~~~ "Empress, the way is ready, and not long . . . If thou accept my conduct, I can lead thee thither soon" ~~~

Our journey began on a fine Spring day.

I awoke with a start, as though a light had gone on inside my head, a sudden shock of alertness which left me lying open-eyed between my sheets, starkly self- aware. Dim shadows lurked in the calm darkness of my bedroom. The clock on my nightstand glowed three some- thing, flashing faint seconds in time with the quick drip of a distant faucet. I rolled over and thrust my face defiantly into the soft pillow I was clutching, trying to escape the anxiety that already had me in its grip.

For the last week, every night had been the same and I cursed, knowing I would not fall back to sleep soon. The soft light of a crescent moon crept around a window shade to vaguely touch my eyes. I felt my heartbeat racing. There were thoughts I wouldn't let myself con- sider in the cold reason of daylight, but lying defense- less in my bed, those cruel thoughts held me in their grip.

The decision was only a few days away, and it seemed all but certain that I would triumph. Everyone I knew predicted smooth sailing. The struggle for tenure had been arduous, painful and exacting, but in a short time, best measured in mere hours, I would finally be released from my worries, for better or for worse. I wanted desperately to drift off to sleep, to remain unconscious for days until the decision had been announced and Jeff or Jean or Clara could wake me with the news that my ordeal was over, that I had been appointed a fully tenured Professor of English Literature.

The dark stole all my courage. A desperate desire to run away overtook my taut nerves. "Fuck them, fuck them all," I sneered, turning my face into the pillow and closing my eyes. "I don't need this." But I didn't move. I couldn't. It would all be over soon. There was no reason to run away.

Realizing my only hope of sleeping was to forcibly push the academic worries aside, get them out of my teeming brain, I led my imagination toward the only distraction I could count on to turn my thoughts; a pretty girl's panties, a naughty little cunt, nipples under t-shirts and cute lipsticked mouths. I knew myself this well; I quickly forgot everything else.

Impossible fantasies soon haunted my mind. I let my waking dreams wander, remembering the sweet scent of a student's hair as she leaned close to examine the passage I wanted to show her, the gentle brush of her hand against my arm as we both reached to turn the page, the warm kiss of her breath as she laughed at something I said.

"Sit down," I imagined inviting her.

"Thank you," my naughty fantasy girl replied as she nestled herself comfortably on my lap. I thought about her bottom, imagining the way it might feel pressed against me. I turned over in my bed, trying to escape the sordid dream.

It had been a week ago when one of my students, a pretty girl I respectfully called Miss Anderson, bent over to retrieve a pencil that had fallen from her hand. She was wearing a very short black skirt. Karen always wore skirts to class. Her back was to me when she bent at the waist in a most unladylike fashion, and I couldn't help staring as her skirt rose.

I held my breath as time halted, so fixed was my atten- tion. My heartbeat pounded loud as her too-short skirt crept higher, revealing the flesh of her uppermost thigh. I gasped as her white panties burst into view. My wicked imagination at once conjured an image of this schoolgirl stripped naked.

I had done my best to forget things I should never have thought, but no amount of will seemed capable of erasing the all-too-real spectacle I had enjoyed of Karen's veiled backside.

Lying naked beneath my sheet, I wanted her weight upon me. I felt my stiff cock firmly nestled between those full cheeks. I imagined the girl putting her arms around my neck and kissing me. I wished she would pull my face between her tits. I wondered if I could stand it if she sat squirming on my lap. I began to stroke my prick methodically.

"Please fuck me," I dreamed I heard her say. "I'm such a naughty girl."

I stopped myself short of orgasm, somehow afraid to be taking advantage of my student, even in fantasy. As the heat within me dissipated, I remembered a day when I was fourteen and had gone home with my friend, Jim. We hung out at his house because no one paid much attention to us there. On that particular day, we were hiding out in his basement because Jim found some dirty comics in his older brother's closet. There were drawings of bare- breasted women with big feminine asses. I had never seen anything like them. Lines of crude poetry shared the pages, and Jim and I laughed nervously as we read the limericks aloud. The door at the top of the stairs opened with a creak. We hid the comics in a panic as we heard footsteps descending. Jim peeked around the corner.

"I think it's Leslie," he whispered. "Shh, stay back."

The clomp down the wooden stairs gave way to a softer step on thin carpet. We froze. Jim's sister wouldn't find us unless she came all the way to the back, because we were stashed well out of sight in the short leg of the L-shaped basement. There were still a whole stack of comics we hadn't looked at yet, so we kept perfectly still, hoping Leslie would get what she came for and go away. Instead, a loud radio began to play.

