Shelby was both near-terminally horny and dancing on the edge of real boredom.
Not to mention hosting a swirling, smoldering vortex of self pity and doubt. Plus the classroom was stuffy and far too warm, from there being fifty plus students packed into a 20-student volume. She had arrived late, which was good. It forced her to sit in the inconspicuous, nearly-hidden rear corner, where nobody could really see her. She wouldn't have to participate, not actively.
The horniness was a residuum of two things, one short term the other longer. It had now been three months and four days (Damn, but she hated how she kept track of the time in spite of herself!) since her nasty breakup with her last boyfriend, and she hadn't even had a date since then, much less a sex-partner. And then, this morning, she had spent a long time in the shower shaving her legs and pits, and doing a thorough trim on her pussy. The first since the breakup.
That activity had led, as it usually did, to interesting finger and shower-spray games which provided sudden, but shallow, relief. Mostly what the exercise did was finally revive the flow of her juices. Hence the horniness now suffusing her like a thick fog.
The boredom, on the other hand, was an oddity - the class was wildly multifaceted, and usually quite a treat, but today's topic just happened to be a low-level introduction to something she was thoroughly conversant in already. She had thought briefly about not attending, but worried about the politics of a first year graduate student being noticed for her absence from the main class. And so here she was. Bummer. Oh well, at least the class would be over shortly after noon, and she had only one more class today.
She laid much of the blame for her "situation" on her physique. She could be quite objective about herself on some fronts - she was, and would readily admit to being, bright, well read, intellectually talented, physically in good shape, a good conversationalist.
But along with most human females she also suffered from an inability to view herself objectively in a mirror, and an ABSOLUTE inability to see herself through the veil of testosterone that colored and shaped every hetero male's view of every female in the world. She was, in fact, an attractive woman: not to herself (all mirrors lied to her stridently and she believed them totally), but to the rest of the world, and to men in particular. She had yet to encounter any male who would tell her so. Her profound streak of shyness didn't help. Most likely, she had just never let the proper men get close enough to say such a thing. Which was really too bad.
She tilted back against the wall, let her waist-length bright-copper ponytail drape over her shoulder. It almost reached the floor when she was sitting in this low chair. She felt strongly that her hair was her best feature. Best being a highly relative term - that it was 'her best' generally disturbed her when she thought about her physical self. She was tallish, slender, well-muscled from exercise and yoga and dance. She was thin from front to rear, and wore her low-rise hip huggers very well indeed. Too wide across the hips, she often thought. Again, she was simply wrong about that - a good many of her female acquaintances would have given a great deal to have her bottom.
She was lucky, too - one of the fortunate few real redheads who have perfect, pink, translucent skin - and perfectly white teeth, not the slightly yellow-tinted set that is so common. She felt her face was too pointed, making her look like she was somehow zooming through the air cartoon-fashion.
The rest of the world, at least the male part, would have wondered in confusion about that analysis, although they would certainly have agreed that she had heavy eyebrows. But her face was, in actuality, both symmetrical and balanced.
The biggest problem for her was boobs. Or, more precisely, her feeling a significant lack thereof. Even here in class she was always aware of the tits on other women nearby, and frankly envious. Beneath her blouse, cupped in her little-nothing bra, were her own personal little-nothings. Phooey. She had often thought (but never seriously) about surgery, about "augmentation" (what a dopey word!). It wouldn't fit her pocketbook or credit line, and she had NO interest whatever in surgical procedures upon herself, especially optional ones.
Besides, it didn't jibe in any way with her view of how (intellectually, at least) a woman should feel about her own body. And the last thing she needed was to attract some clown of a man who could fall in love with her due to a pair of subcutaneous bags of a ridiculously overpriced silicone compound. No way!
She relaxed against the wall, letting the room's warmth permeate her. It blended with her internal heat quite nicely. The lecture and discussion began; everyone else was animated and interested. She was out of sight, in her own little dream-world.
She looked about through squinted eyes. Nobody in the entire room had her in their line of sight except Danny, one of the six professors who team-taught this course, and he was riveted on the speaker. He was very, very good about paying close attention no matter who was talking - she had noticed that in class, and especially in their two or three long, interesting conversations after sessions he'd taught.
He was unusually frank and approachable, to all the students. Too bad he was twice her age, or even more. He'd joked about the "Big six-oh" looming, back when the profs had introduced themselves, meaning , say, thirty-plus years between them. Not to mention the professor-student taboo. She looked about the room for the umpteenth time since the start of the semester, inventorying once again. Lots of men, but actually less than half the class. A few really BAD examples of the modern male, physically. Bad mentally also - as she had found out from their class participation. A couple of genuinely good-looking ones, unfortunately neither one very bright. Very jock, both of them. A nasty judgment, but one could tell, couldn't one? Three others, smart, good-looking, obviously younger than herself but not ridiculously so. And all three with female partners in the class already. Three other men -older, married and settled. Inventory closed. Damn!
She drifted, closed her eyes, soaked in the close atmosphere. In moments she was deep into a daydream, gloriously but very non-specifically sensual. Without forcing it, or even knowingly launching the effort, she began to examine her recent lack of sex, and drifted back over her experiences to date. She was perhaps five or six years older than most of the students in the class. And she had only run through four 'boyfriends' in her life so far, if that actually meant 'lovers' in the sense of sexual intimacy. She almost snorted aloud to herself in her drowse, at the idea of intimacy. Desired, but did it really apply to her relationships? She doubted it, and certainly not compared to what some (not all, but some) of her girlfriends as related during girl-talk.
After all, she was horribly shy, always had been, and so much brighter than most of her male acquaintances that they tended to stay well clear of her emotionally. They probably did the same with all other females as well, but that didn't make her feel any better, did it? So, she hadn't even started her sexual life (other than intense masturbation that began before she had any other retrievable memories!) until she was twenty-four, and then it had been a conscious, almost forced, decision. It was certainly NOT as if she had been swept off her feet - more of a lab experiment whose time had finally come. Nice, interesting, but nothing to scribble breathlessly about in the lab book, really. Certainly not the mind-blowing emotional and physical extravaganza most women, herself included, seemed to hope for.
She had not yet encountered "Le Grande Passion Romantique", had not fallen madly into love with some mentally or physically hunky man. Nor, to her dismay, had she fallen madly in lust either, despite her tentative sexual adventures. The latter - lust that is - seemed at least plausible, for the world was in fact filled with potentially attractive men, and she certainly LIKED the business of sex so far, but...
Perhaps the problem was that she expected of herself that she must find Le Grande Passion Romantique first, and only from within that was she somehow allowed (Oh? And by whom, brain?) to find herself enveloped in a lust-filled relationship? Romantic twaddle, she knew that intellectually. Oh well.
Her latest? Well, objectively, he'd been nice enough, but totally unsatisfying, at least sexually. He was purely self-centered on that topic, as if her needs and desires and preferences didn't exist, and that upset her, but she didn't have much of anything to compare it to, just a strong feeling that something was seriously awry. At least she had managed to come with him a couple of times during their year-plus together... although always with some secret help from her fingers. That was disappointing, but she knew from girlfriends and reading that it was far from uncommon.
