I looked down at my phone, pretending to swipe and type every now and again – you know, like any other normal student in this rather unspectacular lecture on political sociology – but really, the device was showing nothing but a small digital clock in the upper left corner and my own reflection.

My mirror image in the glossy black plastic looked… nervous. Did I look nervous? Or scared? Antsy? Embarrassed? Horny?

All of the above?

3:55p.m, the clock said. The lecture was about to be over, and I would head over to the library like everybody else.

Except literally, nobody else was wanting to head over to the library (and simultaneously wanting to head over to any place on Earth but the library) quite as urgently as I did, I’d wager.

First, however, I would head over to a restroom and take off my panties because the Campus Security guy with the blue eyes who had fingered me to an orgasm yesterday had told me to.

No matter how many times I went over this relatively simple scenario of cause to effect, action, and reaction, it never made more sense to me. I was an average wallflower nerd at best, with all the sex appeal of a well-maintained rolodex and just as much sexual experience. How the hell could this be happening to me?

More to the point, how the hell could this be happening in me? How could it reduce me to… this?
‘This’, in this case, being the nervous, scared, antsy, embarrassed, horny tension that had my heart going in a trot instead of a normal walk all damn day. The tension that had kept my pussy drenched from the moment I had got out of bed (or maybe even earlier than that).

I was Isobel Wilkinson, the borderline autistic quiet ironically asocial sociology student with a 4.0 GPA. I was sensible, rational, and – if yesterday’s… event was any indication – a little too susceptible to authority figures.

People like me didn’t take their panties off to meet a nameless guy who had told them to (so he could… do… what? Exactly?).

People like me also didn’t fantasize about not having put on panties at all in the first place this morning.

They didn’t imagine what would happen if the professor were to catch a glimpse of what was – or wasn’t – going on under their skirts.

They didn’t spend the entire lecture mentally cataloging the best moments in which they, hypothetically, could have widened their knees just a bit -

The bell pulled me from my contemplations and set my pulse off like a starting pistol. With curiously steady hands, I packed my books, folders, and pencil case into my backpack and made my way out of the study hall and into the next restroom.

Four girls were waiting in the line outside, and two were in the stalls to my right and to my left, all of them chatting loudly with one another, as I methodically hung my backpack from the door handle, put down the toilet seat (precautionary measure), laid some toilet paper out on the floor, then stepped out of my shoes and onto the paper, rolled my silky semi-transparent dark gray pantyhose off my legs and feet and carefully draped them over my backpack, before I finally pushed down my panties.

A translucent string of wetness clung to the gusset and smeared against the inside of my right thigh, painting a moist line halfway down to my knee.

The girls around me laughed as if they could see me standing there in my stall, naked from the waist down and wet between my legs. This is a college restroom, not the gynecologist, honey! Did you mix Adderall and Concerta again?

All at once I was convinced that he wouldn’t be there today, and that I was an idiot. Worse, an idiot with a wet thigh and moist panties wrapped in toilet paper stuffed into a clean plastic bag she had carried around with her for this very purpose all day.

Huffing, I put my pantyhose on again, cursing as the edge of a fingernail caught the material and put a small tear in it at the right knee, and cringed at the strange feeling of silky nylon and stitched seams against my otherwise bare private parts.

I stepped back into my boots and re-laced them meticulously, straightened my skirt, and finally flushed the excess toilet paper down the toilet.

And then I went to the library.

To study.

That was all people like me did there, after all.
 

The girl’s line went even slower than yesterday, or was that just me? I looked over to the boys. Three-quarters of a minute, tops, and one of them was up. Girls were called in after two, three minutes at most.

I knew because I had been counting the last half hour, getting in line – on the girl side, the proper side – and then leaving on a pretense only to queue up again no less than four times over.

It was windier today, too, I thought. Certain body parts of me were suddenly very susceptible to every breeze and breath, even though I stood with my legs crossed.

My phone buzzed at me. My self-allocated study time for tomorrow’s first lecture (social psychology) was coming to a close already. I needed to keep up with my own schedule to stay on top of my workload, but instead, I was standing around outside the library like a moron. Steeling myself, I got into the line and resolved to stay there.