"What's she doing?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Jim. The annoyance in his voice echoed my frustration. I knelt close to Jim to get a peek, anxious to get a feel for our situation. My mind raced in search of ways we could get rid of Leslie. I wanted to look at more tits and ass.

"The little bitch is dancing in front of the mirror," Jim said. I laid down on the floor where I could watch the girl cavort. It was maddening, feeling so utterly helpless.

"Let's just get out of here," I remember whimpering.

"How do we get Eric's comics upstairs without her seeing them?" Jim snapped back at me. "If we get caught with these, my Dad will beat the crap out of us."

"We'll just wait, then," I said. "Maybe she'll go away soon."

I went back to watching the girl dance. Leslie was wearing a pretty baby-blue dress. I'd always thought of her as a scrawny kid, but she'd grown. Leslie had tits that weren't there the last time I looked and when she danced, they bounced.

She watched herself in the big mirror that was propped against the wall, her eyes fixed on her image as she moved back and forth to the rhythm of the song that was playing. Leslie tugged at the soft collar of the blue dress until it fell off her shoulders and then shook her titties. The cloth was pulled tight and strained to keep her boobs covered.

I lay on the floor in an agony of excited frustration, wanting desperately to get up and do something, whistle, scream, touch her, move, anything except hide. I could- n't. I was so aroused and afraid, it was all I could do to keep watching.

My knowledge of girls was probably a bit sparse for a boy of fourteen. The comics had opened my eyes wide to some of their more interesting secrets, so I studied Leslie with sincere appreciation.

As if knowing how much delight she gave me, Jim's sister wiggled her budding charms in a way that quickened my heart. I was filled with wonder when she spun around and then stopped abruptly to pose. It occurred to me that I had never seen any of Jim's sisters wear a dress. Maybe I had. I can't say I paid much attention to his sisters before.

On that day, anyway, Leslie enchanted me with her beauty, dancing the way she did.

Jim, however, felt a brother's general disregard for his sister's feminine charm, and stifled a disrespectful laugh with his hand. Then Leslie spun herself in a tight circle and her dress rose up. I gasped when I saw her white cotton panties.

Even Jim seemed interested in this unexpected sight. Neither of us moved a muscle now, watching his sister dance, hoping we could see her underwear again.

Leslie didn't disappoint us. The quick flashes happened again and again, and then it occurred to me that Leslie was trying to expose her panties. She seemed to be looking for them in the mirror and whenever they ap- peared, a naughty smile crossed her face. Leslie turned on her toes like a ballerina, spinning faster and faster until her dress lifted high, revealing her panties in a blur.

After this game of little teases had gone on for a while, Leslie took the hem of her dress and lifted it to her waist. The bikini cut panties were sheer enough that I could just make out a few curls of her muff.

Leslie turned to look at her panties in profile and then over her shoulder at her ass. She bent and moved through a variety of poses, studying herself intently, while I found myself falling madly in love.

Leslie eventually returned to dancing, her dress still bunched at the waist. My young prick was so hard it hurt, caught in the too small space of my stiff blue jeans, but I was too afraid of getting caught and stop- ping the show to even consider moving to ease the strain.

A song ended and Leslie brought her free hand down to rub herself for a moment. A shiver ran through her. A wicked grin crossed her face. Leslie sat down a few feet from the large mirror and squeezed her breasts through the fabric of her dress. She laughed as her nipples began to press themselves erect against the blue cloth.

Leslie slipped her fingers down the front of her panties and teased herself. Her pretty mouth opened slightly and she let out a small moan.

"Such a naughty girl," she said as she opened her legs into a wide V. Leslie leaned back on her arms to get a good look at herself spread wide, a vision I gratefully shared. She pouted slightly and then patted the stretch of white cotton between her thighs with her hand.

"Naughty," Leslie said again as she started beating on her panties, giving her pussy a spanking. It was like nothing I had imagined before. "Naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty."

Leslie's face went flush and suddenly she lifted her bottom to yank her panties down. I had never seen a real pussy before. I nearly came in my jeans. A soft tuft of brown hairs curled above the shiny pink of her cunt. Leslie touched her nub teasingly, and then immodestly spread her pussy lips apart with her fingers, staring at the secrets revealed by the mirror.

"Naughty girl," she barely managed to say as she rubbed herself hard, watching herself as she did.

