All names have been changed to protect my ass.
I'm the part-time secretary for the chair of the Geology and Earth Sciences department at a very small town's small and prestigious private college in southern California. We're less than an hour's drive from Los Angeles, but we may as well be in the middle of the desert for all the excitement and culture available off campus in San Smallville, as I call it.
I'm twenty now, got the job right out of San Smallville High School two years ago and am saving my meager wages and other less meager earnings in order to move to L.A., or anywhere with more than one movie theatre and main street. Life's not bad—this is California after all—just generally dull within the "city" limits, so my main source of excitement and entertainment is sex. (For more cerebral pleasure I read Dostoyevsky, Cicero and The Times Literary Supplement.)
My parents are Russian and academics, originally from Moscow. Dad's a theoretical physicist, Mom's in genetics. They live up north and leave me alone but for a monthly check 'to tide me over' until I decide to go to college (versus working in one). I'm not rebelling at all, I'm simply more of a sybarite than a scholastic. Of course my parents would be shocked at what I do to earn real extra cash.
This year the G&ES department is going to celebrate Earth Day with a special colloquium and related 'green' activities on campus. My boss Leo—Professor Big-Cheese to most people—is chairing the organizing committee. As his secretary I attend all their meetings in order to take notes and keep the calendar, but mostly to make and serve coffee and give the old farts a taste of Cherry (my real name). I've blown or fucked half the committee members, so I'm in my element once a week on Tuesday afternoons.
At the first committee meeting I wore a push-up bra that only half covered my nipples under a very low-cut tee shirt that barely covered the bra. I also had no panties under my little swishy cotton skirt. In the hot summers especially, I rarely wear undies. Plus, I admit readily that I'm an exhibitionist. I've got a fit southern-Cal body—blond, buff, blah blah blah—and I love to show it off, especially surreptitiously, if not subtly.
Yes, my body's a cliché, but based on some kind of truth. The only non-stereotypical aspect is my height—I'm an even six feet tall. My parents made sure I was never self-conscious or anxious about being such a tall girl, and I'm not. It's a great asset. As for earning extra cash with sex, short men adore me and pay per square footage it seems. The shorter the customer, the bigger my tip. I think there's an irony somewhere in the fact that I'm of former Soviet stock and have Capitalized on the American way of providing the biggest bang for the buck (so to speak). My various little-old-men clients think they're getting a real deal on Cherry the Slavic Amazon. (They made that up, not me.)
Everything's proportional but my tits, that's why I buy the best push-up bras on the market. I aspire to a D-cup and an enhancement's on my wish-list, but for now I'm content with less. However, I've yet to meet a man, or woman for that matter, who is not astonished at and drawn instantly to my nipples. They're extremely puffy, exaggeratedly so, and very pink. Besides being extraordinarily appealing, my nipples are also as much a source of pleasure as my cunt.
A lingerie saleswoman at Saks once asked me if I'd had them colored or tinted somehow. "They almost glow, my dear" she said with more than a simple complimentary tone. "They're so defined, sculpted it seems, yet plush, truly sumptuous." I let her at them.
I like public sex. Big city department store dressing rooms seem to invite semi-public sex for me—those little rooms lined with mirrors where you go to undress. I think I've had orgasms in Saks, Macys, Nordstrom and various little rooms in all the major shopping malls in the greater L.A. area.
Saks Lady had me dripping in the lingerie fitting room simply from her sucking and deft pinching. She was older than my mother, more like my Babushka (grandmother), but given her hometown and employer (Beverly Hills, Saks Fifth Avenue) she was exquisitely preserved and presented. She reminded me of a mature 1940's glamour queen. Lana Turner loved how the pink crinkled into a darker rose color. "Oh my lord! I've never seen such perfect nipples, I could diddle them for hours," she said between overwrought sighs and more obscene exclamations. She's a client now, but I digress.
At that first meeting of the Earth Day Committee, I first rubbed my tits against Professor Granpa's left ear as I put his coffee mug down in front of him. The sixty-something gentleman blushed brightly and sighed heavily. I leaned in again as he turned his head to thank me so that his mouth brushed across my right nipple.
"Oh, professor, excuse me, I'm so embarrassed."
"No, my dear Cherry, don't apologize. It was my pleasure."
As he smiled lewdly a hand slid up a thigh to my crotch and two plump fingers began to stroke my sweaty vulva. I spread my legs a bit for more access and could smell my sexual fragrance rise up between us.
"Make an appointment with me later, professor. I'll finish your dictation, Okay?"
On I went, making plans for special projects with four other professor-clients. They each ended up with my sexy scent on their fingers and brought their hands to their nostrils throughout the meeting. My boss winked at me after he realized what was going on and called me over to give me a note. While I took it from him he caught and took a souvenir whiff too.
Save some pussy juice for your daddy, sweetheart, I'm thirsty for your cum.
Trite and laughable, but it all goes to getting me out of San Smallville.
Professor Lance McStud arrived late and sat down next to me at one end of the long conference room table while two colleagues argued about a few of the Earth Day panel topics being too politically minded. "Saving the earth is not our mission here, we're educators, not activist agitators!"
Lance is his real name. He's the newest and youngest member in the department, thirty-something. He's also a stereotypical southern-Cal boy, only with more brains. He's sweet and harmless, and needs an outlet for the stress of the tenure-track. He's also half an inch taller than me, and my cunt fits his cock like a glove, or made-to-order mitten.
While the Earth Day topics argument escalated, Lance gave me a note:
20 bucks for 5 mins. of tit play?
I pushed my chair back a bit and leaned forward with my elbows on the table. It's a great position to take in public as all the action occurs below the tabletop and under my shirt. Lance easily pulled down and inverted my bra's half-cups and with only one hand deftly danced from tit to tit, rubbing, tickling, pinching, pulling and flicking my extraordinarily sensitive and erect nipples. I kept very still but for maneuvering my thighs to squeeze and release my cunt as much as possible without drawing attention to us.
I was ready to come in five minutes so I let him take his time. When I rose quietly, as if to simply stretch a bit, one hand came from behind and stroked my wet cunt to continue the post-orgasmic tremors. I stood tall and stretched my arms up, bent my torso to and fro and side to side, all the while letting Lance soak his hand in my crotch.
"Baby, you smell awesome!" he whispered, "my dick's gonna tear outta my pants."
That's about as socially articulate as Lance gets, but before I could lean down to respond I noticed the room had become quiet and my boss and his colleagues were all staring at me, several with fingers under their noses.
"Cherrie, perhaps you could refill some coffee cups?"
Later Leo explained that my scent, while I'd been stretching with legs spread and Lance massaging my vulva, had caught everyone's attention, especially those who had the same pungent smell lingering on their fingertips. We joked about it and Leo made up a fantasy about how the meeting might have ended with me on the table and all those seemingly stodgy professors scrambling to eat me out and fuck me right and left while taking turns holding me down.
