Abigail Knox Taylor stepped from the shower and began to study her blurry-looking self in the fogged glass of the full-length mirror as she towel-dried her hair, Irish-red, just below shoulder length and now hanging in shiny, wet, ringlets. At five foot one and theoretically petite, she was an eye-turning twenty-two year old with pouty lips and a body ready for plunging necklines and form-fitting jeans.
She turned away from the glass and over her shoulder surveyed her rear as she came in focus. Flexing her backside she clenched further what felt tight as a drum at rest, first right, then left and then both cheeks as she daintily explored the dark split that dove between her legs. As the bathroom exhaust fan finally cleared the mirror, she turned to view herself in profile, 36 C breasts jutting out from her narrow physique—to her eye anyway—in somewhat caricaturesque fashion, like she had cartoon tits she thought to herself. But only she felt that way about her endowments and, perhaps, a jealous rival or two she was happily unaware of. Guys just whistled under their breath (sometimes more obviously) and imagined what they might do with them given the chance.
Lovers—those few actually given that chance, and she used the term lover quite loosely, as she considered most of them to be more drooling beasts—had groped, squeezed as if they were testing grapefruit, licked and sucked on, chewed as if her nipples were insensitive little gum drops, and the more creative had nestled their distended manhood twixt one and the other, wrapping left and right into a soft tunnel, and insistently slid back and forth between them until she heard the telltale groan, saw the expression on his face as if he had been stabbed with a knife, felt the warm discharge running down her neck and onto her pillow, and simultaneously she sensed her boobs being squeezed with characteristic male lust and release as if they were attempting to milk her mid-orgasm.
One memorably wanted to clip clothes pins onto her nipples before he video-taped her, as pain—he breathlessly explained—underlay all pleasure. And though she forcefully declined his offer to usher her into a sort of 'tit-bondage' as he put it, where undoubtedly she would—he again insisted--soon ask him to move from wood to weighted alligator clips, she nonetheless in the dark and alone, had dragged herself to numerous orgasms with her own fingernails, judiciously harnessing pain as the lad had suggested. It wasn't that he was wrong necessarily, but he wasn't the one who she was willing to follow in such a direction. Such an individual, she hoped, she would see later today.
At the thought of him she dropped the towel, her hands hovering over her head as if he were there and she were posing for him. To push her breasts even further out she took a full breath and held it to make them appear even larger, her up-turned nipples forming the end of a lazy 'C' that began at her chin, curved around the arc of her neck, plummeted downward and at last turned up slightly with each nipple.
She turned still again, faced the glass and dropped her arms, her hands rising to cup and delicately lift each independently before her thumbs tracked predictably to brush delicately nipples already stiffening from the thought of physical attention. So horny she ached, she needed a release, but would delay long enough to see through her plan. Tonight either would find her paired with a stand-in, temporary and expedient, alone, riding one of her toys, or with him.
She sighed and let one hand caress her thin waist, one finger lazily driving through the droplets of water, around her navel and eventually to the short growth of her trimmed mound. She first lewdly seized her flesh as a man cups his cock and balls, squatted slightly to part her thighs, one finger soon dredging shallowly along her moist slit between sensitive pink petals from back to front and pausing at her clit, her first and her third finger parting her hood to unmask her hot-wired little nub to her practiced middle finger as her entire body shuddered as if in response to an electric current.
A deep breath and consideration for the time pulled her out of her reverie and reminded her that today was the day when she would finally see if her intuition were flawed and if she had misread the signs that led to this infatuation. In her bedroom she finished drying herself and modeled panties.
The white cotton ones gapped at the top of her crack in the rear and bloused slightly between her cheeks, folded neatly in the front into the gap between her lips. The string of the thong however disappeared into her crack and as well molded itself to her lips. After trying and eliminating the boy shorts she chose the diminutive white thong, matching bra that barely contained her flesh, and over her head slipped on a white, cotton, knee-length summer dress that unbuttoned to the waist and buttoned, enticingly bared enough of her cleavage to form a dark fissure and as well showcased the slope of her alabaster, lightly freckled breasts.
Around her neck she hung a silver and turquoise pendant cleverly twisted into a Celtic knot. She wasn't much concerned about the form of the pendant so long as it pulled his attention downward. Slipping into white summer heels that added an inch to her height, she finished drying her hair, sparingly applied her makeup and headed off to campus to retrieve her final Contemporary American Lit essay from Dr. Cox.
Knox and Cox she smiled to herself as she drove to campus. Abby had been her intended nickname. But her middle name, an old family name dating from the eighteenth century, had been the one that caught on. And when she developed, boys now grown into men had found the nickname devilishly appropriate. They thought her unaware of their clever double entendre on Knox and knockers, but she wasn't a fool and besides, she liked her middle name.
He just had to feel the same way about her she thought, her mind veering back to what she now almost considered to be her prey as she turned onto campus and made her way to the Liberal Arts Building with one distinct memory of him standing above her in her mind's eye, his eyes flashing to her mouth and neck and below as she sat at his feet so to speak, taking notes and pretending not to notice where his attention had wondered. They chatted in seminar, sometimes to her mind as if the rest of the class wasn't there, and all of twentieth century American literature soon became an extended metaphor for their desire, she hoped.
A final look in the visor mirror, some lip gloss and a breath mint for good measure and she was on her way across the parking lot and into the building, her hips hypnotically swaying in time to the rhythm of the seduction she had long been devising, one that would clearly make more than her feelings known and, even more importantly, force him to declare his.
His office door was ajar as she walked down the otherwise conveniently empty suite and so as not to lose her nerve and as well catch him unawares she walked straight to the door and pushed it open without so much as a warning tap. He was seated at his computer, body in profile, and as he turned she realized he was in summer attire, canvas shorts and sneakers and a polo shirt. She noticed his eyes dart up and down her entire body before he eagerly said "Hi Knox. Come on in!" Sweeping into the small space on his invitation she gave the door a barely imperceptible encouragement with the back of her heel that ended in the sound of the latch clicking into place and ensuring their privacy.
He was about five ten or eleven, trim and tanned always, with thick, prematurely graying hair atop a well-toned forty-five year old physique. His hands were simultaneously delicate and masculine, his fingers long and thick. She remembered lore from her home town identifying the fingers as the key to estimating the size of a man's equipment. If Dr Cox's fingers truly foreshadowed the size of his manhood. . . hmmm, a guttural moan was all she could think of to express the feeling.
Smiling broadly, she moved across the small office in two steps and propped her butt on the corner of his desk, the rounded angle pushing insistently into the skin separating her little back door and the rear of her pussy. The 'taint' one of her first liaisons had called it: "taint ass and taint pussy." Stupid as the sentiment was, quite as foolish as the person who had offered it, for some reason she could not forget it. Her legs fell akimbo in front of her as if she were subtly offering herself to him; her toes almost touched his sneakers after he had wheeled around from the computer screen where he had been working.
"Hi Doc" she said; "are your grades all turned in" she continued, watching him for any sign that would encourage her.
"Finally" he said as he smiled broadly, stood and brushed against her arm as he went to a stack of papers atop a filing cabinet, "and I have something for you" he continued, "your essay is here somewhere and a wonderful job it was, as usual."
