The professor's name was Eleanor. One look at this high-class beauty, and you knew no one ever called her Ellie or some such diminutive. Here was a first-degree Eleanor. She had the calm, warm dignity of an Eleanor, the straightforward grace and the carriage of an Eleanor. An Eleanor of the first water was she, and I was to see her three days a week in lecture. I thought upon first sight of her I would also see her nightly in my dreams. I knew not whereof I thought. Had I known what demons awaited me .…
I sat up front on that first day in Intro to Psych, young folks all around, mostly freshmen and sophomores. Clean-looking, bright-eyed, new-skinned girls, intelligent and lovely with quick minds that dart effortlessly across topics without needing long to ponder them. I loved watching them talk and smile and toss their hair and walk and stand and be busy with things.
College girls. Coeds. College women. Women's dorms. The words stirred me. Young coed. I pictured them naked in dorms or going about in little nighties that showed their legs. Uninhibited youth with brand new bodies all cleaned up and full of energy. The word sophomore, if I may digress a second, has a sexy sound, don't you agree? It should be breathed: Soph . . . More . . ..
But the professor! She was a grown woman, a woman grown to be an Eleanor if ever there was one. She wore her long, raven hair in an elegant loose bun with impish strands curling down on the sides. Her square, rimless glasses were part of the picture of an intelligent, confident woman who was used to her beauty and accepted herself, one whose superiority went without her notice. I could not imagine that she had ever had to scream or lose control to get her way.
I took her in as she glided by me on the front row, resisting an impulse to tackle her around those swaying hips and shapely legs with the flaring calves. She wore open, high-heeled shoes which on anybody else would be called fuck-me shoes. On Eleanor, they were ask-me-and-I'll-take-it-under-advisement shoes. Nice toes, nothing misshapen. A foot devoutly to be worshipped, as was the woman herself.
It was an early class, and she had that fresh look of spring that always makes me want to smoke a cigarette and drink sparkling cider for some reason. "She's recently been naked," I thought irreverently, and my brain drifted back in her day for, um, historical perspective?
I watch her sleep, her beautiful hair lounging over her satin pillow, her lovely face angelic in nepenthean grace, the early light of dawn granting a graceful illumination on the slumbering goddess.
Lightly, apologetically, a tuneful bell intones, "Awake, Sweet Lovely, for your day awaits you." She moans softly, and her eyes tentatively consider their option of opening. She sits up languorously, and the black satin cover falls from her neck as she stretches her arms upward and out to receive the day with a ladylike yawn and a little whine that beckons my heart and soul. Her breasts are bare and white with heavenly proportions, young and soft and womanly. I am aswoon with concupiscible adoration.
The girl beside me began whipping my arm with a stack of papers, the professor's syllabus. I glared at the girl hatefully, and she shrank back with a puzzled look, offering the stack of syllabi meekly as one might approach an unsmiling Doberman with a morsel of meat. I took the goddamned syllabus and passed it hurriedly on to the cretin next to me with his cap on backwards.
"See you Wednesday," Professor Eleanor said, and everybody was up and moving and jabbering. The vision was shattered as Eleanor was surrounded by people. I toyed with the idea of crawling through the legs to find her and renew my reverie, but ugly reality had rudely shoved us apart, and I could not retrieve the moment.
I paused at the door on my way out and looked back at her. "See you Wednesday, Professor," I whispered telepathically. She glanced at me briefly and smiled before turning back to the others. She knew! Her eyes said so ... her thoughts told my mind she knew. I shivered from a spray of invisible needles.
