Detective Clay Hardwicke had dedicated almost two decades of his life to his profession. He was considered a loose cannon by his superiors, someone who could get the job done, but his methods were questionable at best. He made no excuse for his approach, more often than not, that was deemed unconventional, unorthodox, and unethical.
As Clay worked on his next case, he was staring intently at the monitor in front. His attention was laser-focused, his eyes never peeling themselves away from the video footage that was playing. He had his right hand placed over the mouse; his index finger occasionally tapping on the left button, other times for an extended period while simultaneously sliding the mouse slowly from left to right or vice versa.
His left hand had been subconsciously placed between his legs that were parted to the sides, his palm just cupping over the significant bulge in his trousers. The video clip was showing a suspect blindfolded, tied, and gagged while two individuals, supposedly police officers, conducting a body search. One had his hands all over the suspect's torso before disappearing inside her skirt, while the other was running his hands up from her lower limbs and vanished under her skirt. The suspect was squirming on the chair, writhing her body against the restraints that held her arms helplessly behind and her legs vulnerably spread apart.
It evoked poignant memories of when Clay was still a budding twenty-five-year-old studying at university. He was in his graduation year when his innocence was seduced, leading him to walk down a life-changing path that ultimately made him who he was today.
Clay wanted to become an educator to impact and make a change in the world. He attended university and studied elementary education. His assessments and exams had always been in the top five, attributed to his conscientiousness and hard work. However, he was also attracted to a certain teacher by the name of Ms. Kimberly Quinn, who taught sociology.
He was enamored by Ms. Quinn's dressing -- a standard white translucent shirt, skirts that almost always showed her mile-long legs, matched with black fuck-me pumps that accentuated her svelte figure. The fact that she always wore sheer nude-color pantyhose in a modern world where most women shun those antiquated, hot nylon, lower body enclosures, was a sight for sore eyes for Clay.
His earnest interest in her lectures would lead them to delve deeper into topics of human behavior through social interactions after class. On more than one occasion, Clay saw something that looked like flesh color between Ms. Quinn's legs whenever she flashed at him, whether by accident or not. His discreet attempts to steal glances beneath her skirt always caused a tenting in his pants, especially when he noticed she never wore panties. Ms. Quinn grinned at the effect her hosiery had on her student.
As a young man with raging testosterone, Clay's mind was always preoccupied with Ms. Quinn, worshipping her like a sex goddess. That probably also got him started on his lifelong fetish.
In the solitude of his dormitory room, he fantasized about Ms. Quinn coming home intoxicated from a date, and he would sneak into her room and undress her after she fell asleep on the bed. He loved the silky-smooth sensation on his hands as they caressed Ms. Quinn's pantyhose legs, from the soles of her feet to the tops of her thighs, and the V of her crotch. At times, Clay imagined discovering his favorite teacher's soiled hosiery after rummaging through the laundry basket. He would hold them up to his nose and sniff her feminine scent. Other times, he would taste the heady mix, ultimately sending him over the top and releasing ropes of cum onto the nylon fabric.
Days became weeks. Weeks turned to months. His fondness for Ms. Quinn flourished, and they were soon more than just a student-teacher relationship. She was well aware of the influence she had over Clay, especially her pantyhose legs, and had every bit of intention to capitalize them to her advantage. In the months leading to his graduation year, Ms. Quinn took her sociology research deeper, unbeknownst to him.
One day, she informed him to meet in her office at the end of the day. Clay appeared in Ms. Quinn's office; his virgin face was red as a beet when he saw her dressed in a white color high-leg cut leotard bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination. Her legs were clad in tan-colored nylons with matching white-color fuck-me high heels. He stumbled over his words as they went through the subject of human behavioral changes during interactions. He sipped on the drink offered to him on the table, but his lustful gaze followed Ms. Quinn's legs and ass whenever she stood up to walk around, almost as if she was deliberately teasing his cock.
As she spoke to Clay, her words sounded incomprehensible and he felt his head spinning, as he attempted to carry on the conversation. Soon he found himself slouching, resting his head on the back of the chair before passing out.
Not knowing the time, nor the place he was, Clay opened his eyes only to find complete darkness all around. Clay tried to shake off the grogginess in his head and gather his thoughts, the last he heard from Ms. Quinn whispering to him, "Just relax and enjoy."
Clay had been strapped to an X torture stand. His hands and feet were restrained by thick leather cuffs, while the cool breeze gently caressing his body, suggested he was probably in a state of undress. He could feel his boxer shorts tenting out, as his erection pulsated and grew by the second, with bated breath.
