Sociology 101 00:47 Mar 02 2013
Times Read: 777
*intended for Adults
Sociology 101
Sunlight shone through one of the windows surrounding the top of the room and, sparkled and danced from the many mobile phones sitting on the students desks, who sat in tiers, in a semi-circle around the small dias at the front and centre of the room, on which a lectern stood, behind which stood the lecturer.
The phones were all turned off, as the students were rapt by the lecturer’s words, a small woman, who’s soft voice carried well, in the large room.
Mrs Sterzaka stalked the stage, hands clasped behind her back, her voice strident.
Dressed in a tweed jacket and skirt, a white shirt beneath the jacket buttoned up to the ruffled neck, she was a small woman, who subject matter kept very students eyes and ears fixed on her every move and word.
Her long blonde and silver hair was tied up and pinned into a bun, her make-up light, as she hardly felt that she needed it. She did not. Sterzaka had a striking manner, that attracted many and frightened others.
“Each of us have a reason for what we do and, truth be told, we all have our obsessions…” And, as she spoke, Mrs Sterzaka stopped at the lectern and set one pencil in line with the one next to it.
“Just look at the film ‘Looking For Mister Goodbar, as an example?” She let silence sit in the air a moment, as they considered the mention of an old film, only available on VHS that had been set as coursework the week previous, for a sociology class. Many had laughed back then. But thing’s had changed, now.
“That film illustrated how a lonely professional make mistakes, in her pursuit for happiness, mistakes that eventually have tragic consequences…” Again, Sterzaka let silence fill the room, as her students considered what they had just heard.
“Now, I’d like you all to think on that and, for tomorrows next weeks paper, I want you tell me something of an obsession you’re aware of that did, or could have had tragic consequences…Alright?” Mrs Sterzaka gripped the sides of the lectern as she finished speaking, literally a second before the bell sounded.
As bags were filled and texts made and chatter began and got louder, Mrs Sterzaka clapped her hands together and called out, “Well class, I know you’re eager to off to your ever-so nutritious lunch, but remember this: ten per cent of your end of term credits will come from this paper!”
And hearing this, several students stopped chatting, or packing their bags and groaned. Mrs Sterzaka folded her arms, staring at her students.
“Now don’t be like that, see it as an way of expressing yourself through creative wring, if you choose; but if you, remember that I might just ask you questions that appertain to what you’ve written?” Saying this, the normally stern-looking Sterzaka smiled; something her students rarely saw.
Kirsty stood herself, loosened her blonde her, chased away the loose ones from the black tee-shirt, worn under the unbuttoned red and-check lumber-jack shirt. She very carefully picked the hairs from the scrunchie and, then grasped the hair into place, tying it back up into a ponytail once more, sliding the doubled-up scrunchie back into place, so that as she turned, the tail swished, as she wanted.
Her actions were instinctual, even the packing of her bag, ready for the journey home.
Kirsty was distracted, very distracted in fact; having found that the new assignment hit close to home.
She made her way out of class and through the hallways, filled with students heading toward her, as she strode with purpose, as Kirsty had things to do.
Even as she left the campus and headed for her bus-stop, the attractive blonde had her mind on other matters. And, as Kirsty pocketed her change from purchasing her ticket, she was unaware that one of the coins was an American one-cent, and that the coin was minted on the day Daniel Day Lewis was born, the actor playing Lincoln in the Oscar-winning film ‘Lincoln.’ Yet, the irony would have been lost on Kirsty, as her mind was elsewhere.
Just like Diane Keaton’s character Theresa Dunn, in the film ‘Looking For Mister Goodbar’, Kirsty lived two lives. And, at as the bus moved through the traffic, she idly glanced to her bag, sitting on the seat next to her, with the mobile phone inside, that still had not rung, to indicate that she had email.
She was pleased that she was not working that evening, as her plans precluded going in, even though she usually enjoyed the job; it helped her satisfy a side of herself that the Sociology class would not see; yet it was sometimes an irritant.
