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Heather Lambert tied her honey hued hair up into two buns, with the rest of it’s length fluffing out from them on either side of her head. She put some blush on her cheeks and chose a dark pink lipstick to put on. When she looked in the mirror she glowed with a smile. Her petite form was clothed in a white tee-shirt, cut and seemed at sternum length just below her small breasts (a silver necklace with a pendant dangling from it, a picture of her father inside), hip-hugging blue slacks that were low enough to show off her thin panty string that arched over each hip, a thin, black belt and her white strapped sandals with the thick black soles. She looked at her smooth, flat stomach, exposed; her tucked in navel with the small, silver loop that she got for her birthday.
“Hot and sexy and ready to party,” she told her reflection before turning and grabbing her black leather purse with the long straps. Then: “Oh.”
Heather almost forgot. She grabbed some lavender body spray off her makeup table, spraying the cool mist over her body, from her breasts to her knees. Now everything was perfect.
Heather kissed her mother goodbye and dashed out the door, throwing her purse in the passenger seat of her red ’98 Corsica. In a few minutes, she was parking outside Greer Hall at Manathon College near Simonides Square. Dr. Greer, according to her pofessors, was a man who received his anthropology degree at Manathon and went on to study primate sexuality, including that of humans. Manathon was one of the only Ivey League colleges that had an arts and sciences degree in sexuality. There was human reproduction classes, erotic lit and sexual psychology programs, all there for the taking.
Professor Edward Mosley was not only her academic advisor, but her favorite professor as well. Yes, he was hot and sexy, but he also taught her favorite class: The History of Eros & Erotic Behavior. It was a 120 class and everyone who took the class knew that he covered the ancient arts of erotic couplings and showed porn for discussion.
Today, Heather remembered, Professor Mosley planned on lecturing about Greek and Roman priapic orgies. She quickly took a seat toward the front of the class, eager for her professor to realize that she was wearing his favorite scent, lavandar. Heather learned this from a graduate student, who reflected being with him once. She told Heather that he asked for her to wear lavandar more often, confiding in her shortly before they began to sleep with each other. Their affair was over, though, and Heather knew that Professor Mosley was single at the moment. Maybe she’d get lucky, too.
The other students filled Greer’s 213, taking seats. The class was almost equal in male-female ratio, which was great. Nobody had to feel like the minority here. Soon after that, Professor Mosley came in, carrying his briefcase. He put it on his podium, opened it and took out his notes.
Heather looked him over, watching him as he’d come in. He was tall, muscular, 30-ish, with short black hair (spiked) and wore a hot royal blue dress shirt, silver tie and black slacks that fit his ass real well. She daydreamed being able to get a good hold of his ass, smiling to herself.
Then he walked up to the front up to the white marker board and wrote: PRIAPIC = PHALLIC WORSHIP. As he wrote, the class quieted. Mosley always started class of by writing something on the board, which was his way of saying Hush, it’s time for me to talk.
“Phallus, as we all know, is another term for penis. The word ‘phallic’ is often used as a term to describe shapes that are similar to the penis, or that remind of us of the male genitalia,” Mosley began, turning back to the class, still holding his blue marker. “I briefly went over several phallic symbols last class. The Indian lingum and others… Today, we will be discussing the Bacchae, female worshippers of the god Bacchus and how during the rise of Christianity the so-called depravity of these pagan rituals were applied to people’s idea of the witch’s sabbath.”
Interesting, Heather thought. She had never thought about that before.
“Bacchus was a fertility god of wine and celebration,” Professor Mosley said, turning on the Powerpoint display, which beamed on a side screen. A picture of a plump man, wreathed, was being fed grapes by naked women and goat-legged satyrs danced all around him and a wine barrel. It looked like a illustrative copy that was found on an Greek artifact. “He was often described drinking wine, laughing and surrounded by lusvacious women and libidinous satyrs.”