The girl’s line. With the woman in the cubicle who wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t wearing panties.

Or would she?

My brain flashed to a very short experimental phase I’d had a year ago that involved artsy movies about lesbians, but I shook the thought away easily. No, no. This was real life where security personnel didn’t consist of oversexed demigods but of normal people who really didn’t want to touch you at all, even with gloves. Time to wake up, Isobel.

We – the five girls ahead of me in the queue and the two behind me – stood there for a good ten minutes. Everyone was absorbed by their phones, but we all got a little restless when the plastic screen didn’t open again for another five. Eventually, the first student in our line – natural leading personality, I thought – went and called out a question.

In reply, the screen on the right side opened and a young man with piercing blue eyes and a rich basso voice stepped out.

“My colleague had to take a break. She’ll be back soon, but if you need to get studying urgently enough that you don’t care about protocol, you’re welcome to step over into this queue.”

And then he was gone and I stood there as if my feet had been nailed to the floor and watched as all seven girls quickly got in line behind the guys.

Eager to study, huh? A snide voice inside my head asked them. Or just eager to be felt up by the hot security guy?

No.

He wouldn’t do that with any of them.

Would he?

None of them would follow instructions as beautifully as me, I was certain.

Then again, he had told me to show up at 4, and to get in his line despite the embarrassment. I had done neither of those. So much for following instructions, really.

At least you aren’t wearing any panties, my brain reminded me, and I couldn’t help a bark of laughter that earned me a few confused looks from the people in the queue.

So I got in line behind them and counted the minutes.
 

I was the only one left. I had been the only one left for a full six minutes already.

Three new girls had come to queue up behind me (the female-to-male ratio at this college was five to three so I wasn’t really surprised at the lack of boys), but they had quickly changed lines when the Campus Security woman had shown up again and resumed her slow but steady business.

Yet here I stood, stalwart and fast and alone like the cheese, feeling more foolish by the second.

The student that had gone in right ahead of me… she had been gorgeous. Cheerleader type, glossy black hair, ebony skin, tall and softly curved. She was the type of woman who could forgo panties on a regular basis because she didn’t need to wear any, didn’t want to wear any, and didn’t have to wear any, and felt and looked sexy and confident without them, instead of just… drafty and faintly vulnerable and silly.

The type of woman who would look very good indeed with the Campus Security man’s right hand buried in her hair and the other grabbing her beautiful, round butt as he kissed--

Good grief, Isobel! Get a hold of yourself.

 I looked over to the other queue that now only consisted of two women who looked much more like me than the cheerleader had.

I wondered if the two of them also had wild imaginations hidden underneath their very proper jeans and plaid skirt, respectively. I wondered how their moans would sound--

Jesus, Iso-

“Isobel.”

I was startled even though he had said my name rather quietly, and dropped my phone which I had been clutching in my hand all this time. Cursing, I picked it up and saw, from the corner of my eye, the two students in the other queue eyeing me. Reason said they were just looking because my phone had made quite a lot of nasty, splintering noise as it hit the concrete, but reason had taken a back seat the second a pair of blue eyes had fixed upon me yesterday like a pair of wolf’s eyes might fix upon a lamb.

My cheeks grew warm and suddenly I needed to be out of the women’s knowing sight much more urgently than I needed to stay away from the unbearable, unhealthy pull this strange man exerted on me.

So I slipped into the little cubicle and faced him, with my wounded phone clutched to my chest, and waited.

And hoped.

“Put your bag onto the belt and stand over there,” he said as he pulled the screen shut behind me.

I stood rooted to the spot and looked at him. My heart was doing weird things in my ribcage, as did the thoughts in my head. For a second, I was convinced that I had imagined an entire day, so strong was the sense of déjà vu.

“Miss,” he said, just a bit louder, and repeated slowly, “Put your bag onto the belt, take off your jacket and shoes, and stand over there.”

‘Miss’? Oh. So we were… weren’t…

Oh.

Oh, alright.

My stomach sank, and I wished I could sink right along with it, into the floor. I was such an idiot!

I took my backpack off my back, dumped my phone into one of the front pockets, and put both into one of the plastic trays.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” I tried to quip to lift my own spirits, but my voice sounded brittle.