My thoughts wandered to her throughout the day. Horns blared angrily as I sat enraptured by visions other drivers could not see. Eleanor's beautiful eyes gazed into mine from my rearview mirror. My Buick Skylark became a virtual reality chamber, and I sank my face into Eleanor's sex as she luxuriated naked on the seat beside me. The waitress where I dined that evening had to place her hand on my shoulder to draw my attention from Eleanor who, in my hallucinatory daze, was sitting in front of me on the table letting me peer up her dress and into her crotch. That night I masturbated with a fantasy of Eleanor so vivid I gasped in shock upon discovering she was not there on top of me after all. She came to me then in a dream and completed me. I awoke in the darkness to see her leaving my room, her nakedness as she walked away from me as real as any waking sensation.
I convinced myself the following morning that I was merely blessed with a gift for vivid imagery. I was not insane, these were not hallucinations, and there was no such thing as a lesbian succubus. While it was impossible to dispel the memory and the feeling that I had had sex with Eleanor the previous night, I chose to diminish its cogency by laying its cause to fatigue, an eccentric chemical hiccup of some sort, and to libidinous longing for a magnificent woman who possessed every attribute I find both admirable and lustworthy. "You're ok, Wilma, you're just a little funny in your brain sometimes," I reassured myself aloud.
On Wednesday, I prepared myself mentally for Eleanor. If I was to enjoy lusting on her without later needing psychiatric care, I had to come up into joy and light and be normal. A normal asskissing, cuntsucking, footlicking, masochistic lesbian.
So: glad in spirit, playful of mind, and free of dark and sinister shadows, I made my hair bounce when I walked into her classroom. Okay, so I also bought a cute little two-piece overalls-style outfit made of terry cloth that showed off some of the blessings the gods had granted me in lieu of respect. Barbie the Carpenter in short culottes was I that warm spring day.
And she, Eleanor, was the goddess of spring in a plain white dress, bare legs, and sandal-style high heels, her beautiful hair dancing and shimmering. I noticed a medium sized bandaid on one of her flaring calves and fantasized removing it with my teeth. At one point during the lecture, she sat on a high stool and crossed her legs. While answering a question, she rubbed her calf where the bandaid was. The bandaid came off in her hand.
Eleanor was a piece of heaven with a brain. She built a bomb on the board that looked like something out of Einstein's nightmares. She strolled as she lectured, presenting mathematical variance in a friendly, conversational style with a charm I'll wager would have deflowered Isaac Newton had that old virgin heard it. I watched every move she made, her eyes, her mouth, her hands, the bandaid she toyed with. I would have flunked a pop quiz on variance, but my cortex would be able later to recite Eleanor to my loins eidetically.
Some boy behind me asked a question. I gasped when she strolled toward me. She stood right in front of me, her leg actually touching my desk and her pudenda a crane of the neck away from a lick. As she spoke with the boy, she absent-mindedly fondled the bandaid she had removed from her calf. The bandaid slipped from her fingers and landed on my notebook. A sudden thought in response to the boy crowded the bandaid out of her awareness, and she left it there where it fell.
It was the bandaid that had been on Eleanor's calf. This bandaid I saw before me had been in the palm of her womanly hand. It had been caressed by her feminine fingers. It had covered a scratch on the goddess's leg and there was a red place on it, perhaps her blood. Having been pressed against her skin, the fortunate band of tape and gauze undoubtedly had acquired a chemistry, perhaps even cells, that had recently been a part of the magnificent young beauty who was done with its service.
Reverently, entranced, I picked the bandaid up and looked at it reclining there on my fingers and pining for its lost past. Eleanor turned and walked to the board to clarify a point. I watched her calf muscle. I imagined I was a sentient bandaid on that scratch. She derived a raw score formula for variance from the expression that defines it. And I . . . I . . .
. . . I ate the bandaid! Put it in my mouth, chewed on it, wallowed it around, savored it, chewed some more, and then swallowed it, all the while my lustful eyes consuming the professor from face to feet.
The experience was at once a physical rush and a spiritual happening. I veritably tingled from it, swooned, I tell you. My eyes defocused, my skin flushed, and my Bartholin's glands, confused by the excitement, prepared me for further action.
