This story is fiction, but it was inspired by @noirindigo, with gratitude from @RaunchYwriteR.
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Generally, I like to stick to my own kind. Thin girls with dark-chocolate skin. Girls with cafe-au-lait curves I can get a good handful of. Every hue seems to complement my blue-black colouring. And girls know where to touch, knead, caress, kiss, lick — and yes, scratch — my lady bits and sensitive zones.
I'm petite but proportioned, and make the most of what I've got.
I like to look over my shoulder at my reflection in the full-length mirror. In a hip-hugging stretched black miniskirt my ass is a pair of tight, round globes. Reminds me of that infinity symbol we learned in algebra class. My legs are long, sometimes shiny in black thigh-high stockings that lead the eye up to the promised land, usually — but not always — almost hidden by a tiny thong.
Once in a while, of course, I'll be attracted to one of those no-good nothings and get carried away as he leans back against a doorway, an alley wall, a streetlamp on a foggy night as he lifts me by the thighs and pumps me up and down on his hard, slick man-pole, my miniskirt around my waist, until the screaming contractions of my tiny tightness suck the sperm out of him and he groans and roars and I slide slowly down him, soaking the front of his baggy low-rider jeans with my juices and savouring the friction of my pebbled nipples against the rough cloth of his shirt.
I laugh as I stride away, my heels clicking on the pavement and my ass waggling in syncopated time, thanking the Earth Mother for the Pill: I ain't never gonna be no worthless man's baby mama.
By day I'm a business student, dressed a bit more demurely but I still get stares. The jocks on the rugby team always mutter to themselves when I go past the athletic center on my way to class, but the numbers I'm thinking of then aren't the ones on their jerseys.
I'm focused. On being the first person — let alone girl — in my family to get a post-secondary education. That lucky I am.
Though maybe it's not just dumb luck. Maybe a cosmic ray changed my DNA by whamming into my mom's ovary just at the right second, or hit my dad's balls just before nutted in my mom after telling her he'd pull out for sure. She never saw him again.
Whatever. I'm determined to be a new sprout on the family tree, to change the trajectory of my life — and I pray I can help my mom, too. I want a career, not just a good job.
None of that seemed possible after I was raped at fourteen — an uncle; one of those ugly stories. But I had a high school math teacher who saw something in me; she coached me between periods and after school and showed me that hard work and studying can pay off. While my peers were trying to fuck the guy on the team with the best chance at a sports scholarship, I had my nose in books instead of the quarterback's pubic hair.
I graduated with a decent average — I sure as hell wasn't valedictorian, but ... it was enough to get me into a university business school. No mean feat, if you don't mind me boasting.
That math teacher taught me a lot about life — about getting ahead instead of giving head — how to study, dress, talk to profs, succeed. I love my mom but she had no clue about any of that. Disadvantaged, the sociologists would say. But she gave me life, a sacrifice she didn't have to make, and Ill love her forever.
At business school first semester was difficult. I was almost the token dark face; there were a few like me but all men. We didn't hang together. All too focused on coursework.
After Christmas — second semester — I had a prof I sort of liked. Not in that way, though. Piers was really old. I mean he had white hair, old skin on his forearms and a funny goatee. Told endless dad jokes. That type of stuff — you can tell. I knew he liked me, really liked me. But not just that way — he was kind, took an interest in me and seemed to want me to succeed.
To tease him, I'd dress provocatively, wearing tight, short skirts and satin blouses that didn't reach the skirts and exposed my belly button. He responded with extra help as we walked the hallway after class, debriefing the day's learning points and making sure I understood what was expected on assignments.
Then I stopped wearing bras to his class, and as the weather got warmer, the air conditioning got colder. Poor guy, the sight of my stiff nipples derailed some of his lectures. Even when I sat in the back row he'd stammer and lose his train of thought. He was a great prof, though, and would recover by making self-deprecating old-fart jokes.
Then he'd come over to me after class to apologize but his jeans bulged at my eye level when he stood beside my desk.
At first it was creepy, but he was so tender and helpful, I really liked his attention. A couple of weeks later, I dreamt about him. And woke up so wet I had to rub my nub till I creamed myself.
This was getting complicated.
I didn't have a boyfriend — didn't want one. I had a couple of girl pals. We'd get together, lament the worthlessness of men, drink too much hard liquor and — sometimes, when we were stinking drunk and horndog randy — the three of us would crawl together on the carpet and daisy-chain tongue to cunt till we'd get off in simultaneous, sloppy, glorious yelling climaxes.
We never talked about it when we were sober, just how hard it was to find a halfway decent guy. But I think we were all, at least back then, omnisexual. Or omnivorously sexual.
Now I looked forward to Piers' class, and took extra care about what I wore — or didn't wear. We were nearing the end of the semester and I was worried about my grades. I needed a B+ average to maintain the scholarships that let me continue in school.
I was confident about the grade I'd get in his class, but in a couple of others I worried I might get a B- or a C. It kept me awake at night.
In our second-last week, defying all logic (in a business school, eh?) I wondered if Piers would bump up my grade. I asked if I could have office hours after class. He agreed.
Later, on the way to his office, I stopped in the ladies' room and dropped my thong in the trash can.
Piers was kind as always, and the perfect gentleman, welcoming me to his tiny cubicle and leaving the door half open. That was a rule when students visited, he said. I was a bit crestfallen, but determined to carry out my plan.
I told him my grade problem, and as he explained that I had an A average in his class but that an A+ would mean the dean scrutinizing every assignment and exam paper, I sat uninvited on his desk. He was leaning back in a swivel chair and his gorgeous pale blue eyes were pretty well at the same level as the desktop.
