Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.
***
My name's Jenny and I'm twenty. I like the little rhyme; it makes me smile. I think I have a birthday coming up soon, but I'll have to check with the Mistresses.
Time is a funny thing. Both milk and cum can make it feel like it's speeding up or slowing down. Routines can make a week feel like a day. Not being allowed to cum can make ten minutes feel like forever. If you remember a special moment over and over again across decades, how long does it actually last? Is it really just about what it said on a clock somewhere? Is it even about how long the moment felt while you were living it? If it's fundamental enough, maybe it lasts for the rest of your life.
All of that is a roundabout way of saying that the story of my college career isn't always going to be blow-by-blowjob, hour-by-hour. Those first few days, though, were chock full of new and exciting experiences. That's why I want to play with time a little bit right now. On my third afternoon as a student at 'R&RU,' I had three classes. The first two were interesting and informative, but I don't think anyone will shed a tear if I skip around a bit. The third one was a horny hoot, though, and I think it's a great example of how learning can be fun. That's a moment we can spend a little extra time living in.
Introductory Sexual Psychology was to begin with a fascinating journey into the default male psyche. That, I realized right away, would synergize nicely with our Sexual Anatomy class, and I did briefly wonder if the college had invented 'male brain dummies' for us to practice with. It didn't seem likely, but it was a fun, silly thought.
Our professor, Mistress Gayle, played one little game with us underneath the classroom's blue lights before she went into full-blown teacher mode.
"So, how old do you think I am, girls?" she asked.
All of us tensed up and got extra quiet. Mistress Gayle was the very first university Mistress I'd seen who looked genuinely, noticeably older than me. Mistress Vivienne, for example, had immediately
seemed
older than me, but in hindsight, that had mostly been about her confidence, her authority, her professional clothes, and her larger breasts -- especially when I'd discovered they gave special milk. I'd been eighteen when I'd met her -- and still was, there at the official beginning of my college career -- and, in hindsight, she could've been anywhere from twenty years old to who-knows-how-old. Only learning that she was a college graduate twice over had pushed my estimate up to twenty-five at least.
Mistress Gayle was, for lack of a better term, a Real Adult. My gut pegged her at thirty-five, and maybe even a little older -- but then I lost all my confidence. 'Old life' tidbits that weren't even real memories zapped and fizzled in my brain. Everything I'd observed and learned during my first few days as a college girl scoffed at those tidbits as they lamely tried to justify my guess. I realized I had no idea -- none at all.
She smiled at our fretful silence. "I see most of you realize that I just put you in a no-win situation. That bodes well for when you start studying default female psychology in greater depth. I'll admit I'm bragging a little bit, girls, and giving you a sense of just how lucky you all are. I turned fifty-seven a few months ago."
That got a few gasps, which she soaked up. She didn't even pretend she didn't love them.
"... And technology progresses apace. If you keep being good little girls for the college, you might look even better than this at sixty."
The ripple that went through our class of forty-eight girls was indescribable. I think it's hard for any eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl to fully appreciate what it could mean to be healthy and beautiful -- young, even though technically not -- for that long. It made me happy, of course, and even a little excited. I'd put some of the pieces together during my walk through town on my first day. I'd already realized that college girls and college graduates were the prettiest. I knew that being healthy had a lot to do with that. All I can say is that, sitting in that classroom and taking in Mistress Gayle's full, healthy body with fresh eyes, I still had a sense that I didn't fully 'get it.'
I remember looking around the big classroom, trying to suss out whether any of my friends and sisters had had a different reaction -- something that evinced more understanding or appreciation. I saw two that made me curious. One of them was from a girl whom I'd only just officially met: another Ingrid, who had dark, curly hair, and was fuller-figured than the sinewy blonde firecracker who'd talked to Lily at lunch the previous day about massage therapy. The other was from Annabelle -- our Annabelle. I made a mental note to catch up with her. I wanted to know what she knew, or understand what she understood. College girls helped and supported each other, after all.