He hit a button on his computer and another image came up. This one was a long panel illustration. At the far left there seemed to be a statue of a bearded man with an arm broken off, a large penis sticking out in front of him. A female satyr with full breasts was holding up a cloak, seemingly to hide herself as she began to sit down on the statue’s erection. To the right of that was a bricked dwelling, a satyr coming out of a door behind bahis firmaları the cloak. In front of this satyr a woman passed out on a hay bedding, her arm over her forehead as if in woe, her left breast hanging out from her blanket that draped her. Near her head seemed to be some instruments and a box, which held who-knows-what. To the right of that, centered, there were about six poeple, some of them dressed, or swathed in robes, dancing. One naked woman and a half naked man helped hold up a drunken man, who was fully clothed. The dressed woman of the far right of this group was opening up a platter for a boy clothed in a long shirt. Beside the boy, a handsome satyr, who seemed to be holding something that Heather couldn’t make out (possibly scissors or a spy glass?), with a pointy, whip-like erection was about to spear a naked woman who was bending over for him on a flat, square stone. Behind them was another drape, strung up on tree limbs, a young man watching them from behind it. And to the right of that, a man seemed to stand behind a pedastal, his arm propped over what looked like a skin of a man (Heather was sure that one part of the draping skin was an arm), but where the skin’s long neck would form into the shape of a head, it shaped instead into what looked like the head of a penis.
“As you can see here, both the Greeks and Romans found orgies to be a very important ritual, filled with divine beings,” Mosley said. “Like the Indians, they believed in the sacred power of the phallus and priapic orgies were found to be rather common. Which brings me to the Bacchae.”
Mosley hit another button and the screen switched to another image: several naked women were dancing. In the center, a man was laying, his face a portrail of pain as a couple of the nude women pulled off a leg and an arm. Another woman was already feasting on another arm that she had already pulled off of him. Despite the pain the man must be going through, his penis was rigid, his huge balls hanging on a thigh but pulled up as if near orgasm.
“In Rome, those with higher stations had the Right of Penetration over his lessers. It was sometimes believed that men thought it was their duty to have intercoarse with women and to sodomize men of lesser value. But the Bacchae, female worshippers of Bacchus, were most feared of all. It’s said that they were a cult of women that travelled the land, having an orgy of food and drink wherever they went. If a boy or man ever found themselves mobbed by them, he was sure to be sexually abused, torn apart and eaten.”
Heather took notes, but she took every chance she got to study the illustrations that Mosley showed and to burn her professor’s image into her mind. Her imaginings tried to picture him naked, standing in front of the class with a full erection, showing the class how a man masturbates himself. She was shamefully a virgin still, but she had used the Internet to find herself some good pictures of naked men, hanging, poking and cumming. Her favorites, the ones she collected, were of men masturbating themselves until they came, their seed dripping down their shafts and pooling on their stomachs.
Heather had to squeeze her legs together, feeling that good tingling in her pussy. God, she was making herself horney.
Mosley, finished with the Greek and Roman section of his discussion, hit the button on his computer to bring up another painting on the screen.
The painting was bigger and filled with miniature details. In the center was a large goat-shaped Satan on a table. A witch in a long dress was bending over his backside, kissing his ass. Several naked witches and sorcerors danced around them, playing instruments or dancing with minor demons, half-goat and half-man. Children played with frogs by a stream, a demon was having intercoarse with a woman, spread-eagled on a rock. On the upper left, a naked witch flew to the sabbat on a flying stag. In the background, the upper middle, witches danced on a hill around a cauldron that spat smoke up into the sky. At the bottom middle, a black, winged devil squated, his genitals dangling over a woman’s face, who layed underneath him.
“The new Christian monarchy and the peasants of the Middle Ages feared the Devil more than anything. The depravities of the flesh were the Devil’s playground. In the aftermath of the priapic orgies, sexual conduct becoming an evil in most ways but one; that is, through marriage and only made in the missionary position. However, we see, in the historic records of the witchfinders (that interrogated these accused), that there was a common disposition toward the most extreme. The priapic orgy was alive in the imaginations of most people, though it was now manifesting as an accepted evil. The sabbath.
“Was it because the resonance of the priapic orgy, not so far away in their history, still a guilty secret desire of most people? Do you think that the accused witches and sorcerors used the opportunity to express their sexual desires, since they were damned anyway, kaçak iddaa and maybe the accused also knew that the witchfinders were actually titillated by what they were hearing? Could the witchfinders actually become obsessed with the act of interrogation of witches in order to fulfill their own sadistic and sexual urges?”
