Laid Bare
Like any other college girl’s desk, Cindy’s had seen its fair share of battles. The corners of the laminate had broken off and stains from permanent markers dotted its surface. The drawer slung underneath, however, was of enormous value in spite of the dilapidated nature of the desk. With her hands straight and her fingers tips pushing the drawer closed, Cindy put her reading to rest and resumed looking at the blackboard—where the professor’s clear message was spelled out for her in bright pink chalk. However, just as the drawer was about to close at her behest, an arm reached out from the aisle and intervened.
“Hmm.” inquired the man in a most primal tone. Cindy looked up at him; tall, dark-haired—slicked back—a lot like Ward Cleaver from the fifties in a proper suit, only the kind of man who would come home from work, find June washing the dishes and use the approach to feel her up from behind. She could sense the animal underneath his skin, so lightly covered and tenuously controlled. His mere presence was enough to make Cindy’s heart quiver, and as several of the other girls in the class turned in their seats to watch, sneer at, or admire her, Cindy’s heart went all aflutter and she felt a sumptuous tingling in her cheeks and thighs.
She rests on her side on the bed, naked; city lights play in the bedroom through the window; curtains pulled, her body bare before the gaze of the tenants next door; the fire burns under the mantle, shadows dancing on her body; she waits, yearning hoping wanting; head propped on her hand, reading her magazine, faintly aware of the way she rubs her breast in leisurely circles with one hand, her fingers circling the areola, tip-toeing on the skin along her flank, tracing the curve of her breast across the upside, down the inside, over the underside, and back to her nipple.
“What have we here?” he asked, his deep voice hanging over her like a thick cloud of sex. She looked up at him with puppy eyes, and he looked down on her, sitting there, with her hands clasped in her lap and her plaid skirt baring her knees. Hers was a specially hemmed skirt—school regulation—that was shorter in the back than it was in front so that when she sat, or bent over, her fresh, firm bottom was left bare.
The professor pulled the drawer open a bit more, revealing a stack of fashion mags, which he then pulled out and held in his hand, shuffling through them with his other. He examined the selection, while Cindy sweated it out down below, fiddling nervously with the hem of her skirt and biting her lips. She turned very hot, the butterflies hatching in her gut and crawling up her spine, making her shiver. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, wetting the corner of her eye.
She crosses her ankles, her thighs sliding together, sealing in the heat; she turns on her stomach, keeping her eyes on the magazine propped against the pillow; the cheeks of her bum are cast in orange fire-light, the crevice between them a soft shadow; everything about her is soft—feminine, demure, malleable; her lips moist, her lashes like curled raven-wings, her eyes full of lust and adoration; she sighs, still stroking her own flesh with an errant hand, her newly enhanced breasts compressed and bulging while she lay on them; raising her calves, she kicks at the air leisurely, fully entertained by the pictures on the pages below her eyes; they tease her.
Cindy shifted in her chair; the professor seemed to be rifling through her thoughts with his eyes, exposing her, dressing her down—undressing her completely. He shuffled through her mind—her magazine—his knowing eyes informed by the betrayal of her own notes in the margins. He indulged a glimpse into her mind and the images that filled it; hot beauties posing in front of camera lenses, gussied up with eye-liner, mascara, glorious nail extensions, frocks, lipstick, fishnet stockings; pop singers decked out in oil and ripped clothing, gasping with their eyes closed and their hands on their bodies, strategically placed on their nipples but showing the rest of their bare breasts. They posed, stared at the reader, honest and open, idolized by their fans, speaking candidly about vulnerability and of being bare—naked—before an audience, photographed in a state suggesting they’d just jumped from the shower without a towel or lost their bathing suit in the pool, as if they’d just been caught naked by an intruder, or intruded into by a stranger, a sharing of themselves that gave them no small amount of pleasure; their eyes gazed longingly back at Cindy whenever she looked at them, welcoming her into their world of delights, calling to her, their mouths so wide and open, teeth glimmering, lips wet and moist, pouting, their expressions full of awe and wild savagery.
Sometimes, some of those prissy stars found their ways into more explicit careers, where they could be viewed with their mouths agape while off to the side the cameras focused elsewhere—on the tongues or cocks they happily received with their naked bodies. They said nothing then; there were no articles, no emotions or character, just porn, undiluted porn and lust, but Cindy could feel how they looked through the pages; they left her wanting, envious, wanting to feel the way they did, to look the way they do.
Cindy was all there—her thoughts and desires displayed on those pages. Laid bare.
And he knew everything about her. She would do anything for him; he knew how to use her.
She closed her eyes and pressed her tongue to her palette, imaging what else could be put in that place, thinking of it’s taste, hoping that she could be privy to squeezing some imaginary silk from that daydream. She yearned.
She remembered.
The air in the room grows warmer and there is a creaking at the door; a click as it’s pushed shut; a smile on her face—she knows who it is; “mmmm” she whimpers, lamenting her isolation; a groan—a venting of pent up desire—as a finger climbs the slope of her ass and travels up her back, tickling her spine, waiting there and teasing her flesh; responsively, Cindy becomes very wet, and she pushes back, lifting her hips and presenting herself. She kisses the air, gritting, smiling, tensing and relaxing all in one motion as he brushes his cock against her, then feeds the shaft into her sex.
“You’ll make a good woman some day.” the professor remarked, casually. He winked at her from on high.
He returned the student’s magazines to her outstretched hands. Then he walked away as she, thrilled to have received his attention and approval, burned up at the cheeks and put her reading away.
“Now,” he continued, walking between the desks towards the blackboard, “let’s take up last night’s homework: ‘The Good Wife’s Guide’.”
A great shuffling of books and paper welled up behind him as he went back to the desk and sat in his chair. He placed his hands on his book and stretched his feet, opening up to the previous night’s reading. He glanced up at his class, seeing the anxious, loyal gazes of his students, and he reached for the seating plan.
He searched out the name of the girl with the magazines—the sophomore with the milk-white face and the rosy cheeks, her golden-red pigtails in braids, her dress shirt tied up under her breasts—pushing them up and together—her ‘fuck me’ Mary Jane shoes with light glinting off the silver buckles. He remembered that face, those cheeks were as hot as they were just the night before.
He bends her over, his heat warming her backside; his hands on the smooth flesh of her behind; he presses himself against her, kissing her sex with the head of his cock, tickling and teasing; she whimpers, wanting it, tired of waiting; he spreads her pussy with one firm push, the rest of his shaft gliding through on the thrust; she smiles, tightens and milks him; she looks over her shoulder, her dilated pupils pools of sin and shame—embraced; the student breathes deeply, hips rocking against the side of the desk; throbbing, cumming inside her, the professor conveys his lesson.
Princess Shelly Joyce Buckland-Walsingham IV, he read to himself. The fourth.
Professor Winters considered the generational history of his favoured pupil’s royal family, wondered who the young woman’s mother—her mother’s mother and her mother’s mother’s mother—must have been when they too attended this school. And he considered how they were when they graduated; he considered the effect of selective breeding; considered how with each successive generation it became a little bit easier to mould the impetuous young women that attended his class into suitably receptive young ladies.
With Cindy being a fourth generation student at the school, it was little wonder that she was his star pupil, the one to learn most quickly, to enjoy his lessons most thoroughly.
And he grinned when the twelve young women, in two rows of six in front of his desk, opened their texts, stared into the brilliant white pages, rehearsed the messages written within in black text, moved their mouths when they read and looked as though they were staring into the abyss—their eyes turned to glass.