Exams were, well, exams. Until I sat on the desk and started to write, my hands were clammy and my nerves all over the place. But the moment the tip of my pen touched the sheet for the first time, all that faded away and was replaced by a manic drive to squeeze as many words as I could onto the paper. Time flew by, and before I knew it, it was evening again and once more time to cram and get last minute jitters for Tuesday's subjects.
Anne and I hardly talked, each caught in our own world of study topics. But just as the day before, we crawled into my bed as soon as our eyes were blurring from all the reading, and I pleasured her without accepting my own relief. It wasn't something that I could put into words. Some basic need inside my heart wanted me to wait, and the surprise and warmth in Anne's eyes felt like a soft blanket around my soul. Perhaps it was just the exam stress that made me hopelessly romantic. I couldn't tell, and had neither time nor motivation to dwell on it.
Tuesday went by just the same, and then Wednesday morning's exams were done too, as was my creative writing exam which I had dreaded but found exhilaratingly easy - just a bunch of writing prompts one had to use in one way or another and identifying some stylistic elements and explaining them in a handful of text snippets - and I found myself in front of the door to one of the classrooms in the arts building, clad once more in the flimsy red dress just as she had asked me to, my hair still slightly damp from a quick shower, my panties left behind in the safety of our room. I knocked, albeit a bit hesitantly, and was asked to enter by a stern female voice.
The owner of the face was a woman in her late fifties, her greying hair done in a tight bun, who sat leisurely but with an elegance that belied her age sideways on one of the desks in the first row. Anne was busy pinning huge sketch sheets to wooden stands and gave me a short wave with one hand.
"You're Miss Summer's model?" The lady wanted to know and looked me up and down with an intensity as if she could see right through me.
"Uhm, yes, Ma'am," I stammered, suddenly feeling five inches smaller, "I'm Brittany Weston."
I had stopped halfway across the room, and she slowly stood up and stepped closer, and I noticed that she looked like the epitome of a British headmistress with the shimmering, dark grey skirt and frilly white blouse, her slightly upturned, aristocratic nose and her dark red lipstick. I could picture her in front of my mind's eye with a bamboo cane in her hand, towering behind an ill-mannered pupil who was draped over her desk and trembling in fear.
"I'm Professor Morgan, I'll be the main examiner, my colleagues Miss Eldridge and Professor Cresswater will be here shortly."
Her voice roused me from my kinky daydream. She stood right in front of me and had already extended her hand, and I tried my best not to blush. The way she looked at me, I was sure she could pluck my naughty thoughts right out of my head.
"Nice to meet you," I managed to stammer while I shook her hand.
"Please take a seat on one of the side desks while Miss Summers gives her presentation," she told me, not letting go of my hand, and I became increasingly aware of the softness of her skin and the strength in her fingers. "We will ask you to the front once that part is finished, and Miss Summers will then demonstrate how her project is to be worn. You will be asked to walk up and down the front row so we can see if the shoes lend themselves to a natural movement, but don't be surprised if you're asked to repeat that once or twice, this is in fact quite common." Her eyes roamed once more up and down my body. "Do you have any questions?"
"Uh, no, Ma'am." I cursed myself for acting like a ten year old and prayed that my nervousness wouldn't infect Anne.
She let go of my hand, and I instinctively looked down at it, rubbing over the now cooling spot where her thumb had rested.
"You may take a seat."
"Uh, sure." I really should. I was on the best way to make a spectacle of myself, and I had no clue why. I had to walk a half-circle around the professor, who was still watching me, and felt her eyes like little pinpricks on my skin. Finally, I sat down in the chair at the end of the row farthest from the door, and right at that moment the other two teachers entered the classroom and took their seats in the middle of the row with Professor Morgan between them. One of them, Miss Eldridge, could hardly be in her thirties and looked more like a student than a teacher in her designer jeans and flamenco blouse, and the other, Professor Cresswater, whom I'd had a year ago in drawing class, was a rather plump woman in a floral dress.
"Very well," the head examiner intoned, "now that we're all here, please begin, Miss Summers."
Anne was obviously nervous. Her first three sentences were rather hurried and sounded a bit clumsy. But she quickly caught herself, and once she was over the introductory part and went into describing which materials she picked and why and explained all the techniques she used to assemble the shoes, the words simply flowed out of her. Most of her explanations went miles over my head, but the sheer amount of details and thoughts behind that pair of shoes was stunning.
The professors, mainly Miss Morgan, asked some pointed questions here and there, but mostly let her do her presentation. I almost started to clap when Anne announced that this part was finished and nobody had further questions.
"Good, now let's see the practical application of the project." The way the corner of Professor Morgan's mouth twitched, I was sure she found the expression just as stupid as I did.
Once at the front, Anne asked me to sit down in a chair she had moved their. I tried to unbuckle my sandals, but she told me in a whisper to let her do it. Which felt quite strange under the watchful eyes of the three teachers, who had by then walked around the tables and were standing just a few feet away.
Anne slipped the first shoe onto my foot and made sure that each toe slipped into its leather bounds. It felt just like the first time she had done it, and I had to pull myself together with considerable effort to keep from closing my eyes and just enjoying the feel of her fingers brushing over my skin. She never stopped explaining while she did it, but I hardly caught a word. The straps went around my ankle and calf, and then my other foot was quickly adorned with its own shoe while the teachers whispered between themselves and made agreeing noises. I almost missed Anne's whispered question.
"Did you come without?"
I quickly nodded and bit my lip.
"Perfect," she whispered again, "good little pet."
And then I was walking down the room, four pairs of eyes following my every move, and I was praying that they couldn't see how wobbly my knees felt.
"Please turn around and walk back a bit faster, Miss Weston," Professor Morgan instructed me. I was really glad that I had already gotten used to the high heels on Saturday, or I might have stumbled in my nervous state.
"Please stop, Miss Weston."
I came to a standstill right in front of her.
"Do you have any more questions?" She asked her colleagues, who both declined. "Then, if you don't mind, Miss Eldridge, please bring our evaluation sheets to the faculty room while I help our last examinee for the day pack up. I'll be right along with her demonstration material."
They each scribbled something onto the sheets on their clipboards. Miss Eldridge collected the sheets, and she and Professor Cresswater left.
"Please sit down on the chair, I'll help you with the shoes," Professor Morgan instructed, and the moment I heard the words, I almost panicked. If she knelt down in front of the chair, she would be able to see that I wasn't wearing panties.
"Uh, no, it's okay, Professor, I can do that myself."
"But I insist, these are quite an interesting creation."
My eyes snapped towards Anne, but she just sent me a concealed nod, and so I lowered myself to the chair and extended my right leg into the waiting hands of the crouched-down professor.
The professor took her time. She held the heel with one hand, while the fingers of her other hand softly trailed the contours of the shoe. "A perfect fit," she remarked, "as if they were made for this pair of feet."
At first I thought I was imagining it. But when her fingertips didn't let up their stroking, only now touching my skin, tickling my instep, softly rubbing up and down my toes, I felt goose bumps race up my back. She looked up at me. I was aware of the way my chest heaved and my face was flushed. She smiled.
"Tell me, Miss Summers," she suddenly asked, "those ornaments on the metal bar, they are more than decoration, aren't they?" Her fingers opened the buckles while she waited for Anne to answer.