She worked behind the counter at a shop labelled a sex-shop, selling the expected and allowed to dress in what was on sale, nay encouraged.
But, tonight she was expecting an email and did not want to spend the evening at work, while so many revelled in the joys of the night; while she stood behind the counter, looking good and smiling, as she gave change for a twelve inch Black Mamba, to a young Asian, as her white boyfriend stood behind her, a light smirk on his face.
‘Grant you,’ Kirsty mused, idly looking out of the window, ‘one has to wonder whether the smirk would have lasted if the little Asian had not used KY, when she used the toy on him. And with that thought, she grinned.
Through her colleagues at work, she had been to several events, one of her favourites being a fetishwear night. In fact, when she wore fetishwear, Kirsty felt able to express herself, in a way she could not otherwise do so.
She had learnt much, through her job, much of it of herself. One of those learning experience had occurred when she had gone to a fetish club, with her boyfriend at the time. A period cuffed naked, to two beams of wood, formed into an X had provided an insight into the submissive side of her nature. And, she’d quite enjoyed being whipped across her breasts: that had been a surprise, initially.
That insight and, several others had provided the impetus, for evenings such as that planned for tonight, which had taken some planning; but she felt it would be worth it. ‘After all,’ she mused, ‘any experience is a learning experience, if you want it to be.’
Finally she reached her stop and, returning to her apartment, Kirsty undressed, then stared at her body in a full-length mirror. She was not tall, but had an hourglass figure; many women would kill for, with dainty feet, shapely calves and thighs, a slim waist and, a bosom that was full. She cupped the underswell of her left breast a moment and wistfully gazed at the tattoo of a heart, an inch or so above the aureole.
‘It's almost totally cracked down the middle, one quarter of it is fading into me,’ she mused, ‘it has other cracks, in other places but it's still one piece; a representation of the imprint that my experiences in life have made on me.’
Since the experience with the ex-boyfriend, Kirsty could imagine being naked; wearing a collar, or fetish gear and her confidence increased ten fold.
It was as if the person she was everyday was a character, whilst dressed thusly and, seemingly submissive, Kirsty felt whole.
But, she’d had enough of relationships, for now; yet she still had needs.
Crossing the room to the dinette, she opened the fridge and got out the half-bottle of white wine left from the previous night.
Again she looked at her mobile and scowled, realizing she had still not received an email; the email, she wanted.
Pouring herself a glass, she took a sip of her wine, then went through to her bedroom. As she chose the outfit for her intended meeting Kirsty couldn’t help but smile at a conclusion she’d come to: Her past and present were dictated by experiences, both positive and negative, that she had learned from.
And, through these experiences, Kirsty had gleamed much of her sexuality, learning to accept then appreciate its diverse nature. And although that had initially been a surprise to her, Kirsty had learned to utilise it in the adventures she was determined to have and enjoy.
‘But,’ she mused, ‘what to wear?’
Until the email, she never knew what they would want from her. It was all planned and consensual; and when it came down to it, the choices she made were hers, to make.
‘And really,’ she considered thoughtfully, gazing at the outfits laid out on the bed, ‘there is the difference between Theresa and me. She ended up mired in so much of the backstory, that the main event was lost, as was her life.’
It was at that moment that her mobile rang. She looked at the screen and grinned.
“Typical,” she muttered, “Well, at least I know what to wear…”
Kirsty had the address and time for the meeting, as well.
And less an hour later, she was out the front door, a long coat covering what she had considered appropriate, a white blouse, tied off just below her rib-cage, a red and black pleated plaid skirt that ended just below her crotch, to show more than a hint of flesh, as well as her suspender-straps. She wore white cotton panties, beneath the short skirt and a pair of black patent leather thigh-high boots with a good four-inch heel.
Kirsty had worn this outfit just once before and, on that occasion had found every opportunity to lean forward, knowing full well, the vista that would be provided to an onlooker, of her full-buttocks, encased in white and framed by the suspenders.
