Strip Calc v1

STRIP CALCULUS - version 1 
(Work In Progress)


"Come on, aren't you done yet?" he purred from behind her neck.  She felt the warmth of his breath and the closeness of his skin as she stared keenly at the differential equation on the page in front of her.  She twirled a pencil in uncertainty.  They'd been at this for hours--it was mostly her fault really, because she was so slow--or cold--or maybe he was just too fast--or too distracting--she couldn't decide--but in any case, he still had most of his clothes on. 

"Every answer you get wrong, I decide what comes off.  Same for me--I get one wrong, you pick what goes.  And for every answer you get right, you decide what comes off--and same for me, again.  ...  Deal?" 

Her answer came with hesitation.  "Deal." 

She'd never had this sort of motivation before.  "Strip calculus," he had called it--"to prepare for the exam"--and now, sitting in only her underpants and belt-fastened shorts, trying very hard to cover herself and not be distracted by his immaculate, shirtless body, she wished fervently that she had practiced integration some more. 

Meanwhile, he paced randomly about the kitchen with his arms folded either in boredom or in covert operation to keep warmth. 

It's not like she could be any more attracted to him--with his arrogant flair and absurdly cocky disposition; with his playfulness and innocent obsession with math and numbers; with his body--confound his body!--with his unbelievable genius and mathematical insight...  He drove her mad with his arrogance and genius, and in some perverse way, she was only compelled to draw closer.  Something in him made all the darkness in her mind fly away--some light in him made all the randomness of information disappear and left only blatantly obvious and shimmering logic--except it didn't make sense--but, dammit, it still worked!  Only, every time she'd try to express it, all the obscurity flew back and tangled grossly around her and choked out all the understanding.  So she decided to spend more time with him. 

The first time he'd said anything worth hope was less than a year ago.  He'd followed her out of class that day, calling to from the doorway.  Something trivial, but she'd recorded it in her journal anyway.  But at that moment, some other student walked by and said sarcastically, "Ooh, you two hookin' up?"  Confronted with her own secret wishes, she was at loss how to respond.  Fortunately, he answered in her stead.  "Yes, yes," he said flatly, "we're obviously planning a date." 

Of course, he'd meant nothing by it.  Or if he was sneaky, he meant to monitor her expression because he felt at that time, the same wishes she had--not that she was giving meaning to events or anything.  But it made her feel appreciated. 

The next time this happened was when she arrived late one day for class, only to find him sitting in her desk. 

"Hey," she said, "get out!" to which he gave no reply, so she asked rhetorically, "Why are you always in my seat when I'm gone?" 

He turned his head to see her then, and with the same grin and calm sarcasm that would have sent shivers up her body, said, "Oh, isn't it obvious--I'm madly in love with you." 

Well, she couldn't trust her face and body language, so she spun completely around and found a seat elsewhere. 

The pencil in her fingers scratched some symbols onto the paper in front of her. 

"I...  I think I have it," she found herself saying.  "'Cos seven-theta, tan-squared theta, plus forty-nine'." 

He paused, and then walked her direction and peered over her shoulder. 

"Well," he said slowly, "that'll be another one you've gotten--right."  He looked her in the eye with a sparkle of daring; and spread wide his arms in invitation.  "Your pick," he said.

This could get weird, she thought, I mean, I'm already half-naked.  So she flashed a devilish smile and nodded in the direction of his pants, saying instead, "Your socks." 

Off they flew as she flipped through the textbook to find a problem for him, and as he took the hot seat, she paced about. 


She would hang about him like a shadow, following his every movement with her eyes.  Indeed, he could barely tolerate her at times.  At first, it was amusing and almost flattering--if he could be flattered--to have her stealing glances or speak curious things.  But she tended to cling and need too much; everything was always about her--or him.  If she noticed something, she had to make it known that she'd noticed it. 

He made no movement.  He could feel her eyes on him, feel her scanning his body and trying to read him.  And yet he liked it.  He enjoyed being a mystery to her; and as shallow as her reasons were for being with him, so were his intentions of being with her. 

The only reason anything should exist is to be conquered; math, women, powers, everything.  Each conquest leads to new challenges, new powers to defeat and dominate.  Or in the unlikely chance a problem or power were greater than he, a pause would be taken from the battle, to rally more thought and materiel until a time he could properly overcome it and, in doing so, absorb its power and intrigue for his own use.  And so, when he'd finished with her, he'd move to something beyond. 

Yet his mind strayed. 

He thought of the curvature of the pull-cords that hung from between small loops set in the bus walls; that, when pulled, made a small sound the "stop requested" sign lit up.  She had taught him to see hyperbolic cosine in those pull-cords; to sit at the back of the bus and watch the way everyone would sway or bob as turns or bumps were taken. 