Mosley seemed to be waiting for an answer on that one. Nobody raised their hand, so Heather did.
She stood, as was the tradition at Manathon.
“I think it’s possible,” Heather said. “Priests and monks weren’t allowed to have sex, either, so when the opportunity arose to interrogate a witch, they took it. They knew from experience that the accused parties that ‘admited’ their crimes were sure to include the sexual depravities of the sabbath. Especially when the questions the witchfinders asked prodded the accused to admit about their depravities as these so-called events.”
Heather sat down as Mosley beamed at her.
“Very good, Ms. Lambert,” he said.
She couldn’t help looking at his mouth. Every fiber of her wanted to touch him, draw her lips to him and kiss deeply with him.
Mosley pointed at the painting of the sabbat, saying: “There are sexual misconducts happening everywhere in this painting. Look! Here’s a naked child in front of Satan. Some confessors were very young. Others insisted that they were taken to their first sabbath between the ages of 12 and 14 by other witches. Pedophilia. Here’s a lady giving Satan the obscene kiss. She kneels and kisses Satan’s anus in honor of him. Oral sodomy. Beastiality. A child kissing a toad. A demon sodomizing a young woman.”
He flipped back to a picture of a satyr penetrating a naked woman, whose lying on her back, legs spread.
Mosley turned off the Powerpoint and stood behind his podium again, looking though his notes. His passion so excited Heather.
“Okay. You know that book I had all of you purchase from the school store? Titled The History of Sex? I’d like you to read chapters one through eight by next class. Note especially chapters five, six and seven because that will pinpoint what your papers will be about. Class dismissed and I’ll see you Thursday.”
Everybody started getting up and Heather waited until most of them left before going up to the podium, where Professor Mosley was looking through his notes and gathering his things up.
She bit her bottom lip, trying to think of how she wanted to say this. But before she could say anything he looked at her with a smile.
“Is that lavandar? Smells great,” he said.
Abashed and glorified (making her want to scream her joy to the world), she said: “Oh, thanks. I like lavandar.”
“Nice. What was it you wanted?”
What kind of cologne did he wear? It smelled fresh and cool, reminding her of the beach. Mmm, she thought. Delicious.
God, she sounded like a befuddled child. Heather couldn’t do this. Not now. Switch subjects… Fast.
“I was wondering if I could set an appointment to meet with you to figure out what my next semester classes will be,” she said, thinking How could I screw this up?
“Oh, okay. How about next monday. At eleven?”
Heather nodded, saying: “Great. I’ll see you there.”
Then she rushed out of the room, holding her purple notebook tight against her chest. In the parking lot, she sighed, wanting to hit herself on the head. All the wanted to do was tell him how much she enjoyed his classes, but a part of her was afraid that he’d realize that she liked him and begin the whole ‘I’m too old for you, besides it’s wrong…’ bit.
“Shit,” she said, getting into her car.
Her clock stereo showed the time to be 10:12. She decided it was time to go to her coffee shop, The Silk Cafe, and order a mocha to sip while she studied for her next class.
Driving, she thought about what Mosley lectured about and thought about some of the other things she learned in these classes. Inhabitions were at the core many people’s psyches. They feared, due to some reason or another, that certain things were wrong and certain things were right instead of what they like to do and what they don’t like to do. The taboo of sin as contested with the pleasures of human desire. On a social level there were some things that were wrong; she admitted that. For example, it’d be wrong to sleep with her professor, breaking the student-teacher social protocals. That was understandable, but things like that were in context with social rules placed there for a reason. What she was thinking of, however, were the practices of sex. It wasn’t okay to have sex with a teacher, but it was okay to have desire for a teacher. It wasn’t okay to force sexual relations with another, but it was okay to have desires about forcing someone to have sex with them. The boundary really laid between wish and fulfillment. But according to social conduct, kaçak bahis so long as you’re not crossing any of these types of boundaries, personal desires should overcome personal inhabitions. Right? If Heather was interested in someone watching her have sex with someone else, which she did have fantasies about, why should she inhibit herself if that’s what she wanted to do? Yes, in the eyes of the public, this may be considered a naughty or detestable thing to do, but why should she care what the public thinks? What right does the public have to your personal desires? None. That’s what.
