Slouching in her chair, Carmen drew up her dress and rested her unshaved legs on her desk. The student's paper she was reading, though competent and well composed, lacked passion and fire, and the dry topic tempted her to read between the lines and extract more mouth-watering fare. From habit, the naughty professor conjured up a fantasy involving the paper's author, an older graduate student named Sandy.
The voluptuous redhead is walking across campus unprotected from the afternoon sun. Though she's wearing a short cotton dress, she sweats fiercely and feels terribly uncomfortable. But the sun is not wholly to blame, for the coeds passing by boast firm bellies and shapely legs and make her feel old, fat, and unattractive. It isn't that her own body is so bad. True, her ankles and calves are thick, and her thighs could benefit from more exercise. And her belly bulges out more than she'd like, and her butt is anything but small. But her breasts require DD-cups to keep them in tow, and her lips are full and sensual. Moreover, at 5'6" she looks good in heels, and everyone loves her hair.
Still, what twenty years will do to youth! And what a change in one's suitors! Only dirty old men seem to hit on her now as if she carried a sign saying, "Divorced and Easy." She flogs herself with these disturbing thoughts until her sarcastic conscience intrudes. It chides her for making tortuous comparisons and for mourning the fact that she's no longer young.
"Where's the shame in turning forty?" asks her inner voice. "Except for growing pimples, what can't you do now--and better--that you did at nineteen? So unless you get off on feeling miserable, accept the fact that you're middle-aged and be grateful that anyone still desires you. For many women your age aren't hit on at all!"
"It's stupid letting these girls upset me," Sandy scolds herself. "I'm not here to compete with them is some beauty contest." But being a woman means always competing, and being surrounded by a sea of pageant winners means struggling to stay out of last place.
Two coeds stroll by wearing summer dresses like herself, and she’s compelled to make a comparison. Their legs look sexy, but it's unlikely they’d say the same about hers. However, their half-buttoned blouses are less intimidating, and even with the help of push-up bras, they don't come close to matching her cleavage. At least she’s the clear winner in this category, and her self-esteem creeps up a notch.
But as the girls pass by, she gives in to an urge to look back. Their seamless contours say that they've abandoned panties, and she quickly puts it down to the hot climate. But her inner voice mocks her pious rationale. "You go without panties because it gives you a thrill! So does wearing a black bra! But you’re too much of a 'good girl' to admit it!"
The internal lecture and ungodly heat makes Sandy's temples throb, and the merciless sun gives her a rabbit's pulse and leaves her feeling unbalanced. In times like this, the world grows distorted as if she were viewing life through a warped lens. It's a lifelong problem that she’s never licked, and she longs for the shadows and a one-track mind.
But the pitiless sun burns away the protective layers of her psyche, rousing her animal nature which she fights to keep caged. Dark desires fly up from her depths like bats and flutter around in her head, battling with her forces of restraint and threatening to gain the upper hand. Now thrashing in an orgy of conflicting impulses, her brain crashes like a computer, leaving her face looking blank. No longer making comparisons with the girls, she simply moves dumbly with the herd. But the sun won't allow her any escape, tattooing her fair skin with freckles until the stinging pain forces her to confront herself.
Wishing that she had a hat to screen her--or her own dark cloud--she peers up at the hostile sky for signs of relief. As if disgusted by her presence, the sun lashes her naked shoulders as if trying to drive her off, and when she looks to see if others are suffering, none wear a pained expression. Worse, the other students seem to avoid her as if fearing contagion! So with head down and spirit crushed, Sandy trudges on in private agony.
Where is she going? Carmen scratched the mole on her thigh while dreaming up a suitable destination. To the library? The bookstore? Hmmm? Lured to her bush, her fingers combed through the soft sable hairs.
A different fantasy. That one would have to wait. She still had Sandy wrestling with her conscience as she crosses the campus in the hellish heat. But where is she going? To the bus stop, of course. Sandy hurries to catch her ride, but it rumbles away, bathing her in its hot exhaust. Locking eyes with the female bus driver in the side mirror, she sees the woman smile wickedly, and the grin is branded onto Sandy's brain. She’ll now have to wait a full hour, and what to do until then?
