Spring Break Three Ways

By

B.J. Frazier

Sean O’Toole

L.K. Lynch

Copyright 2021. All rights reserved

Published by B.J. Frazier Publications, LLC

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This book is a work of fiction

Adult Reading Material

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Spring Break Soul Mate ~ by L.K. Lynch

Spring Break 1973 ~ by Sean O’Toole

Spring Break - Hawaii ~ by B.J. Frazier

About the Authors

Other Books by the Authors

Connect with the Authors

Author’s Note

This book contains erotic fiction with graphic sex and is intended for mature readers only.

It is an honor to work with Sean O’Toole and L.K. Lynch. Together, we wrote under a common theme: Spring Break. Separately, we provided different perspectives. Collectively, we hope you enjoy them all!

My sincere and devoted thanks go to Thomas Antonson for his editing acumen and his uncanny ability to understand which word I really meant to use.

Please visit my website: bjfrazier.com

I know there are a lot of books for sale, and I thank you for choosing mine.

Happy reading,

~B.J.

Severe Content Warning: B.J. Frazier books contain *plots* and *well-developed characters*

Enjoy!

Spring Break Soul Mate

By L.K. Lynch

It was spring semester, senior year. I was going to graduate on time. Had my major courses secured. And this term would be a light load. After struggling for three and a half years, I was finally on Easy Street.

An email from my advisor hit my in-box, requesting a meeting. Must be the last semester de-brief, I thought.

“Would like to see you at your earliest opportunity next week,” she asked.

“I can make it Thursday 3 pm,” I replied. Hell, with a light day on Monday (which I was skipping) I wouldn’t be back on campus until Tuesday afternoon. With Janey’s standing Hump-day blow-out on Wednesday, I’d be lucky if I’d even be able to put a sentence together by Thursday afternoon.

“OK, later than I would like, but see you then.”

Janey’s Hump-day bash was its typical hoot! Our crowd, all seniors, were sowing our oats for the final semester of our undergraduate careers, and we weren’t about to leave anything off the table.

Janey had been my alter-ego, the best non-girlfriend girlfriend I’d ever had.

From the moment we met, I had the impression that she thought of me as more of a friend than a potential romantic interest. As freshmen, I briefly had visions of dating her, but she had come to school with a guy and I was just too much of a dork.

Three weeks in, he’d slept with her roommate, but, by that time, she had introduced me to a friend down the hall. Over the next three years, we did a great job setting each other up, getting each other drunk, seeing each other home, and tucking each other in.

But we never did hook up.

It was like we were brother and sister.

Don’t get me wrong, I thought Janey was hot. Awesome body, nice round tits, and a sweet little ass. A sassy brunette. Cute face, with little freckles on the bridge of her button nose. But horsed around like one of the guys. On parents’ weekend that first year, I thought my mom was more in love with her than her own son. But mom would just have to get used to Janey being a friend.

One of the coolest things about Janey was that when it came time to dress for a formal, she transformed into a fucking goddess! The way she styled her hair, up, exposing her way-sexy neck. The smoking-tight dresses, the sparkle in her eye, and the makeup she wore--only for those events.

I hung around that girl seven days a week, but she stopped me dead in my tracks when she wore one of those formal gowns. It seemed like no matter who I took to one of those things, Janey and I ended up having more fun together than with our dates.

Much later on, Janey had confessed that she dug my look. But at six-three, I was one of those guys just a bit taller and thinner than I wanted to be. I couldn’t put on a pound if I’d tried.

Late junior year, Janey convinced me to start going to the gym with her. She said she was tired of trying to find dates for a beanpole. I managed to put on a little muscle around my chest and shoulders. Now, she said, in the right light, I nearly had the semblance of pecs to go with my flat stomach. With some definition, my chest no longer looked like her ironing board. When it came to me, Janey had a way with words.

* * * *

So, in my meeting with my advisor, Ms. Kincaid…

“Were you planning on graduating this semester?”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’m not joking. You’re one elective short.”

“No way! I have six more credits than necessary.”

“Credits aren’t your problem. What subjects they are is the matter. This is a liberal arts college. You are one Arts and Humanities class short.”

“The semester has already begun; what can I pick up?”

“That’s an issue. All of the classes that qualify are full. You’re going to need to talk with one of the professors to work your way in. Here’s a list of what you can choose from.”

* * * *

Janey met me in the HUB after my meeting.

“Hey stick-boy, you just reminded me, I need to go home and do some ironing.”

“Funny,” I replied glumly.

“What’s your problem? You sound like your best friend just insulted you.”

“That, I’m used to. Can you fucking believe that I’m one class short of graduating?”

“Seriously? What do you need?”