“In fact, I do. It’s my job,” he replied as he watched me closely. “Jacket and boots, too, please.”

Under his watchful eyes, I took off my knit jacket, then slipped out of my boots for the second time today and placed both items in another tray. Finally, I tiptoed over to the foamy little platform and took my position.

Uncrossing his arms he stepped up close to me and leaned into my private space.

“Want to hear something I don’t say to all the girls?” he asked me, looking me straight in the face.

I searched his face and found a smirk. It was hiding in the left corner of his mouth and around his eyes, but it was there.

I swallowed on a dry throat and felt like my heart had crept up into it, fluttering around there like a hummingbird, elated with relief.

God damn, his eyes were so blue.

“’Hands on your head’?” I guessed. I didn’t want to believe that security screenings for every other student at this school involved being treated like a dangerous criminal.

That was just for me. Special treatment.

The corner of his lip quirked up, the smirk showing itself. “That’ll be the second step. To begin with, I’ll tell you to take off your bra.”

Stupidly, I looked down my torso as if to make sure that said garment and the two body parts it was covering were actually there. And indeed, the outline of the sturdy full cup padding was clearly visible against the plain dark gray sleeve high neckline shirt I had on today.

Said padding shielded my tightened nipples from view.

I was only wearing this outfit today because I had washed my usual sweater yesterday and it hadn’t fully dried yet because it had fallen off the stupid clothesline during the night. That was the only reason I was wearing something… tighter. (Calling a knit jacket-baseball shirt combo ‘sexier’ than my washed-out hoodie was a stretch. Ridiculous. Who would I want to impress anyway?)

“Right now?” I asked, stalling.

“Right now,” he confirmed but didn’t give me so much as half an inch of space.

So, with a fortifying breath, I curled my fingers around the bottom seam of my shirt, ready to take it off. But he shook his head.

“Not the shirt. Just the bra,” he instructed me. “We don’t want to be inappropriate.”

“No, of course not,” I returned dumbly and reached up my back underneath my shirt to undo the clasp of my bra. This move required me to curve my spine a little, which in turn caused my chest to lift. His eyes lowered shamelessly to track the motion of my upper body, and the motion of my boobs underneath my clothes.

My solid cotton shirt hid everything from view, thus leaving everything to the imagination. Apparently, Campus Security people were imaginative types. Or at least this one was. His eyes feasted on me even though my tits were truly nothing to write home about (especially not while clothed), and they seemed to get brighter as my bra loosened and obscenely tented my shirt.

I reached all the way up the insides of my sleeves to pull the bra straps down my arms and over my hands, one after the other, and finally freed the loose bra from below, pulling it down and out. My modest-sized, newly-bared chest tingled as it made contact with the fabric of my shirt.

He held out his hand and I turned over my underwear like it was some sort of contraband, and then watched him as he turned it this way and that and felt and squeezed it. That shouldn’t be sexy, I thought, and had a sudden vision of him bringing the garment up to his nose and smelling it, smelling my skin on it, feeling the residual body warmth in the material.

Even that wasn’t a turn-off.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Jesus.

Eventually, he folded the two cups together delicately and laid the bra onto the single table that stood in the corner of the cubicle. “I’ll have to confiscate that, Miss,” he said with some humor in his voice as he watched my mouth fall open, ready to issue some protest. Bras were expensive, and well-fitting ones were hard to find, he couldn’t just-

“I will keep it until tomorrow,” he said to placate me. “Show up on time and you’ll get it back.”

“To-… Tomorrow,” I affirmed, remembering very well what he had said was on the agenda for tomorrow. My body heat jumped up a notch.

“I saw you today,” he went on, stepping up to me again, just a smidge too close for comfort again. “Outside in the queues. Jumping the lines like you did. Stalling. Fiddling with your phone, chewing your lip. You appeared very… nervous. That’s suspect behavior. Do you have something to hide, Miss?”

“No, I… I don’t think so,” I said but it sounded like a question.

“You don’t think so?” he probed and narrowed his eyes at me. “We’ll see about that, then. Turn around. Hands on your head now. Feet apart.”

I quickly did as told, thinking that it might be better to not have to look into his painfully pretty face, and to not have my perky nipples on display yet again, emphasized, even more, when I lifted my arms up to put my palms against the back of my head.