He thought of the swaying of her hips as she had maneuvered across the bars on a jungle-gym and the way she held her feet together at the ankles, just above the ground.  He thought of the rhythm of their feet as they ran across slicked grass in the rain; and of the shimmering and ethereal spectrum reaching across the east of the sky as the low, western clouds receded; and how each person, being in a different place in the world at once would see this rainbow differently--though similar--as the thousands upon thousands of dewlets that hung in the air would refract to each pair of unique and waiting eyes. 

She had found him a mystery; yet she had introduced new mysteries to him, and these mysteries were not the kind to be solved, but rather enjoyed. 

"Five root-three cubic metres per second," he said at last. 

She smirked.  He frowned--his answer was correct, why did she smile so? 

"Negative," was all she said, and he blinked vacantly twice before turning suddenly to the ceiling with a grunt. 

"That shouldn't count!" he said.  "That's a physical--an absolute value--you can't have negative drainage!" 

She indicated the question and pointed at the words "Solve for dV/dt."  He forced his lips together between his teeth and turned his head aside as he cursed inwardly.  She giggled slightly and he rolled his eyes.  He'd never been so vivid in his gesticulations or expressions before.  She almost relented here--but he stood up and admitted defeat as gracefully as he could manage, and again spread wide his arms as if daring her to choose.  His eyes strayed to the small curve of her breasts, the soft paraboloid outline below her crossed, defensive forearms. 

She removed one arm to point at his waist.  Dramatically, he looked down at himself, a picture of innocence.  "What's that?" he asked.  "Do you want me to take off my pants?" 

Her cheeks felt warm as she smiled, abashed; and then she walked defiantly toward him, until she was snug beneath the level of his eyes and could drop her other arm without worry of his gaze--until she could feel the heat from his body mingle with the heat from her own--until the faint curls on his chest barely pressed against the velvet of her nipples.  She slid her hands about the sides of his torso and felt her way up the smooth rippling of muscle along his back.  Back down her hands glided, until they rested on the lip of his jeans.  She traced the rim of fabric with her thumbs, slowly, feeling the rough denim with her hands and pressing slightly with her fingertips to feel the curve of the flesh beneath.  Then all at once, she brought her hands back up the front of his torso, fingers trailing over his chest and palms over his nipples; feeling both the silk of skin and the prickle of hair that meandered haltingly down from his chest, down his abdomen, and below the rim of his pants.  And there again on that ledge, she perched her hands softly.  Leaning now into his body and lifting her mouth to his ear, she spoke, "Take off your pants." 

He could barely manage the buttonholes and metal discs, his fingers tangling together agitatedly.  Then, with the dull popping sound and a heavy rustle, his trousers lay crumpled at his feet.  He shook slightly as he stepped out of them. 

But he regained his composure quickly and flipped the pages to a problem full of fractions and inequalities, and triumphantly laid his hand on a related-rates problem.  She sat down and breathed heavily.  She despised numbers, especially fractions--especially when she could not write them down--and especially in related-rates, and especially when asked to find values at a given time. 

He crouched again beside her and placed his arm around her back so that she could feel the side of his torso and now the tight and only strip of fabric along his very middle that kept her from winning this game.  She twirled the pencil in her hands and while he was distracted by the movement, she stole a glance at his toothsome thighs. 

Knowingly, he stood again, and turned his back to her that she might visually trace the curves of his muscles, the small, tight bulge of his buttocks and the strong lines of tendons that ran smoothly down his legs.  All at once he turned his head, caught her stare, and sent her blushing back to her work.  He grinned as she looked away--and then, as if on a whim, turned completely around and strode toward her. 

The spidery barstool had a short back that came up only about a decimeter around the back, and allowed a perfectly unobstructed view of her waist and hips.  He stood behind her, first standing close to tease her with his warmth.  And when she gave no obvious reaction, he then lifted his hand and traced the side of his thumb along the elegant column of her neck, playing briefly in her short hair, and then following the curve of her back down to her hips.  Goosebumps rose and he smirked as he repeated this on the other side.  With his fingertips, he traced patterns of ellipses, spirals, triangles and Greek letters over her back.  She shuddered slightly.  He slid back down to her narrowing back and then gently gripped her waist in his large, textured hands.  She inhaled quickly and then relaxed into his hands as they stole back up the small of her back, her abdomen, her ribcage, until the undersides of her breasts rested upon his forefingers.  She felt his thumbs playing across her back still and felt as though she were putty in his hands--that was a favourite spot of hers.  She blinked and breathed and writhed distractedly as his thumbs and palms played on those strangely thrilling points. 