I handed her the list.

“Ha-ha, I’m in this class! Arts 101--Intro to Studio Composition!”

“Really! Is there room?”

“I don’t know. It should have started last week, but we haven’t met yet. The instructor was still on sabbatical in southern France. We meet tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you then.”

* * * *

Third floor, Arts Building. The classroom was a true artist’s studio, easels all around. Half-finished clay sculptures under sheets. Paintings in various stages of completion; all nudes. And one sketch of a bowl of fruit.

There were five women, including Janey, two guys and me.

The Instructor entered. She was mid-forties, thin, put together, but dressed like an artist – crazy sweater-smock, button-shirt half open underneath. Tight capri-chinos and flats. Her hair was long, red-turning-grey and totally unkempt, with a bun speared by a long, thin paintbrush. Glasses that looked like they belonged to Gloria Steinem back in the ‘60s.

She walked and talked fast.

“Hi, I’m Leslie Kroft, and I’ll be your instructor for this class. Anybody who calls me anything other than Leslie will wash paintbrushes for the semester. Why am I counting eight students in a class limited to six?”

Before I could speak, the guy behind me said, “I was told that there might be room…”

“No room. Who else here isn’t registered?”

I raised my hand.

“Hmph,” she uttered.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We provide our own subject matter, nudes, so this class always gets some drops. We are going to focus on one sex for the semester – male or female, which we’ll determine in a minute. Once that’s decided, we’ll rotate models each week from the chosen gender, in alphabetical order. Ladies, each drop a blue marble in the bag. Gents, each drop a white.”

With the bag containing five blue stones for the girls, and three white for the guys, the odds were in the boys’ favor. Things were looking up! I grinned broadly at Janey, who rolled her eyes.

“You, wiseguy, you’ll choose for us. Pick a marble,” she said, pointing at me.

I reached in the bag, and pulled out a marble. I opened my hand.

Unbelievable.

“Looks like we’ll be focusing on males this term. What’s your last name?”

“Sullivan,” I replied. At least I won’t go first.

“You?”

“Toobin,” was the second guy’s reply.

“Zimmerman,” said the third without being asked.

I turned red, and Janey practically pissed herself laughing.

* * * *

“I’m seriously going to have to get naked in front of Janey and this class,” I muttered to myself behind the privacy panel in the far corner of the studio. There was an old, formerly-white terrycloth robe hanging on the hook, which I put on before stepping back into the classroom area.

There were seven easels crowded around a high stool in the middle of the floor.

“This is where we separate the men from the boys,” Leslie said as she peeled off the robe.

I turned a bright shade of red as I sat on the stool. Janey smiled as she worked behind her easel. When she caught my eye, she stifled a laugh to the point of snorting. She needed a tissue to wipe her nose.

At my height, with big hands and feet, I should have been born more well-endowed than I unfortunately was. But I was pretty sure I was ‘average’.

When you sit nude in a room surrounded by students who are supposed to be artists, you become aware of your surroundings to a high degree.

I had noticed that the four other girls were all attractive, and I’m pretty sure that I had been in a class with at least two of them. The windows of the room and the building across the street didn’t have shades, and you could see into one building from the other. I think that was the math department. I had noticed that the guys in the class wouldn’t dare to risk looking at me if my head was turned in their direction.

And I had noticed that the air vent in the ceiling blew cool air enough to make my nipples hard.

From the look on their faces, the two girls I shared classes with recognized me.

But I was also wrapped-up in the mental gymnastics of any guy who was smaller than a porn star. In the open air, with even a slight chill, your business wants to shrivel a bit (shrinkage, as it’s been described). But putting the bullshit of ‘it’s just your body, it’s natural’ aside, there’s an element of sexiness to it. In your (larger) head, you wrestle with the yin-yang of trying to not shrivel up versus not growing a total boner. I think I almost broke into a sweat trying to ride the line between shrinkage and hard-on.

At the end of the class, Leslie handed me the robe. She said that the guy who modeled for that class would be given a pass on the day’s assignment. Good to know I didn’t need to turn in a naked sketch of myself.

Janey--of course!--was waiting for me to dress as we left class. Since this class was Friday afternoon, once we were done, the weekend began.

“Nice buns, beanpole!” she said, laughing as I came out from behind the dressing panel.

“Any other comments?” I asked, fishing for something, anything, regarding my package.

“Nothing that sticks out,” she deadpanned.

“I need a drink,” I groaned.

* * * *

The weekend and the following week went by without issue. After taking my turn ‘modeling’, I hadn’t given the upcoming class a second thought.

Janey and I walked into the studio together. The four other girls were already there, but the other guys hadn’t shown up yet.

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