As it turned out, I was wrong. Having him behind my back was worse. (And better. And worse.) My breathing sped up as I anticipated his next move. Waiting, not knowing, imagining what was coming next was excruciating. I imagined I could feel his body heat at my back, and the stray, floaty hairs at the back of my neck seemed to tingle as he came in contact with them, like strands of a spider’s web. My unclothed core, exposed to the air as it was in this position, seemed to tingle in tune with them. I could do nothing about it, though. So I stood, looking at the blue plastic canvas, and waited.

And waited.

When his hands finally made contact with my body – on my left upper arm, just below the elbow, to be exact – I was keyed up enough to simultaneously jump out of my skin and sigh in relief.

“You’re gonna stay still again, aren’t you?” he asked, and I answered a quiet “yes”.

His fingers swept down my lifted arm to my shoulder, across one trapezius to the other. It was still over my clothes, an entirely harmless and G-rated touch, but felt so good I wanted to purr.

“I didn’t find anything incriminating on you yesterday,” he said as he finished my right arm and switched to the middle of my back, swiping down along both sides of my spine and finishing just over my butt. God, I would have given him all of my bras, to nail onto his living room wall or to burn or whatever, for him to just keep going lower.

“But I’m not convinced of your innocence quite yet. I realize I have been lax in my previous search.”

I pressed my lips together and said nothing. Breathing in and out was already using up all of my faculties, and I didn’t want to interrupt him anyway. He could and should keep talking with that voice of his. Forever, if he wanted to. I would listen.

His hands went to both sides of my waist and slid upwards from there, over my ribs and farther north, at an agonizingly slow pace. As his fingertips grazed – more than grazed – the sides of my breasts, he leaned into me so that his chest bumped my upper back. I resisted the urge to lean back and more into him, then ended up hunching over reflexively when he reached my armpits again. Too ticklish. I clawed my fingers deeper into my hair and clamped my forearms around my head to stifle a very unsexy giggle.

What was it with this man and armpits? Or did he just like to make me squirm?

“Especially seeing that I’m dealing with a former prime suspect in a vicious crime, I reckon I should take my responsibilities more seriously and be a little more thorough this time.”

His mouth was close enough to my ear now for me to feel his breath against its shell. He barely had to whisper anymore for me to hear him when he said, “What do you think about this, Isobel?”

I thought his fingers and palms were wasted on the needless frisking of students who just wanted to go to their library. I thought his voice should be used in audiobooks and radio adverts and for dubbing other, equally handsome men in foreign-language movies. I thought it was a bad idea to ask me to speak in whole sentences during body contact, especially when my armpits and the side swells of my boobs were involved.

“Uhhm,” I started eloquently, “I… I guess you have to do your job to the best of your- uh, knowledge and belief, so… do your…” I almost said ‘worst’ but figured that would be just a bit too forward. We’ll come to that tomorrow, a voice in my head reminded me, and my mouth tripped a little over the word “duty”.

Standing close enough to me to be able to see the hairs stand up straight on my arms, he probably heard my thoughts. There was a smile in his voice when he said, “Very well. I will.” His lips brushed my ear. “And you’ll be a good girl again.”

I nodded just a little too eagerly.

Without further ado, without warning, his hands came around my front and cupped my breasts over my shirt. I swallowed a whimper. They were as needy to be touched as they were tender, and he was rough enough to physically pull me against his body, exactly like I had hoped he would yesterday. I groaned inwardly with how profoundly pleasant that felt. Even better than I had hoped.

Something unmistakable nudged against my lower back, just above my buttocks, and a sharp thrill shot through me because I knew I had put that there. Not the ebony-skinned cheerleader. Me.

“Watch,” he told me.

I looked down and watched his hands as they grabbed, kneaded and squeezed my small, sensitive tits. There was something alarmingly arousing about the sight of someone’s paws all over a body part you had been told was a strictly forbidden no-go zone for everyone (including, for the most part, yourself) since before you were even old enough to actually have developed that body part.

He just laid claim to them, and I let him.

