Meet Tanith Davenport and her Campus Sexploits
Tanith Davenport lives in Yorkshire with her long-suffering husband and pampered cats. Her interests range wildly between rock music and modern cinema to medieval literature and the language of flowers. She loves to travel and dreams of one day taking a driving tour of the United States, preferably in a classic 1950s pink Cadillac Eldorado.
Tanith’s idea of heaven is an Indian head massage with a Mojito at her side.
I’ve always loved writing campus-based stories. Maybe it’s from having fond memories of my time as a student, living in a student hall right in the middle of everything, where you could have as much fun as you want.
Or maybe it’s because I always wished we’d had the Greek system over here. I don’t know if I’d have made a good sorority girl, but I always liked the idea, and the image of a house full of cute girls floating around in babydoll nighties lends itself nicely to erotica, if not to real life. Instead I lived in hall for three years and a student house for my Masters year, and as far as I can remember I did all my floating around in jeans and T-shirts, changing at night into a football shirt my boyfriend had got me.
And that’s another thing. Students are expected to be experimental in all things. I can still remember my first week as a fresher, buying inspirational posters and a tie-dyed rug and feeling ever so adventurous. Yeah, right. Students are supposed to go out every night and bring a different bedmate home, or do the entire rugby team, or hook up at frat parties.
I won’t say I didn’t have fun, but I was a serial monogamist. I arrived with a boyfriend, dumped him fairly early for another man, was unceremoniously dumped for another woman, and then met the man who eventually became my husband. Not especially daring, unless compared with my friend who arrived, studied, left with and eventually married the same man, or another friend who moved in with her new boyfriend a month into her freshman year and never left his side.
My across-the-hall neighbour, on the other hand, could be heard screaming “Ooh, babe!” every night of the week, and dragged me out of many a bar because she’d spotted someone she’d slept with and didn’t want to bump into him. Her bedpost wasn’t notched, it was disintegrating.
But you’re young, and what the hell, it’s fun. And I love that attitude.
So my debut novel was set at a US university, and my new short Assume the Position involves two sorority sisters drinking lots of wine and demonstrating naked yoga positions. You can’t lose, can you?
Tamar Brennan is depressed. Instead of going to a party at Delta Phi with her girlfriend, she’s freshly dumped and stuck indoors with only her roommate for company – her very hot, also gay roommate Elyse, on whom Tamar has been nursing a secret crush for months. Elyse has always kept their relationship strictly friends – apart from one drunken kiss which Tamar has never forgotten.
Alone in their room drinking wine, the conversation turns to Elyse’s yoga training. The sight of Elyse’s slender body moving through yoga poses is too exciting for Tamar to resist, and Elyse is willing… but can Tamar convince her to break her just-friends rule in the cold light of day?
“And then five seconds of downward dog.” Keeping her palms flat on the floor, Elyse pushed her body upwards, lowering her head, legs close together and ass pointing straight at the ceiling.
Elyse’s jeans were impossibly tight, the red lace of Elyse’s thong underwear exposed above the waistband, and Tamar gripped the edge of the bed as desire flooded through her body. Barely aware of what she was doing, she slid to the edge of the bed, staring greedily at Elyse’s denim-clad ass as she held the pose, three seconds, four seconds, five –
And then, unable to resist, she leaned forward and smacked one cheek.
Elyse let out an outraged squeal and dropped to her knees. She looked back over her shoulder at Tamar, dark tendrils of hair falling over her eyes, which had narrowed wickedly.
“Okay. Let’s see you do it then.”
A small part of Tamar’s alcohol-fogged brain suggested this was a bad idea in a short skirt, but Tamar found herself rolling off the bed join Elyse on the floor. Remembering what Elyse had done, she laid herself flat as Elyse sat up alongside her and watched, her skin tingling under her friend’s intent stare.
Elyse’s hand slid under her stomach, and Tamar suppressed a gasp.
Tamar pushed down with her hands and lifted, guided by Elyse’s hand, until her bottom was as high as it could go.
“Now hold. Five seconds.”
There was motion beside her, and she sensed that Elyse had stood up. A thrill ran over her skin as footsteps slowly moved to pause behind her.
Elyse was right behind her, and Tamar was suddenly conscious of her position; ass in the air, covered only by a short skirt and panties which were growing increasingly moist.
Her gut clenched at the picture she must be making. Elyse hadn’t moved, and she could hear short, staccato breaths behind her, which must mean that Elyse was –
Without warning, hands abruptly jerked to her bottom, pushing her skirt up over her hips, and before she could speak they had hooked into her panties and yanked them down to her knees.