Carmen teased her clit, watching it twitch like a worm in a frying pan. "Hurry up with the story!" it cried out to her. "I’m getting excited!" But its eagerness was disciplined with a brisk slap. "Patience is a virtue!" the professor chastised. "Never rush good things!" Then she slid down further in her chair to continue her fantasy.
Sandy hoists herself onto the wall facing the main drag. The slender trees lining the boulevard provide little shade, and the slight breeze from the traffic comes with unpleasant fumes. Three other people are already perched on the wall. Two girls with nice tans are reading a naughty novel together; and a homeless black man with a cigarette in his mouth is scrounging through his pockets for a match. Though dying for a smoke herself, Sandy resists the urge to bum one from the transient and instead stares down at her legs wishing they had more color.
A big blonde in spike heels now comes weaving down the sidewalk. Encased in a dirty pink T-shirt with matching leggings, the woman sports a shoulder bag with a designer's label and reeks of perfume. But she's clearly no runway model, for her curves are far too voluptuous, and a spider tattoo guards the slope to her heavy breasts. She stops by the wall to dig a cigarette out of her bag, but her drunken coordination makes it hard for her to strike a match.
Cursing after repeated failures, she singles out the redhead to perform the service for her. Though hesitant to have any contact with the whore, Sandy agrees to light her up, and the hooker leans in closely between her legs. When the match proves a dud and sends a spark flying onto Sandy's thigh, the whore slaps away the ember, then licks her finger and rubs saliva into the wound. No accidents occur on the second try, and after grasping Sandy's wrist to steady the flame, the streetwalker grasps her thigh to steady herself. "Thanks," she says without looking up, for a gust from a truck flutters the redhead's dress, and the flash of unshaved pussy makes her deeply inhale and scratch her butt.
The tramp now comes off the wall to have the redhead do him, too. His cigarette is bent and leaks filling at the tip, and the entire shaft is consumed by the fire that she produces. Like the blonde, he says thanks by staring up her dress. But he also offers her a smoke, and since the ice is broken, Sandy sticks the Camel in her mouth and blows a cloud at the unsullied sky.
Since they're now great friends, the hooker pulls out a bottle of cinnamon schnapps and after taking a swig, offers the bottle to Sandy. She declines, but the tramp gladly accepts when a taste is offered to him. Throwing back his shaggy head, he gives the bottle a long tilt, then passes it to the redhead. Again she declines. But both transient and whore press her to take a hit, the former teasing her mouth with the bottle, the latter squeezing her thighs. Sandy hates to stoop to their level, but gives in to avoid making a scene. The booze makes her shudder, and her new friends smile, not hiding their desire to peek up her dress.
Everything now seems to slows down--except Sandy’s heart. As her chest pounds she squints up at the sky to see the sun seemingly welded in place, its relentless beams penetrating her flesh like X-rays. The humid air also conspires against her, trapping the heat in her body like a thermal strait jacket, and she pants like an overheated dog. Her vision blurs, and feeling soaked with sweat, she tugs her bra away from her breasts. It's an automatic action lasting only a few seconds, but her seedy admirers read much into it.
Sandy opens a book to escape their stares, but the words are all Greek to her dilated eyes. Developing a tremor, her ankles bounce against the wall, and one of her sandals drops to the sidewalk. The tramp retrieves it, and like some squalid Prince Charming, insists on replacing it on her foot. He grasps her calf to provide resistance but has trouble making the connection and lets the hooker have a try. She lifts the redhead's leg to go at it from a better angle, but her equally clumsy technique blatantly exposes the crotch. Sandy knows that something’s wrong, but her reaction time is sluggish, and her fan club gets a long look before she crosses her legs.
Though she feels like slapping them both, she's too dazed to perform any action, so she simply tries to ignore them. But the whore can't abide a fashion gaffe and removes the redhead’s other sandal to keep her feet coordinated. Failing to grasp the logic, Sandy stares at the hooker while breathing through her mouth.
