, or something like that…some reason to force her out for a few weeks. Then she is welcome back in the ‘auld country’. 

I wonder what those stony-faced, deprecative nuns with whom Tig would argue so often would make of her now? Of one thing I’m certain. Tig doesn’t give a flying fuck.