A popular song came on the radio, and Leslie tensed her muscles to the rhythm, lifting her bottom, sticking a finger up and out her wet cunt, pinching a tit, twisting her hips to the music, spreading her lips for the mir- ror, moving her young body in a wild erotic dance of self-love, a perfect poetic beauty brought to life.

I was mesmerized.

The music came to an end, and Leslie slowed her pace. Turning her head to one side, she bit her lip and moaned. A dark nipple peeked stiffly above the neckline of her dress.

"What?" a deep voice bellowed suddenly.

"Daddy." she said in a panic. The blush in her face turned crimson as Leslie pulled at her panties and jumped off the floor. She smoothed the dress down, not realizing her nipple was still exposed. I wanted to warn her, but couldn't.

"Shit," Jim said in a frightened whisper. "I didn't know he was in the back room."

"Leslie," their dad yelled. I had never seen him so upset, although I had often seen him angry. "Where'd you get that dress?"

"It's Mama's," she said. I looked at Jim. He seemed petrified with fear.

"I thought I told you . . . What the fuck were you doing?"

"Nothing, Daddy." Leslie looked around nervously. "Dancing."

"You fucking slut. Don't lie to me. Get over here."

The big man lifted his daughter by the arm and without another word tossed her down against the old sofa across the far wall, turning her so she was bent over the armrest, her bottom lifted high.

"You pull them down," he growled. Trembling, Leslie did as she was told. My heart pounded so ferociously that I thought I was going to pass out. I could hardly focus my eyes to see the swollen lips of her cunt pressed be- tween her thighs.

Her dad put a hand firmly against her back and raised the other hand high above her. "I won't have any more fucking sluts in my house," he said angrily. Her bare bottom glowed white for a brief instant. His big hand struck the soft flesh with a smack.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Leslie cried softly. "I was being naughty." He spanked her again. "I won't," she howled but he interrupted her with a hard volley of spanks. The girl sobbed hysterically and the big man stepped away.

"Now get dressed and go upstairs to your room," her father said. Leslie pulled up her panties and dashed upstairs. "Fucking slut," I heard him mutter.

Jim and I didn't move, deathly afraid of what would happen if the old man found out we were hiding there. I doubt I could have moved anyway; I had never been so intensely aroused, or frightened. After what seemed like an eternity, the big man climbed the stairs and closed the basement door. Jim and I stayed there paralyzed for an hour.

"Wow," I said. My cock lifted the sheet of my bed with quick throbs.

I tried to count the number of times I had seen the schoolgirl's panties in class. She'd flashed me dozens of times, at least, and her panties had been white every time.

"Miss Anderson," I could hear myself say. She would kneel down before me. She unzipped my trousers. "You are a very naughty girl."

I managed to grab an hour or two of troubled sleep, filled with nervous dreams of lurking fears and I felt a sense of relief when the alarm finally gave me permis- sion to give up the fight.

I pulled myself out of bed. "Six hours," I thought absently as the hot shower streamed over my face. "Six hours until I see her again."

I was wrong. Only four hours had elapsed before I caught sight of Miss Anderson on campus. She was sit- ting on a ledge in front of Wescoe Hall, talking to a young buck with sandy blonde hair and broad shoulders. I slowed my pace without thinking, taking advantage of Karen's preoccupation to study her in the flow of normal life, outside the magic kingdom of my classroom.

Karen cocked her head to one side and played with a loose shock of her long hair, bringing the strands to her soft lips for a kiss as she batted her eyes inno- cently and blushed. The boy seemed to be charming her with whatever it was he was saying.

Karen leaned back to allow the spring sunshine to brighten her pretty face. I watched her thighs spread slightly and I suddenly caught a glimpse of her white panties. I stood still, involuntarily frozen by the sight.

A minute passed before Karen leaned forward and hid her panties again. I started walking again. The boy seemed to be staring at her tits, looking down her blouse. Karen seemed to notice and the boy started talking excitedly. I moved on with a shrug, but then on impulse stole a quick glance back. She kissed the youth. I felt myself frown. She pushed him suddenly away and laughed.

"Flirt," I muttered and headed back toward my office. I still had to prepare for our class.

I sat behind the broad mahogany desk in my classroom, watching as my students filed in. Karen took her usual seat, near the front on the right side of the classroom, the stage of my torment since the first day of class.

Karen never let me ignore her. Before our first session of Nineteenth Century British Poetry, she brought in a large red apple. The short-skirted young woman stopped in front of my desk, where I sat looking over my notes.