Heather, raised Catholic, was not at all interested at what the Chrurch had to say about what she should and should not do in her personal life, in her own bed. She wasn’t Catholic anymore—an atheist at heart—so this was surely true more than anything. But yet the doctorine of these crappy, fairy-tale fanaticals had instilled in her many inhabitions that she decided were not going to last. Even as scared as she was, she had to try to destroy the programming of an absurd past that was no longer important for her.
Frightened that she couldn’t cross the student/teacher relationship, she instead went directly home after her last class, locked her door and undressed herself quickly as she walked to her room.
She loved making sure she wasn’t disturbed–the routine pattern of unplugging the phones, drawing the curtains, locking the doors. Doing them helped her get in the mood. You know, the whole “Oh, I’m going to be so naughty” kinda thing. Then she got her favorite play toys out: a cup of hot water in which she puts a small bottle of lubricant, a glass of icy cold water full of ice cubes, dildo, vibrator, towels and sugarless cough drops.
Then she put her towels over her bed and laid down on it. Closing her eyes she imagened Professor Mosley and her bicycling in the rain, feeling herself getting wet between her legs. They stop to move under a tree in a secluded park, trees all around them, and he’s telling her that she’s the prettiest student that he had. She blushes and tells him that she wanted him and he tells her that they should go back to her place and get dry.
They kiss in the rain, lips exhalting the moment playfully. Then she takes him home.
On her back, her legs bent and wide open, she begins to touch her breasts, her flat stomach, loving the feel of the smooth peach fuzz that gets a little rougher as her fingers begin to rub the soft mound that sent tingles to her moist pussy. Then the fingers tease her pussy lips and it feels like warm, wet silk to her. It’s slippery, her lips and fingers sliding back and forth over each other.
In her mind, Professor Mosley takes off his shirt once they get back to her apartment and she can’t help but to gaze at his wonderful muscles, the hard pecs and poking nipples. She touches his chest and they kiss again, his hands sliding up and down her back before resting on her ass, squeezing them and pulling her cheeks apart to tweek the nerves in her asshole. The image is so intense that she must do this for real…
She raises her legs higher in the air, lifting her ass off the ground, grabs her ass cheeks and spreads them, sighing to how her body reacts to not only the pleasure, but how slutty and erotic she felt.
In her mind she notices how his cock is tenting in his slacks, so she unzips him and rubs him through his underwear. He moans. She moans. His balls feel heavy and his cock pushes against her hand in excitment.
The fantasy gets her to finger herself again. The sensations build, it feels like she has to go pee, but she pulls her fingers away even though it was hard. She didn’t want to cum yet. There was so much more that her “slutty” body wanted first.
Imagining that she pulls Professor Mosley’s cock from his underwear, amazed at how soft and beautiful it looked and felt, Heather grabs one of the ice cubes and rub it all over her pubic mound, which feels great on her hot skin and her hot pussy. She inserts it inside herself a little and lets it melt, using her finger to help the cold water drip out.
In her dreams: Professor Mosley moans and watches her as she sticks his cock into her mouth, sliding it back and forth over her lips before actually putting his huge bulbed head on her tongue and sucking on it. Then she begins to slide it in and out of her mouth, enjoying his taste, which is even made better when his cock spills some salty, warm pre-cum in her mouth.
Once Heather’s pussy is nice and cold, she grabs the cough drop, licks it and rubs it against her stiff rosebud, rubbing it all over her pussy and shudders. It’s a warm tingle that contrasts a lot with the cold from the ice, which remains even after she places the cough drop aside to get her fingers actively rubbing harder at her mons and fleshy pussy.
In the mirror her pale pussy is blushing from the pleasure, red and mottled and it looks so hot to her. She imagines a man wanting to eat her red pussy, not wanting to stop until she cums hard in his face.
Professor Mosley: She wants to lick his balls, suck on the skin and squeeze them gently. In her dreams, she’s doing this and then putting his cock back in her mouth.
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