“Bad girls smuggle items in their bras or taped into their cleavage all the time, did you know that?” he asked me casually as his kneading got even more vigorous and rhythmic. “It’s because they think security personnel wouldn’t dare to touch or even look too closely there.”

Just before the touch crossed from intense to painful, he stopped and instead began to gather the fabric of my shirt, pulling the seam up like a theater curtain, baring my tummy bit by bit.

“But you are really not a bad girl, so I am hardly worried,” he said as he let the tips of his pinky fingers ghost across the skin of my newly naked belly. My abdominal muscles jumped and twitched in spite of me.

“And even if you were a bad girl, I’d absolutely find you out.”

Almost casually, both of his hands slid underneath the bunched fabric of my shirt and up to my bare breasts. He cupped them skin to skin.
 
I tried to swallow the whimper but couldn’t. Not this time. So many sensations at once. I had never felt this deliriously soft, never been this overwhelmed by my body and its reaction. His hands were big, warm, and unyielding as he massaged my second most delicate parts, weighed and molded them in his palms, roughly grabbed at them until my flesh spilled out between his fingers, even gave them little slaps that made me stand on my toes as if I could get away from the feelings that way.

“Don’t close your eyes. Watch,” he ordered again, and I opened my eyes that had previously been screwed shut to observe his fingers as they moved underneath the fabric of my shirt. He was watching, too, over my shoulder.

I could see clearly how he used his thumbs and forefingers to circle and pinch my nipples. Hard. Once, twice, then letting up, gently petting them only to catch them again and pull them up and away from my chest.

I was a string instrument, and he plucked me expertly.

I rocked forward to ease the sensation, but he barked a “stay still” at me and obeyed, soundlessly cursing when he tugged on my nipples again and again, with soothing rubs around my puffy areolas in between. While his thumb and index pinched and rolled and pulled my tips, his palms and the other three fingers kept kneading the fleshy underside of my boobs in a steady rhythm.

“I wonder what color they are,” he told me. Overt arousal dripped from his voice. “Just a shade darker than your lips, maybe? Like two ripe little berries?” He gave them another pinch.

“Lighter,” I breathed. “Pale pink.” Depending on the temperature, my nipples were actually almost the same shade as my skin. I had always envied the girls with the dark rose tips.

“Pale pink, huh?” He nuzzled my ear with his nose. “Not when I’m done with them, they’re not.”

I inhaled sharply. Suddenly there were direct lines, nerve pathways that lead directly from my nipples to my clit, and they glowed like the coiled filament in a light bulb, setting my entire body alight.

I had heard of women who had orgasms from having their tits and nipples fondled. I thought they were an urban myth.

I’d been wrong.

“I think I’m going to cum,” I told him quietly. I could feel the tension rising unstoppably in my core.

“No, you’re not,” was all he said, and then he flicked my tenderized buds with the side of his index finger until I begged him to stop for the third time. Both my legs and my arms, which were still raised up in the air, were shaking like crazy.

He cupped my breasts again and pulled me against him once more, letting me feel the strong wall of his chest and stomach and his erection against my butt, pressing his palms against my stiff, sore nipples until they tingled.

“You writhe around quite a lot there, Miss,” he said into my ear. “Didn’t we agree that you would stay nice and still during this procedure?”

“I’m so sorry,” I babbled and writhed on purpose, just once, to rub my backside against him. I heard him hiss in a breath before he caught himself.

“I guess there’s no helping it. I’ll have to take you into the office tomorrow. It’s in the basement of the admin building no. 2, room 14B. Be there at 6 pm sharp. I’ll file a report for obstruction, you agree to a proper search, and if you come out clean, we’ll forget all about it.”

I’d rather forget my own name than forget a single second of this but I played along.

“Alright,” I agreed. “Can I go now?”

He clicked his tongue. “I’m afraid there is one more thing.”

I was almost relieved.

He took a step back from me. “Turn around.”

I did.

Eyes dark with ardor, color in his cheeks, unapologetic bulge in his pants which he was kneading with one hand. So fucking sexy I couldn’t even look at him long.

“Feet apart.”

I set my feet hip-width apart again, feeling once more how bare my underside was, and how drenched. At this rate, I would drip onto his precious space foam mat within the minute.