Realizing she was standing there, I put my papers down. She polished the apple by rubbing it on her shirt, just above her left breast. A nipple's form grew under the thin cloth as she held the red fruit up for a moment's inspection. Karen softly placed the delicious looking apple on the papers I had been reading.

"Morning, Professor," she said. Her gift and greeting acted like a tonic on me, arousing a sense of pride I had never quite known before, despite my years of teaching. I felt all at once important and authorita- tive, blessing these young people with my scholarly gifts. I knew that I would touch them, awake in their souls a love for beauty and life. I would be an active principle for them, and for Miss Anderson, most of all.

I opened the text I had chosen and began to read aloud. My deep voice boomed with a resonance that never failed to please me. I knew Byron's words by heart, and after I had warmed up by following a few passages, I let my gaze stray from the book I held.

Karen was looking up at me with such rapt attention that I suddenly panicked and forgot the next line in an im- perceptible moment; my eyes returned to the page to follow the dictates of the printed words. I could feel her eyes upon me.

My heart soared again, feeling myself before them, a professor inspiring his class of young hearts with an understanding of the beauty of poetry. The romantic passage flowed out of me like water down a mountainside. I caught Karen's gaze and let the poetry spark between us.

She smiled, playing with a button on her blouse until a sudden glimpse of her creamy breast caught my eye. I stumbled in my reading, lost the words in a fit of coughing.

From that day forward, the formula was the same. I lectured on the passionate works of the best romantic poets. Karen disrupted my thoughts with innocently naughty displays of the secrets she could never quite keep hidden beneath her clothes. I fought to maintain my composure. She laughed as she watched my concen- tration crumble, tempted away by lusts I could never pursue. I tried to hide the way I felt.

I doubt I ever succeeded.

Through it all, I suppose I came to think of her as mine, the ritual of our flirtation having become a sort of relationship which I cherished in its own right.

As I sat behind my desk, trying to decide whether to bother with some of the subtler themes buried in the Eve of Saint Agnes, my thoughts insistently returned to the kiss I had witnessed. My blood ran hot and then cold, angry and pained, fierce and defeated.

"Morning, Professor," Karen said as she sat down.

"Good morning, Miss Anderson," I replied, my voice sounding hard and cold. I knew that I shouldn't let her see the jealousy she had stirred in me, but I was powerless to hide my displeasure.

Karen seemed to understand and I thought she laughed cruelly, taunting my pain with disdain. I felt confused and blushed deeply. The unspoken and impossible nature of what we shared offered me nothing to lean upon. I had wants at war with shoulds and hope fruitlessly battling can't. Every encounter with Karen left me more unset- tled.

I reasoned with myself, knowing I had no right to chastise this young woman for the way she behaved with young man outside my classroom, even if she did show me her underwear. My lips snarled with scorn. I couldn't help how this schoolgirl made me feel.

"St. Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!" I exclaimed as the class came to order. I recited the poem's cold opening with frigid passion. At the end of the first stanza, as I spoke the line, "Past the sweet Virgin's picture," I gave an angry glance at Karen. I'm sure I didn't mean to, but something morbid within me refused to be silenced.

Miss Anderson wasn't even looking my way; she had turned to laugh toward one of her fellows, a deliberate stab at my devotion, or so I felt. Karen turned back to the face me, and slid down slightly in her seat, spreading her lean thighs just a hair.

My heart nearly burst when I saw the faint sheen of white cotton in the shadows under her skirt. I stopped, lost and looked back to the text. "While his prayer he saith," I read quietly.

As many times as I had enjoyed the naughty flashes of my schoolgirl, I was infuriated by the glimpse she was showing me. I couldn't help feeling that Karen was de- liberately playing with me, teasing me with wicked thoughts of pleasures that I, for one, would never en- joy. I wanted to slap her. I continued my discussion of Keats, doing my best to ignore Miss Anderson.

However, it seemed that the less attention I tried to pay, the more intent she became on distracting me. Her legs drifted further apart until every casual glance revealed more and more of her cotton panties.

At one point, when she had managed to tempt me into a brief stare, Karen began to scratch her thigh, letting a finger rub the cotton veil with a touch of lewdness.

I dropped my book with a clatter and the class laughed at my clumsiness. I became enraged in my embarrassment. Karen rolled her eyes and blew me a mock kiss.

A rush of white-hot anger blinded me. I barely managed to collect myself and make the next assignment before dismissing the class. I felt like I was going to explode.