Professor Eleanor was watching me! She didn't miss a word in her lecture, but she was looking right at me when my brain fought its way through the pussy raid and restored order. She ambled nonchalantly to me and stood beside my desk as she continued lecturing. A student asked a question, and another student started answering. As the two of them engaged each other, Eleanor placed her hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her, completely enraptured by this goddess incarnate towering above me and looking down at me with an expression that could have been either concern or fascination.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes Ma'am," I said weakly.
Some devilish conspiracy of those inaccessible powers which fashion me into who I am suffused my being with a cathexis of inordinate potency, a tenacious obsession with Eleanor that impelled me to utter folly.
I followed her. I walked unobtrusively behind her to the library, watching her, looking at her, thinking about her naked, trying to imagine what her brilliant mind was doing as she examined a volume she had taken from the shelf. My very spirit longed for her, my loins ached for her, my hands and my lips trembled as though fantasying the feel of her flesh upon them.
When she rose and went to the shelves again, I felt myself rising and floating to her chair. I had barely the presence of mind to look about me and insure I wasn't being observed. I caressed the chair where her back had been. Inner resources had to be tapped to prevent my falling on my knees and passionately kissing the seat of her chair. There was a moment of near panic when it could have gone either way, and I would not have had the discipline, had I succumbed, to disguise what I was doing down there or to care what consequences would befall me for such a freakish performance as that.
The more nonchalant I attempted to be in checking to see who might catch me, the more like a sneaking pervert I felt. I touched the table where her hand had rested. I ran the tips of my fingers over the book she had touched.
My stomach leaped. There was the pencil she had held in her teeth! Eleanor's bite marks beckoned me. Her mouth had been there, her lips, her tongue, her saliva.
I stole the pencil and went back to my seat and sucked the instrumentum scribendi that had been blessed by the goddess.
I followed Eleanor to her office and stationed myself down the hall where other students milled about. I leaned back with my ass on a window sill and crossed my ankles. Opening a book, I looked for all the world like an ordinary student no one would conjecture was trapped inescapably in a sexual fixation of such aberrance as to tax the credulity of any who had not themselves been so ensnared. I sucked the pencil and ran the tip of my tongue over the bite marks, imagining I could taste her saliva.
She came out of her office and walked quickly down the hall in my direction. In the space of seconds, I suffered the agonies of the damned, but she walked right by without noticing me.
She had changed shoes. She was wearing plastic slippers. That meant . . . oh, my algolagnic soul! . . . it meant the Fates and the Muses had conspired to toy with this poor mortal and drain from me any semblance of will or pride. I could hardly get my breath as I went straightway to her office and entered without so much as glancing once around me.
There they were! Oh, God help me, there they were in plain sight near her chair!! One seemed to be face down in the other, devotedly kissing inside the upright member of the pair. I moaned audibly and went mindlessly to them. Squatting down to do what I was compelled to do, I paused only momentarily to let my eyes fill my brain with lust on her desk chair, and then I did the deed. I stole her high heels and ran out with pounding heart.
One would think my acquisition and the act of theft itself would have induced in me a manic state precluding controlled movement. Quite the opposite happened. By the time I got to my car with her precious footwear, an inner peace had settled upon me, a mood of prayerful tranquility bestowed upon my driven spirit by touching and kissing the venerated shoes. She was with me as I drove home, her energy magically enveloping me and guiding my way to an arcane destiny.
The quiet sanctuary of my bedroom seemed to glow with a mysterious light that had no source. I placed Eleanor's shoes on the bed, unable to take my eyes off them as I disrobed. Naked now, I placed my mother's Bible on a small rug of oval shape. It was the rug that had been placed before the dresser, the rug on which Mom had stood while brushing her hair after a shower, the rug on which my beautiful mother stood and allowed my adoration. I opened the Bible to the Book of Ruth and placed upon holy writ the cherished shoes that had been on the feet of my goddess, and I bowed before them and prayed to her.