But one answer--one correct answer--was all she needed to win.  With all her strength, she stopped her senses and stopped her movement, and went back to consult the pages.  She rapped the pencil across her knuckles and focused all her will on the mundane task of adding and subtracting and multiplying fractions. 

Still, she must have erred somewhere, for when she scratched her answer into the paper and read aloud: "Fifty-seven over root-three, and twenty-nine eighths" as the new co-ordinates of the shadow, he smirked. 

He called her by name, saying, "You're making this easy--though I'll admit this has still gone longer than I'd expected." 

She was almost flattered.  Then with a quick thrust of his chin, he indicated her shorts, and she turned around to unfasten them.  He grinned as she made a show of unclasping her belt and sliding it slowly through the belt loops, and tossing the limp fabric aside, swayed from side to side as though her shorts could not be easily removed.  She was almost cute in her attempt at striptease. 

He was pleasantly surprised when she revealed her boxers, although he'd known her to be a tomgirl.  No ribbons, no slogans, no lace or any other adornment.  They were as his; only smaller and tighter around her figure. 

She came toward him, and he accepted her near-naked embrace, thrilling at the touch of her hardened nipples against his torso.  He placed his hands around the small of her back, gently pressing her closer, and entirely and unashamedly aware of his stiffened member pressing against the inside of her thigh.  She backed off slightly at this, giggling quietly and making a rather girly face that seemed to say, "Eew." 

He laughed at this and pulled away also. 

"Are we tied?" he asked softly. 

"Hardly!" she replied, "You didn't wear a bra." 

He looked bemused.  "I wore a second shirt," he said. 

"And when you removed your inner shirt, you weren't as naked as I." 

He paused a moment.  "You could have chosen not to wear a bra." 

"True," she said ponderously.  "But I'm not accustomed to the rubbing of fabric against my ever so feminine nipples," she declared, and he grinned at this. 

"Do you doubt my ever so masculine nipples are as sensitive as yours, O Lady?" 

"Yes," she said, grinning.  "Yes, I do.  See, if you were to trace the curve of my breast with your fingertips--" she said, drawing near again and pressing her hand against his chest, "like so--and slowly, slowly circle your way inward toward the nipple--like so--and then, lightly brush the blunt end of it--like so--and," she leaned her mouth close to him, "maybe flick your tongue over--" she paused--"and close your lips over them--" here she brought her lips very close--"and just tease and lick and maybe hummmmmmm..."  She buzzed her lips against the pink-brown nipple and all the world became dark and dizzying with bright exploding lights in his head as she worked her lips and tongue over his body, teasing and manipulating his flesh with her own.  His knees buckled beneath him and he fell back on the thick, rough carpet, still with her body pressed against his and working her magic.  And there was a moment like flying, as though he had been lifted bodily off the earth, brought closer to the stars; and the universe were familiar and beautiful and every secret were made known to him.  And then she took her lips off his chest, and he lay panting and spent on the ground, abdomen heaving with the want of air.  And when he had collected himself somewhat, she continued: "Then I might gasp and collapse and cream my pants violently." 

She pressed her hand into the middle of his chest, mounting him, straddling his hips with her knees.  She leaned her face close to his; her short hair fell and brushed the edges of his cheeks and jaws; it felt cool as silk.  He felt his consciousness slipping.  She breathed on his neck, and the warmth of her breath traveled through his body and loosened his muscles until he was entirely at ease. 

She let him rest awhile; impressed by her previously unknown abilities.  She smiled.  She laid the side of her head against his chest and made herself comfortable to the steady thu-dud of his heart.  It was a deep, calming sound that beat in the cavern of his broad chest. 

An idea came to her then. 

Curious, she stretched herself a bit higher up his body and placed her mouth to his ear, and very softly whispered, "Integral of x, dx."  And his mouth automatically formed the shapes of the words, "One half x squared, plus a constant."  She giggled inwardly and flicked her tongue across the ridges of his ear. 

"D/dx of x-cubed," she whispered; and, "Three x-squared," he mouthed back in half-sleep.  She tried something slightly harder. 

"Integral of x, sine x, dx," she murmured, and his body stirred a little as he mouthed: "Sine x, minus x, cos x."  She waited, expectantly.  And then his eyes fluttered and his breathing was that of a waking man.  "Plus a constant," he said, rolling over, and his eyes opened slowly and he inhaled deeply and awoke to find her still perched on his chest. 

"You derive and integrate in your sleep," she said.  He mumbled back sleepily, "I could have told you that," and she laughed at his cockiness.  She turned her attention to his chest and played her hand through the faint, tufted curls.  He smiled and leaned appreciatively. 



...unfinished