"Miss Anderson," I said sharply as the students began to file out of my classroom, "I will not tolerate your disrespect any further. If you continue to disrupt my class, I will have to . . ." In my fury I couldn't imagine what I could do.

"What?" she said coyly. "Spank me?"

The words shot through me like a bullet. My whole world turned red. I took the girl by the arm, pulling her back roughly, spilling her books on the floor.

"Oh, aren't you tough?" she said, unimpressed by my manhandling. I angrily pushed her down over the desk. Karen laughed and then taunted me with a wiggle of her pretty butt.

I smacked her insolent backside. She giggled and lifted her skirt, completely unafraid of tempting my wrath. "Come on," she murmured. I stared for a moment at the veil clinging to her round behind.

"Pull them down," I heard myself say. I snarled, frozen with rage. Reaching back without a moment's hesitation, Karen stretched the elastic of her white panties past the fullness of her bottom, and then pushed the cloth down until she left a roll of cotton at mid-thigh.

I paused, stunned by the sight of her young pussy. Dampness glistened in the bright stream of afternoon sun shining through the classroom window. Arousal pushed her nether lips obscenely between her thighs.

"Come on, Professor," she whispered. "Aren't I bad enough for you?" My fury rose up like a tempest within me. I struck her bare bottom hard. Karen groaned deeply, a sound caught between sharp pain and tones of ecstasy.

"You fucking slut," I said under my breath. The words surprised me and I hit her again, an angered lust stealing my last shred of self-control.

"Yes," she said eagerly, "fucking slut, naughty girl. I'm such a naughty girl." Each syllable seemed to beg me for another blow. "I'm your naughty fucking slut, Professor."

I spanked Karen again and again, each blow made harder by the luring sweetness of her voice.

Suddenly, Karen trembled and pushed her bottom back toward me, inviting more than mere spanks. The blossom of her cunt opened, her tiny wings enflamed in bright pink around the moist scarlet of her hole. Her moans came in a cascade of low growls. I stopped my fierce attack, all my rage deflating as I watched my student shudder in ecstasy, "What have I done?" I said softly. "Oh, God." I fell to my knees. "I'm sorry."

Karen shivered again and laughed. I touched her apple- red bottom tenderly. "Mmm," she murmured, "that's nice." I kissed her flaming skin, as though my lips could erase the harsh punishment my hand had inflicted on her.

"Forgive," I said between kisses.

"I was bad," she said thoughtfully. "You had to . . ." My lips caressed her asshole. I teased her with my tongue. "Mmm," she said, "you are bad." She ground her ass in my face. I licked her softly, slowly descending until I could taste the heat of her pussy. "I love you," she said. I caressed her deftly with my tongue. Karen arched her back to bring her clitoris to my kiss. "I have always loved you."

"No," I said softly. "We can't."

"Yes, we can," she said. "I want you."

I stopped myself and stood up. Karen looked back, frowning, her eyes begging me to go on licking her. I unzipped my trousers and withdrew my hardened cock.

"Oh," she said, or perhaps it was "No," but I didn't care at that point. What she wanted seemed irrelevant because I wanted her and that was enough for me.

I plunged into her wet cunt with a deliberate harshness but the hot hole gave no resistance. "Fuck me, Profes- sor," she moaned and I fucked her furiously.

Karen moaned. Each stroke of my prick seemed to excite her more. I grabbed her sore ass hard, pulling her against my rhythm, biting into the ravaged flesh with my nails. Karen raised her voice louder, until her squeals were nearly a full-throated scream.

Then, at once, I realized the classroom door was only closed, not locked. Someone could walk in at any moment. I told her to shut up.

Karen only moaned louder. I became angry with her again, snarling as I called her foul names. Karen repeated my profanity twice as loud.

I finally pulled my cock out of her and then she began to curse me for stopping. I covered her mouth with my hand, but she continued her yells. I reached back and spanked her hard. Karen gave a muffled purr, and tenderly kissed my hand. I gave a few more spanks and finally stopped to push my prick into her mouth.

And in that moment, I resolved to go away, to leave my life behind, start fresh. I knew exactly what I wanted. As I came in the schoolgirl's mouth, I knew I had to live.

"We should go," I said calmly as Karen licked her smeared red lips. She pulled up her panties and I helped her retrieve her books from the floor. In a whisper I added, "we could run away, together."

"Lead, then, Professor," she replied, holding out her hand.

"David," I corrected her. "Please call me David."

Karen put her arms around me and pressed her lips lovingly to mine. "Lead, then, David, so long as you call me yours."


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