Waiting in helpless anxiety, the sultry image of Ms. Quinn in her high-leg white leotard kept flashing in Clay's head, fueling his erection to stiffen harder. She hardly looked the part of a teacher, but rather a succubus vixen bewitching innocent men. And wearing white color made her look irresistibly alluring.
A sudden, wet slithery flick on Clay's nipples made him shudder. Ms. Quinn was licking his pointy nubs, slowly nibbling on each one. Not too hard, but sufficient to stir his loins. The tip of her slippery muscle circled his areola deliberately and intentionally, while her fingers work on the other, sending tingles of sensual pleasures coursing through his hot-blooded body. Clay was weakening around the knees, buckling under Ms. Quinn's abrupt suckling action. The restraints on the torture stand were the only implements keeping him upright.
Then Clay felt the buttons of his boxers released, and his steel iron jetted out like a freight train. For a moment, an inaudible sigh of delirium broke the quietness of the surrounding. Ms. Quinn raked her chilli-red manicured fingers up and down his 10-inch shaft, from the tip of his pink bulbous glans to the base; slow, meticulous whilst appreciating the hulking specimen. Clay squirmed and writhed against the torture stand as her fingers slid over his balls, fondling them tenderly, sending his horny disposition fluttering and oozing precum.
Yet the next sensation almost caused him to explode. Ms. Quinn slipped her chili-red lips over the bulbous helmet of his appendage, endeavoring to devour his thick and long turgescent into her warm and moist mouth. She barely sucked on Clay's pinkish glans, stretching thin her lips as she fucked his large and stiff meatloaf until he peaked close to an imminent release.
She pulled Clay out by the skin of her teeth before he made past the point of return, rousing him to moan out in wanton lust, pleading for the release of his white fluid armies. He could hear the clicking sounds of her heels fading away before silence quickly permeated the surrounding once again.
Clay was in heavenly bliss to be teased like that by his sex goddess; or was he not?
He waited for Ms. Quinn to re-enter the room again. His erection was hard and stiff, with a slight curve upwards, pulsating with trepid anticipation. However, she did not return until an hour or so later, entering the room respectably dressed, with a detached demeanor and releasing Clay from his restraints, plummeting his excitement into the abyss of discontentment.
What kind of games was Ms. Quinn playing? Clay was confused, wondering what had he gotten himself into.
Still, he would find himself back in the undisclosed secret room; teased until he was on the edge of a climax, only to be denied time and time again. Clay was growing sexually frustrated by Ms. Quinn's edging, and his affection for his teacher was gradually transforming into one of enmity.
"Ms. Quinn?" a nervous Clay asked across the room, but there was no answer. A momentary ray of light shone in when the door opened and a silhouette stepped in before the room became dark again.
"Stay still," a voice from behind whispered into Clay's ear. It sounded somewhat raspy, but he identified it to be Ms. Quinn trying to be a little mysterious, perhaps. The next action took Clay completely by surprise! He felt his throbbing dick gripped and clamped against a silky-smooth, hot wetness.
"Ooh..." Clay moaned in sheer delight as Ms. Quinn slipped his excited member between her pantyhose legs. She pressed it against the sheer nylon of her pantyhose into the wetness between her legs. She moved a little to get Clay directly under her and thrust her hips against his erect cock in between the tight gap at the very top of her thighs.
Clay could feel the warmness of her nylon mound pressed against the top of his shaft. Ms. Quinn started moving her hips urgently, fucking Clay's hard member rapidly through the moistening gap at the top of her thighs. It was only a few strokes, but he was so aroused that he knew he would not last long, as his pent-up spunk rose rapidly.
Ms. Quinn's nylon-clad buttocks felt fantastic from the repeated bumping, soft and yielding, bringing Clay off between her thighs. His nut-sacs tightened, the unmistakable tingling sensation all over his pelvic region, making him thrust his hips in restrained motion.
It was getting too erotically delicious to resist the urge of an imminent ejaculation. Clay gnashed his teeth as he fought to suppress any excited grunts after being instructed by Ms. Quinn to stay still. A few seconds later, she turned to face him, with his overly excited appendage still wedged between the tantalizing gap at the top of her nylon-sheathed flanks. He could feel a light pointy sensation scraping along the underside length of his steely member. He threw his head back against the torture stand to fight through the stirring stimulation. Another finger slithered to join the first one, this time holding his veiny shaft between them as they commenced to stroke a little along its 10-inch length. His heart was racing faster than a cardio workout, as his pelvis relished in the exhilarating moment.