Thou art Femina, the eternal feminine
spirit incarnate, She who possesses my
soul and She who created me that I might
worship Her beauty and sing of Her
greatness. Thou art the Goddess, my
source of life. Thou art She whose
magnificent and powerful female body and
whose strength of will and mind make me
weak inside and tingle with a mixture of
uncontrollable desire for thee and
unremitting fear of thy lash. Mine eyes
are given sight by the fluids of thy
Womanhood. My being basks in the balm
of thy Bartholin's. I long for the
soul-cleansing flood of thy sacred
vaginal secretion. Oh, save my
undeserving soul with thine ointment, I
pray thee, my Deitess, that I may be
found worthy in thy sight. Thou art
magnificent in thy discipline and in thy
grace, and I beg thee to take me as
thine own, for I ask it in thy glorious
Inching forward, I buried my face in Eleanor's shoes upon my beautiful mother's Bible, and I felt a heaviness lifted from me as I breathed them, kissed them, licked them. The image of them on Eleanor's feet, Eleanor's flaring calves, those legs, her desirable body, her countenance as she looked down upon me -- the images, I say, appeared before me as real in my sensorium as were these shoes I was loving. I loved with my face, with my mouth, with my tongue and with my very soul these fetishes imbued with feminine charisma. Eleanor . . . Eleanor . . ..
I moved the precious objects to my bed. On my pillow was a purple thong I had stolen at a pool party from a neighbor who had no idea what kind of woman lived next door to her and often sunbathed with her. My mind filled with images, my mouth drooling, and my loins aquiver, I strapped Eleanor's shoes to my face with the thong that had been blessed by my neighbor. Pressing my mother's Bible to my now torrid vulva, I orgasmed into the Book of Ruth in less than a minute of profane masturbation that thrilled me beyond description.
It had been a simple matter to discover where Eleanor lived, albeit the discovery was entirely by happenstance rather than by design. Her address was on her checks. Yes, her checkbook in her purse in her office. I had just wanted to touch her stuff, to look in her purse, to see things personal to this magnificent young woman, my Eleanor . . . my Eleanor. Her very name carried magic and summoned visions of her. Eleanor . . . Eleanor . . . Eleanor . . ..
Thou art Beauty Herself. Thou art
Woman. My Goddess. Femina, I love thee
beyond all reckoning. Thy breasts, thy
body, thy legs, thine every movement and
thy feminine soul. I love thee, Femina.
I had known the second I saw her checkbook I was about to plunge even deeper into my stultifying fixation. I had held the checkbook in my hand and had torn my horrified gaze from it, wishing I would not do what I knew I would do. All resistance was drained from me as I stood there fitfully contending with unconscionable demons hatefully sapping my moral strength and rendering me impotent. My surrender had been inevitable.
It was a large house on several acres of wooded property on the outskirts of the city. A full moon watched over the estate through malevolent clouds and seemed to direct the trees to brood and the wind to fume in its seething vexation. Ominous talons of lightning threatend to strike me dead for my impious tresspassing, and a rumbling heaven denounced me for my unforgiveable depravity.
She had written "Cinda & Marilyn 7 pm" in her appointment book. Having shadowed and snooped for weeks, I knew the women were Eleanor's research assistants and that they were attending some sort of women's conference on this evening. Something called WISE. I had entered through a basement window and had soon found my way to her spacious bedroom. Unable to bring myself to desecrate her most sacred chamber with my presence, I stood there prayerfully for an awe-inspiring moment and backed away respecfully into the adjoining bathroom.
There was her towel, still wet from its service. I rubbed my face in it and thought of her standing naked near the tub and drying her glistening body on this holy cloth of fuchsia. Here had been her adorable breasts, her underarms, her stomach. Here, the cloth had touched her thighs. I moaned as I mashed my face where her crotch had been, and I trembled with the vision of her patting and caressing herself with this fabric, sanctifying it in her sex and in the cleft of her nates.