"Age," Mistress Gayle intoned. "More specifically, the sense of one's own mortality. Over the next semester -- and, indeed, over the next few years -- you'll be learning over and over again that details matter. Culture, class, religion, geography, genetics, careers, and all the rest matter. Thousands of heuristics, none of which are reliable by themselves, will come together in your minds to make you expert gamblers. What's the game? Getting your Masters and Mistresses out of their own heads, and, hopefully, helping them to experience a little death -
le petit mort
, in French. Orgasm.
"Today, we begin at the end, because the end is fundamental -- even though we're doing everything in our power to prove it isn't so. Decay. Death. How do default males, specifically, react to those two looming specters psychologically? How does that affect their sexual responses, above and beyond the physical challenges that age itself ironically raises? Some Masters who are barely adults will be crippled by thoughts of death, while Masters fifty years older than them will have already done the work and settled into an existential shrug. Denial isn't healthy
per se
, but if you're on a one-off work study, don't look that gift horse in the mouth. Focus on its nice, hard cock instead.
"Let's say you don't get that lucky, though. Let's say you're dealt a challenging hand. What can you do, from the outside, and especially in a very short period of time, to accentuate the positive and mitigate the negative? Please open your virtual textbooks to page one. I helped to write it, so I'll beg your pardon for my sense of humor."
'Chapter One: The End'
It was clever enough, but only two girls laughed -- not Ingrid or Annabelle.
*******
Mistress Cynthia was not the ultimate hairdresser, manicurist, or beautician. She was their boss' boss' boss. She was making the big bucks in the high-rise tower, studying trends and even making new ones happen. She had people under her approving new shades of nail polish and lipstick. She was responsible for whether or not millions of dollars would be invested in something genuinely innovative.
That was her vibe. She wore makeup, perfume, lipstick, nail polish, jewelry, and all the rest, and she stood defiant, daring us to claim that our own scientifically enhanced, biological beauty was the gold standard. It was whiplash. All of us first-years had spent the previous few days, and even a few hazier months before that, being led into a beautiful dream where young college girls were simply sexy, and 'R&RU''s girls were simply the sexiest.
"Name one real thing that can't be faked," Mistress Cynthia demanded. Under the blue lights, we figured out quickly that it wasn't a rhetorical question. Instead, it was a trap that she was demanding one of us spring. She wasn't going to let us sit there quietly, like Mistress Gayle had.
Lily, of all people, raised her hand next to me. Mistress Cynthia called her out with a sharp, curt nod, and blazing green eyes that could've sliced sheet metal in half.
"Death, Mistress," Lily said.
Mistress Cynthia smiled wickedly. "Excellent answer, Lily," she said, "and wrong. Those of you who major in Alteration & Enhancement will learn that firsthand, and those of you who choose to focus on your little 'acting' classes instead might end up as my department's guinea pigs. That's right, girls; 'Cosmetology' is not a major. It's a baby step."
Duly terrified, all of us shut our mouths, opened our eyes, and learned from her. She was a boss bitch, and we were her bitches. It was downright surreal to begin at the beginning, with the basics of pre-care, foundation, lipstick, blush, eyeliner, and eyeshadow. It seemed so far beneath her, but she guided us through every step with icy intensity and even the occasional word of praise. By the end of that first class, I was halfway convinced that I'd eventually be able to make myself look like a completely different person using just a few simple tools.
Lily, with artful blush across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, was cute beyond cute. In the mirror, the Jenny I saw with dark eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick, plus some skin-lightening foundation, could've been some kind of a rock star. I'd taken some inspiration from Claire, the second-year I'd met in town on my first day. The new Jenny needed a different haircut or wig, but I was sure we would get to that in due time.
"Piercings," Mistress Cynthia coldly noted from above me. "Tattoos, perhaps. Don't worry your pretty little blonde head about those, though, Jenny. They can be faked, just like everything else. Not bad work for your first class. Not great, but not bad. Lily, you didn't do anything wrong
per se
