100 Women Volume One (2 page)

"
No real names," I assured her. "I won't even use the name you
give me…just in case. I'll just make them up in some random
fashion. You might not even be able to recognize yourself in the
book. And no personal information. I won't ever ask for any. The
only thing I might need is, if there's any chance you could pass
for someone under the age of 18, I'll need to see a picture I.D.
with a birth date on it. But the photo and birth date are the only
things I'd need to see. You can cover up everything else with tape
or your fingers."

There was silence on the
other end of the line. I felt it best to plunge ahead before the
pause turned awkward. "Keep in mind that absolutely everything
about this project is voluntary. And absolutely nothing will take
place that doesn't have your consent. You call all the shots. If
you walk in and decide you'd just rather not, then nothing will
happen."

"There's not gonna be like
cameras or anything, is there?" She had a healthy dose of
suspicion.

"No. No recording devices
of any kind. It'll just be you and the researcher and nobody else.
No one else will ever see or know of your participation in the
study."

"Do I get to meet the
researcher first?"

Ah!—a minefield, if ever I
heard one. "Can I meet him first?" is the sort of query that smacks
of the more blunt question, "Is he good looking enough for me to
want him touching me?" A misstep here could blow up everything.
Fortunately, I had practiced just what my response would be in such
a situation.

"
Well, typically," I said, as though this had already been
done dozens of times, "the researcher doesn't meet the volunteer
subject until the time of the study session. After all, it's not a
dating service but, rather, a research project. But," I added, as
though it were a novel idea that had only just occurred to me,
"seeing as you and I have already talked, would you be comfortable
if I were your session's researcher?"

"Uh...I dunno...maybe,"
she stammered. There was just enough indecision in that response to
provide me the needed opportunity. It was time to close the
deal.

"Why don't we set up a
session appointment for you," I chirped with the authority of one
who knows what's best in these circumstances. "You can meet me at
the study location. Check out the room. Check me out. If there's
anything at all that makes you feel the slightest hesitation, then
we'll cancel the whole thing. But, if it looks okay to you, then
we'll have the session. And I can promise you it'll be the most
physically rewarding project you've ever been a part of. How 'bout
Thursday evening?"

Thursday evening was no
good for her. But her Saturday morning was free. Perhaps it wasn't
about schedule conflicts at all but, rather, just a preference to
do this in the light of day when the world seems a somewhat safer
place. No matter. I scheduled Annie for Saturday and gave her the
address of the apartment. It was done. A woman I'd never met had
just agreed to allow me to masturbate her. A girl whose real name I
didn't even know was about to hand me that most personal of toys
and give me the green light to play with it. To say it was a rush
doesn't begin to describe my feelings at that moment. I realized
there was still the possibility that she might back out before it
happened. But I was optimistic. I had talked her into coming to the
apartment. And soon, I mused, she'd be
coming
in the apartment. I sat back
in my chair and suddenly noticed I'd gotten hard.

While waiting for Saturday
to roll around, my mind often wandered to fantasies about Annie and
the kind of woman she might be. What kind of girl responds to such
an ad? What kind of woman reads the uncensored section of a
tabloid's classifieds? Was she lonely and desperate or loony and
depraved? Could she be so unattractive and repulsive to men that
she's sunk to volunteering for sex studies just so a guy will touch
her? Or could she have ulterior motives for wanting to get
me
alone in a
room—diabolical schemes the likes of which I couldn't even imagine?
Was I setting myself up to meet a bunch of whackos that might be
bizarre at best and, at worst, dangerous? And what woman in her
right mind wouldn't be having the exact same thoughts about
me
? How horny does a gal
have to be to throw aside all caution and reason and let a stranger
put his hand on her genitalia? We know that a guy's dick can make
him do crazy things. But does a girl's pussy have that kind of
power over her?

I was still vacillating on
whether Annie was likely to be a lonely heart or a black widow, and
on a few occasions almost talked myself completely out of the whole
project, when Saturday morning finally dawned and it was time to—as
they say in elite circles—
shit or get off
the pot
. I fussed around the apartment,
obsessing over every imperfection and adjusting every stick of
furniture for what I hoped would be maximum positive effect. I
repeatedly looked at the clock as the appointed hour drew nearer
and found it impossible to decide on an appropriate piece of music
to put on. Music is such a personal taste thing. What one person
finds romantic another may find revolting. Eventually I gave up,
figuring that, if she wants music, I'd let her pick something out
from the eclectic selection I had available.

The appointed hour came.
No Annie. I adjusted the cushions on the couch and cleaned a tiny
smudge off a window. Five after the hour. Then ten. Still no Annie.
I stared out the window, scanning the street below, possibly
expecting that at any moment I might spy a girl who'd be squinting
at building addresses.

A quarter after the hour,
and there was no sign of her.
She's not
coming
,
The girl's
pussy just hasn't been able to make the rest of her do
it
.

I was slouched into a
corner of the couch, mulling ways to improve on my recorded
telephone pitch, when the buzzer from the lobby front door
announced a visitor. I wasn't expecting anyone else. It had to be
her. I rushed to answer the buzzer.

"Hello."

"I have an appointment,"
responded a familiar voice.

"Annie?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you made it," I
said with genuine sincerity. "I'll buzz you in and come meet you in
the lobby."

I glanced at the clock. It
was about twenty-five after the hour. She wasn't punctual, but she
was there. Her pussy had won out after all. Never underestimate
Pussy Power.