“Lift your skirt up to your waist.”

I did as told, happy to be allowed to lower my arms now.

Slowly, not only to be coy but because the material of my skirt was on the sturdier side and didn’t girlishly flick up like Marilyn Monroe’s did on the subway grate, I peeled up my garment. I didn’t dare to watch him watch me and kept my eyes focused on my own hands, but I heard an appreciative hum that told me he liked that which I was uncovering for him.

My thighs, definitely on the thick and strong side, looking quite nice sheathed in my anthracite-colored pantyhose.

The triangle of my pubic area, covered in pubes which I only trimmed around the bikini zones.

My private parts between the two, which were drenched, swollen and beyond needy.

“Higher,” he instructed until I had the material bunched up just below my navel. “Good. Keep it like that. Just like that. Don’t move your hands now.”

I gasped silently when he went to his knees in front of me and inspected the area between my thighs very closely. His nose was almost pressed against me. His hands came up to clamp around my knees, which I was thankful for because they felt so rubbery.

“That’s it,” he said, talking low to himself. “Oh fuck, look at this.”

When he leaned in farther and buried his face in the apex of my thighs for a long moment, I almost sobbed from mental and physical overload. The sensation was dulled through the pantyhose but I could have sworn he had licked me.

Something in my brain came loose at the mere idea of it. My head fell back and my eyelids fell shut.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he repeated the words I had previously left unsaid about him, breaking his character out of sheer horniness. “Look at you. No panties, just like I told you, and your legs, and your pantyhose all soaked… fuck me.”

God, I wanted to. But he had told me to stay still and hold my skirt up for him, so that’s all I would do.

“You wanna cum really badly, don’t you?” When he glanced up at my face, I nodded once. His expression turned all wicked, which made him only more attractive. “Of course you do. I can see it in your eyes, and I can smell it in your cunt.”

A shiver rippled through me when he said that word with that voice.

“But you’ve been almost an hour late today, Isobel.”

Casually, he lifted one index finger to my pussy and poked it through the fine web of my soaked pantyhose, causing me to flinch and sending a zap of pure electricity up my spine. Just like yesterday, he traced my slit forward and back, forward and back, from my sodden entrance to my engorged clit that was peeking out from its hood at the front. His fingertip might as well have been a Wartenberg wheel. I gnawed on my lower lip to stifle my noises.

“I don’t think that you should be rewarded for tardiness. Do you?”

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t think. His finger was some sort of magical instrument of torture.

“I see that you have nothing to say for yourself,” he observed happily and played with my clit.

Not enough. Not enough!

“Please,” I hushed out, my throat suddenly tight with tears of frustration because I wanted to cum so badly I was about to cry.

‘Please’, said with utmost desperation, seemed to be the magic word.

All at once, he shot up to his feet, reached under the waistband of my skirt and dug around there until he found the elastic of my pantyhose. He pulled it down at the front, ripping and stretching the elastic fabric beyond its capacity and jostling me around in his hurry. When the hose was just low enough to bare my wetness and my sticky curls to him, he reached a hand into the gap and cupped my pussy.

I startled and squeaked an “ah!”, but before it was all the way out of my mouth, his hand, now coated in my juices, was gone again.

He opened his own pants, not even fumbling with his button or his fly, and pulled his cock out.

I had never seen one up close. It seemed angry, and possibly painful, and too big to comfortably fit into me – into any of my holes – but all of it just stoked the heat in me. The shiny wetness at its purple-hued mushroom tip and the bulging veins running down the shaft were mesmerizing.

He wrapped his coated fingers around himself and started to masturbate, lubricated by me, groaning and cursing under his breath. His movements were jerky, almost violently so, and quickly getting worse.

“I’m clean, Isobel. Are you clean? Are you on birth control?” he asked me without slowing down, a desperate note in his voice.

“Yes, both,” I told him.

“Fuck, good.”

I wasn’t sure if he was commenting on my answer or the feeling of his own hand against his cock. He seemed almost out of his mind with lust. I drank in the sight of him.

“Tilt your hip, Isobel. Show me more of your cunt.”

“Oh, God,” I breathed and did as I was told, lifting my pelvis up, and he echoed my words back as he stared at my middle.