Forestalling fainting, I placed the towel back on its holder and caught my breath. My gaze fell upon her toilet, and I feared for my sanity. Her hips and the backs of her legs had rested there. Her body had divested itself of waste therein. I had watched her at lunch with a man this day. I had, in fact, stolen the fork she had used and had placed my lips on her glass when they had left. Her body had processed the food, and she had relaxed herself here to void her bladder and bowels. I kneeled before the receptacle and lovingly licked the seat. Rashly, I removed my blouse and bra and pressed my breasts against her toilet, hugging it passionately as I licked the seat where she had sat.
Fearing my loss of control would drive me to baptize my face in chemically treated water from the bowl, I pulled myself away, divested myself of my wraparound skirt, and kissed and licked my way naked across the floor on which her bare feet had trod. Eleanor had been here. Eleanor . . . Eleanor, Woman . . . Woman . . . Woman . . . Eleanor . . ..
At the sink now, I whined upon seeing her toothbrush. It had been in her mouth. Her spit . . . her tongue . . .. I reached for the implement ------
I froze. What was that? Oh, my God! Voices! Women's voices!!
I had the presence of mind to grab my blouse and bra and skirt before dashing into the bedroom. The door was opening. I scampered into the large closet with the sliding doors, glad it had been left open. I crouched down behind her dresses and a clothes hamper. In spite of my predicament, it flashed through my mind that her unwashed panties may be in the hamper.
I listened. The women were not speaking. I heard them moving around, and I heard the rustle of clothes and distinctive girl noises. Mewling and little gasps characteristic of prurient appreciation reached my experienced ear. Something Sapphic was in the making!
"Who are you?" I heard Eleanor say in a quiet, sultry voice.
"We are WISE. We are Women in Service to Eleanor," Marilyn and Cinda replied in unison.
My pussy hiccuped. I inhaled quickly and held my breath to prevent emitting girl noises of my own. I didn't care that they might discover me and sacrifice me to their carnal pleasures in some pagan ritual; I cared rather that I might interrupt a scene my salacious being craved to see.
Hearing still the sounds of their concupiscence, I peeped over the clothes hamper at a scene epitomizing algolagnic worship of muliebrity. Eleanor, wearing only a short cape of black, her gorgeous nudity transcendent, her raven hair otherworldly against the backdrop of a stormy night, stood imperiously with her foot on the blonde head of a groveling Marilyn while Cinda worshipped the back of her other leg. Her naked supplicants moaned and swooned their devotion to her, and she accepted their obeisance and praise.
"Honor me, Cinda."
The girl worshipping Eleanor from behind whispered "Goddess, my Goddess," and nuzzled her face gently between the cheeks of her goddess's rounded buttocks and paid tribute to her with the Kiss of Shame. I clutched my breasts hard and ran one hand down to the cauldron between my legs. My mouth yearned for the taste of her anus, and my face was redolent with lust to feel her crotch and legs pressing and rubbing in it, to be Cinda receiving the divine reward of the faithful.
"Honor me, Marilyn."
She removed her foot from Marilyn's head, and the blonde kissed and licked her way up Eleanor from her feet to her genitals, there pausing with her mouth open awaiting the command to perform the supreme service to her goddess.
As she reached for Marilyn's face with both hands, the goddess's body shaped itself slowly into the elongated S of classic posture for allowing cunnilingus by a kneeling slave. Cinda adjusted herself to continue serving the beauty's anus. Eleanor's eyes, at once frightening and alluring, transfixed the girl whose mouth awaited its glorious reward.
Eleanor gripped Marilyn's face and pulled her into her sex. "Suck," she commanded. "Suck my sex . . . suck . . . suck." The lewd beauty undulated sensually, rhythmically working her yoni into the sucking mouth locked in her womanhood. The muscles in her legs flexed as she moved, soft ridges and valleys shifted gracefully, her stomach rippled and relaxed, rippled and relaxed. Her breasts glistened with perspiration.