I ducked into the bathroom
to check myself in the mirror. I was presentable in the casual but
somewhat preppie attire I deemed to be neither too formal nor too
stuffy. A few seconds later I was trotting down the hallway toward
the elevators. I didn't know whether Annie truly considered this to
be a big moment in her life. But it certainly was a monumental one
for me.

When the elevator door
opened onto the lobby, I stepped out and got my first look at her.
Physically, Annie wasn't anything like what I'd imagined. The
confidentiality I promised all volunteers prevents my giving any
substantively detailed description. However, Annie was a
wholesomely attractive girl with long, straight brown hair and blue
eyes. She was thin, but not skinny.

"Annie?" I said, offering
a hand in her direction.

Her expression was one
that suggested, while she probably wasn't astoundingly impressed by
my physical appearance, she at least was relieved to see I wasn't a
troll. In truth, I'm just over six feet tall, a fit 180 pounds,
with sandy blond hair that flies about in even light breezes. For
that reason, I tend to keep my hair relatively short, and a bit of
gel helps maintain a well-groomed appearance.

"Troy?" she
asked.

"That's me."

"Am I too late?" It was
obvious she was nervous as she gave my hand a brief and
ever-so-light grasp.

"Not at all. C'mon. Shall
I show you the apartment we use? I think you'll find it very
nice."

I led her up to the floor
where the apartment was located, keeping up a steady stream of
amiable chatter and reassuring her that she was free to turn around
and leave whenever she wanted.

"Okay," was her only
response.

Annie's character was not
bold, and it seemed unlikely that this mild mannered wallflower
would suggest any definite course of action for anyone at anytime.
So I gauged fairly quick that I was going to have to be somewhat
dominant with her to move things along. If I was the strong, but
gentle leader, she'd be the cooperative follower.

I opened the door to the
apartment and entered first to demonstrate that it was safe to
cross the threshold. Her eyes darted to all sides of the room
before she stepped through the door. Once inside, she planted
herself a foot to the right and stood at semi-attention, awaiting
further instructions.

"The door automatically
locks on the outside," I said, demonstrating with a jiggle of the
outer doorknob. "But it's always open on this side," I added,
closing the door and then immediately re-opening it by turning the
non-locking inner knob. There was also a deadbolt lock above the
inner doorknob. I chose to leave that unlocked after I closed the
door the second time. I didn't want to give the perception that I
was locking her in.

"You live here?" she
inquired, checking the place out from her self-assigned sentry
post.

"This is where the
sessions are conducted. I think it makes for a more pleasant
environment than some stuffy office. Don't you?"

She shrugged.

"Would you like a
beverage?" I asked, making my way to the kitchen and opening the
refrigerator to display the selection of individual serving bottles
inside. "I've got juice drinks, soda, iced tea."

Staying near the door,
Annie accepted a cranberry juice cocktail. I brought it to her,
and, when she wasn't able to screw the top off the bottle, I
offered assistance. She took a sip, pronounced it good, and again
awaited further instructions.

She was in the apartment.
She had her drink. Now all I had to do was get her clothes off and
grab her snatch. Ah, patience. As the Wicked Witch of the West
said, these things must be done delicately. I began the subtle
process.

I invited her to sit, and
she chose one of the dining room chairs—probably because the dining
room table and chairs were the closest furniture to the door I sat
on the opposite side of the table and made small talk. We chatted
about the weather—how nice the spring had been, how hot the summer
would be. I was careful not to ask about any summer vacation plans.
I wasn't fishing for personal information, and I didn't want her to
get the impression I was.

I asked if she was free
for the day. Did she need to be somewhere by a certain hour. She
said she didn't. I was under no deadline pressure. I could proceed
slowly.

When one of my jokes
scored a hit by producing a genuine laugh from her, I felt she was
primed for me to ease into business.

"I'm gonna give you a
little info sheet here," I said, retrieving a copy of the
information/survey sheet from a nearby shelf. "It basically
describes what we've already talked about on the phone. And it has
a little survey on the bottom that'll help make this a great
experience for you and a scientifically productive one for the
research project."

She took hold of the sheet
as though I were handing her a dirty diaper and peered at it with
wary eyes. This is undoubtedly where she expected to find the fine
print that would cause her to bolt. I remained quiet to allow her
to read the page without interruption. I deemed it important she
not get the sense I was trying to distract her from anything
crucial that might be hidden within the text. Winning her trust was
paramount.

As her eyes scanned down
to the bottom of the page where the various sexual practices were
listed, I detected a few uncomfortable eye twitches and one
noticeable raising of the eyebrows. But there was nothing in her
face that suggested she'd been put off She accepted it for the
straightforward, frank research aid it was meant to be. I was
pleased about that.

Annie finished reading the
page and looked across the table toward me.

"Any questions?" I
asked.

"Do I have to take my
clothes off?"

It's times like this that
one wonders how we find the strength to refrain from screaming the
unbelievably obvious. I was tempted to say, "No. I'm sure you'll
just love having me finger the outside of your jeans." Instead of
making a smart-ass comment, I said, "You don't have to do anything
here unless you absolutely want to."

She had no other
questions, so I brought her a pen and asked her to fill out the
survey while I went to the kitchen to get myself an iced tea. She
made a few quick checkmarks in the top boxes and then slowed as she
got toward the middle. I stayed a comfortable distance away to
allow her to fill out the survey without feeling as if I was
watching over her shoulder. Finally, she made a few rapid-fire
checkmarks that I could tell fell into the "dislike" column, and
she again looked up at me.