“I’m gonna cum on that cunt, Isobel,” he almost snarled. “Gonna put my cum all over those fat lips. And then you’re gonna pull up that pantyhose and walk away, with your pussy still needy and horny and filthy with me. Do you understand me?”

Even as my muscles clenched on empty air and cried at me, I nodded. What else could I do?

“Such a good girl,” he praised, groaned, jerked himself faster still. “Fuck, let me-“

He reached for me, slid his free hand under my shirt and to my tits. I bit my tongue when his fingers latched on to my still sore nipple once more, reigniting the light in that wire that connected it to the pulsing nub between my legs and making it send out sparks.

“Watch,” he told me for the last time, stuck his cock into the gap between my crotch and the pantyhose, rubbed himself on my most sensitive flesh once, twice- just once more and I was sure I could--

Warm wetness spurted against my pussy lips. The sensation made me gasp and moan along with him.

“Fuck, Isobel. Oh, my God.” It sounded like he wanted to shout and roar and barely managed to keep his voice down. Fuck, I wanted to hear him roar, though.

The grip he had on my nipple tightened, and he wrung a second and third spurt from himself with vigorous, almost brutal twists of his wrist, painting my pussy lips, my pubes, the crease of my thighs, and the lower swells of my buttocks with his cum.

He had said to watch. So I watched. Every little flick of his hand, every jolt and jerk of his cock, every milky drop that landed on me or fell, wasted, to the ground.

He gasped for breath for a long while and kept rubbing, more and more slowly, until his balls were empty and I was as messy as I was ever going to get. His whole body shuddered. It was as if he was holding on to me for support so he wouldn’t tip over, and I bathed in that feeling even as I shuddered right along with him.

As his cum mixed with the moisture from my weeping pussy and started to slide down the insides of my thighs, he took a step back and put his softening penis back into his pants, then motioned for me to straighten my soggy pantyhose just as he had instructed.

I did, closely observed by his greedy eyes, and shivered when his sstill-warmcum made wet noises against my twitching pussy. I had to fight the urge to pull my hose up harder, to pull the seam into my slit and rub myself on it until I climaxed. The temptation was great. I was so close, I wouldn’t have taken more than ten seconds.

“Do as I said and I’ll go easy on you tomorrow,” he promised. He hadn’t missed my struggle. He couldn’t have. His eyes saw everything, including my thoughts, and at this point, I was entirely obvious, an open book whose pages were filled from top to bottom with the words ‘horny and desperate’. In capital letters and in several different languages.

“You do not want to know what happens otherwise,” he added and shot me a scalding hot look that dared me to be naughty and find out anyway.

Why did his brand of meanness turn me on so much? I felt like crying and yelling at him angrily and cowering and dancing naked, all at once.

I finally let my skirt fall down again and smoothed the stubborn material across my thighs and ass. For now, it hid all of the things that were going on underneath it, but I did not know for how long. If I walked around, eventually, gravity would do its thing and the combined fluids would drip farther down my legs.

I sighed. Even that wasn’t an unpleasant idea. God, I was all twisted and perverted, standing here with my soggy pants and my pussy soaked in his cum and happy about it, and he was the only one to blame.

“Can I go now?” I asked, unsure how I would make it to the next bathroom unseen.

Knowing that, if I told him about this worry, he would smile evilly and just say ‘good’.

My core clenched once more.

“Tomorrow. 6 pm, admin building no. 2, basement, 14B,” he reminded me, already turning around to put disinfectant on his hands again. As if nothing had happened.

I laced up my boots and repeated the information to myself silently. I wouldn’t have needed it, though. They had seared themselves into my brain the first time he gave them to me. I wouldn’t even be a second too late tomorrow.

“Oh, and Isobel?” he called just as I was leaving.

I stopped and looked over my shoulder at him.

“Leave the pantyhose at home tomorrow, too, or I will use it to tie your ankles to the office table.”

He watched the effect those words had on my body even as I fought for countenance, and smirked.

Picking up my backpack at the end of the x-ray machine, I hurried toward the nearest restroom as fast as my jelly legs would carry me.

On the way, I tried to decide whether I would wear my white or my burgundy pantyhose tomorrow.

_______
TBC