"Suck me, Marilyn, suck me, Cinda. Suck from me and taste the wonders of my body. Drink from me and swallow from my body the sacred substances of thy Goddess. Suck … suck . . .."
My eyes rolled involuntarily back into my brain. I pursed my lips tightly to stifle a scream and squeezed my titty hard as I masturbated furiously in my hiding place. The noises of female lust emanating from the three-woman sex-creature masked my irrepressible grunts and whimpers. I would be safe so long as I did not scream.
Eleanor began quivering and vibrating. She let out a high-pitched howl and held Marilyn's face tightly in her orgasming hole. She was cumming in her mouth, and I could see Marilyn swallowing. Then I witnessed a phenomenon I had seen from only one other woman in my life. Eleanor's come was dribbling out of Marilyn's mouth! She relaxed her grip briefly and held the girl's face a few inches down from her boiling sex pit. Her pussy spit oozed and spurted from her into Marilyn's grateful mouth. Cinda was there to lick up the drippings Marilyn couldn't swallow. The two girls worked as a well-trained team now to drink Eleanor's come, taking turns sucking at her cunt and licking up the overflow and the sweat and saliva on her legs. When Eleanor's well was finally pumped, Cinda and Marilyn moaned a duet of lust as they swapped spit and female fuckslime back and forth between their mouths.
I had been able to suppress a scream, but I had not predicted being seized by an orgasm so violent that it tossed me against the clothes hamper and out into the bedroom where three very startled women stood aghast watching me continue to jerk like an alien parachutist in a grand mal. There midst Eleanor's unwashed panties and other private matters, I completed my orgasm because I had no choice.
"Bring her to me," Eleanor said evenly. Cinda and Marilyn, their pretty faces snail-tracked with Eleanor's copious pussyfuck, dragged me by my arms and hair to the feet of our goddess. Thinking it may be my last night on earth, I kissed her feet humbly and intoned her name in apotropaic ritual.
"Suck her eyes," Eleanor ordered her disciples. The girls turned me over on my back. Towering above me were the exquisite legs of the caped goddess, her juicy crotch, her stomach, her magnificent breasts, her beautiful face. Her long, black hair was a terrifying aura lighted by flashes from the storm. Heaven roared and grumbled its judgement against me, and I cared only that I had been granted this final moment of my life to kiss Eleanor's feet and behold her in all her ineffable beauty.
Marilyn's lovely face moved above me now. Her open mouth still webbed with Eleanor's fuckslime descended slowly. She held my eye lids open and French kissed my eyeball slowly and sensually. When she was done, she moved down to my breasts and sucked as Cinda took her turn with my other eye. Cinda held my face captive in her womanly hands and licked my eyes with the flat of her tongue.
"Suck between her legs, Marilyn," Eleanor ordered. "Suck her breasts, Cinda. I will consecrate our new priestess with my substance." The girls moved to do her bidding, and she stood astride my face looking down at me. My pussy responded to Marilyn, my breasts to Cinda, and the depth of my being to the carnal manifestation of the Goddess, Eleanor.
I spoke her name reverently. Marilyn and Cinda echoed the sacred sound. The three of us murmured her name prayerfully as ecstacy o'ercame us in our lust and worship.
The Goddess Femina in the person of Eleanor squatted slowly down onto my face and nourished me with the milk of deity from her hallowed female organs. I became whole as I sucked and drank her vaginal secretion and partook of her holy substance. The warmth of her crotch and the weight of her on me, the pressure of her wonderful legs against my face, the incomparable movement of her copulatory dance completed me and incorporated my soul into the Eternal Femina, the Goddess of my longing, She who ordained my ultimate destiny and purpose, She who effected my surrender by her irresistible grace, my Femina, my Femina, my Femina.