The Panty Professor

I returned to college a few days after giving Daddy his very special present
on his birthday, Halloween (see the story “Trick or Treat, Daddy?” posted on
this site in the Incest category).

After I spanked Dean Robertson and did him with the strap-on so he would let
me go home to Daddy, I began to understand what needed to be done to please
my professors. You had to find out what interested each one the most.
Some liked cunnilingus, some liked fellatio. Some liked to stick you up
the ass and others liked you to give it to them that way. Some liked to
cum all over your face and watch it drip out of your mouth and down your
chin. Some liked you to squirt pussy juice all over their face. Some
liked to fuck your tits. Those are pretty basic interests. What loomed
much more difficult to ascertain were particular fetishes that a certain
professor obsessed over.

Yes, that was the key to attaining magna cum laude, also known as making
them cum loudly--find out about the fetish and exploit it. I hate it when
they whimper! I like to make them scream and shout and beg and call me
God. You know, the Devine Feminine. “Oh God, oh God, please, please!
God, that feels so good!”

It’s amazing how sitting in the front row and wearing a very short skirt can
get you the attention of certain professors without even raising your hand.
Proper procedures for crossing and uncrossing your legs is very important,
as is what you wear under the very short skirt. Some like garters, some
like a smooth shaved pussy while others like it hairy, and still others like
panties. In the case of panties, some professors are very particular.
Some prefer you wear them for a week, some like them right out of the dryer,
and others have a favorite color or type. Panties are not just panties you
know.

Once my sorority sisters and I got the attention we desired, bulging eyes
and pants, we put the next part of the plan into action. Incidentally, you
can always tell when you are giving a professor a hard on--he moves quickly
in front of the podium. The plan was to find out where the professors hung
out and hang out with them. We call that networking. Some would call it
blatant seduction.

About ten miles from campus an old train station had been converted into a
bar and restaurant. We sorority sisters manufactured fake I.D. so we could
get in the establishment without a hassle. Awesome place, huge, very high
ceilings so the smoke didn’t bother you much, picnic tables where no one
seemed to mind if you carved your initials or whatever. The graffiti on
the tables provided considerable entertainment.

Quite frankly, we stalked the professors. We sent a few of us in as spies
to find out where the professors usually sat. They had a favorite spot in
the corner furthest from the band and the loud music. Of course they did,
they are intellectuals not heavy metal fans. So the next evening we got
there early and camped out at the table next to the one they always
reserved.

The professors recognized some of us, surprisingly, because it had seemed
that in class they concentrated on looking up our skirts and never once
glanced at our faces. We began to join them for friendly chatter over the
first couple weeks. These evenings of fraternization with the faculty
became something to which everyone looked forward to. But we wanted to
turn it to fucking with the faculty because we realized none of us were
going to get an A for entertaining dialogue.

Then the opportunity came. It became perfectly clear from the start that
our international law professor had an incredible panty fetish. Beats
dirty socks I guess. I won’t say his real name, but we nicknamed him Slut
Boy, which he thought to be real cute. The other professors all had their
own special area of sexual peculiarity. Dang, my feet are ticklish. But
panties did seem to be an area of uncommon mutual interest among the
professors.

The real fun started when Slut Boy resurrected an article that Helen Gurley
Brown wrote for THE WALL STREET JOURNAL quite a few years back. The
article described a game called Scanty that she and the other employees of
the office where she worked played. This was long before sexual harassment
became a vendetta and people had fun at work.

The objective of Scanty was for the guys to chase the girls down the book
aisles, catch them, and remove their panties. That’s it, game over. So
the professors got the bright idea, which we put in their heads, that we
should all play Scanty. We sorority sisters enthusiastically supported the
notion. But we girls decided among ourselves the game need not end there,
with just the removal of panties. Whatever might happen next should be
subject to negotiation between the two parties.

“One thing first,” Slut Boy insisted, “You girls have to sign a little
agreement before we play.” That’s a lawyer for you. The professors
wanted to cover their asses but yet uncover ours. The Pre-Sexual Scanty
Agreement looked like your typical official legal document and went like
this…

“I, the undersigned, hereby voluntarily agree to play Scanty at my own risk.
In no event, will I initiate or participate in any sexual harassment or
similar legal action against any of the participants. Furthermore, in
consideration of the fact that matters might get out of control, I agree to:

… Take my birth control pills and insist on using a condom.

… Not get pregnant, but if I do, arrange for an abortion or waive all rights
to child support.

… Pledge not to disclose any details of this agreement or activities related
to its implementation to wives or significant others.

… Waive all rights to my panties if they are removed according to the rules
of the game.

… Promise not to fake orgasm.

(blah, blah and blah went on the fine print)

We played Scanty at the college library after hours. The professors had
keys. One of the Ph.D. types suggested we draw names out of a hat to see
who chases who. My name was on the first slip of paper drawn by Slut Boy
and I became very excited, because I had developed somewhat of a crush on
him. “What are you wearing?” he asked.

“Can’t you see what I’m wearing?” I blurted, not thinking.

“No, no, I mean underneath, your panties.”

“A black leather thong,” I responded truthfully but anxiously. It began
to dawn on me he had something particular in mind. I knew he did when he
crumpled up the piece of paper with my name on it, tossed it back in the hat
and selected another one. He drew Suzanne’s name.

“Suzanne, same question, what are you wearing?” Slut Boy inquired.

“A string bikini,” Suzanne cooed. She wanted Slut Boy as bad as I did.

“What color is it?” Slut Boy demanded.

“Uh…it’s ‘serpent orchard’ I believe.”