On that occasion she had been drawn forward onto a fellows lap and endured, nay enjoyed, his hand falling hard on her flesh, again and again, with the flat of his hand, the pigtails she had worn flailing madly, as she had twisted her body, in his tight grip.
This time was different, as she wanted someone, a stranger as it happened, to help her experience something that she was curious of, hence the way she had phrased the ad, this time: curious student, wishes to attain her ‘A-levels’, seeking teacher to satisfy.
There had been many replies; there always were and, the sifting through the trite and the banal, to find the interesting was half the fun, of planning her encounters.
Her experiences had given her knowledge of herself; hence her continued encounters, ‘her little adventures,’ as Kirsty liked to call them.
Finally she was where she was supposed to be, anxiously waiting for her ad’s respondent.
He’d got the room and now here she was, lying on the bed in the dim light provided by a single standard lamp in the corner of the room.
And, the waiting was ‘oh-so very frustrating, almost sweetly so.’
Then as the minutes passed by, Kirsty wondered whether her needs would be met, this time. After all she had said what she wanted.
Abruptly a sound outside caught her attention and, as the door to the motel room opened, she heard a voice, deep and obviously amused:
“Well well,” her visitor muttered, “so you are ready, aren’t you?”
Kirsty would have answered ‘yes’, if she could. But, she had chosen to wear a ball-gag, to accompany the cuffs, that she wore on her wrists and ankles.
She heard the thud of the bundle of keys in his back trouser pocket, as his clothes hit the floor and, she trembled with anticipation, of his touch and, her submission.
“Nice,” he muttered. “But those are hardly necessary. I want you, not bondage…”
First he undid the ball-gag, then ran his left hand to the cuffs on her wrists, as he ran his right hand down the curve of her back, then over the swell of her skirt-covered buttocks, to the flesh just beneath the hem.
He slid his hand upward and, over her white-cotton panties, the middle-finger of his hand pushing the material in a little.
“I know what I want…” he murmured, the finger tracing the crease, then down to the moist warmth between her legs.
Feeling this sign of her arousal, the stranger smiled.
“You know what you want as well,” he told Kirsty, who decided he was stating the blindingly obvious. She did know what she wanted, that was why the encounter. ‘After all,’ she mused, ‘with each encounter comes experience and, knowledge…’
Yet rationalizing events was not the reason why she was here, with this stranger, now.
Kirsty was aroused and wanted her needs met.
He unfastened the wrist-cuffs and those round her ankles. Then he slid his hands up her thighs and up. Grasping the waistband of her white cotton panties, he pulled them down and away from Kirsty’s buttocks, trailing two fingers through her moist lips.
She gasped at his touch.
“Now, let’s get you ready…” he muttered, grasping her hips and pulling Kirsty up, so that she supported herself, on all fours.
He knelt between her splayed legs, then leant forward and parted her cheeks, pressing his face between them, so that his eager tongue could lathe her puckered anus, that parted as the saliva covered tip speared inward.
And Kirsty clutched at the bedspread, moaning with pleasure.
The stranger held her to him, as he used his tongue to great effect, readying her for the fingers that entered and wormed their way inside her.
It was as she began to revel in the feel of his digits moving inside her rectum that her stranger slowly pulled them out, much to her disappointment.
“Now…” she heard him mutter, as he held her hips and drew Kirsty back, so her buttocks met his flesh. Then he reached for the lube she had left by the bedside, just for this moment. He applied some to his erection, then a dollop to her sphincter, which he eased round then in, with two fingers.
For a moment he paused, his shafts head resting against her anus.
“Ready?” He questioned unnecessarily.
‘Ready?’ Kirsty mused, ‘I’m oh-so ready…'
But, she wasn’t.
Kirsty had been curious and, wanted this experience; yet suddenly she felt apprehensive and her sphincter tightened.
Slowly he pressed forward a little, till he met resistance. And, Kirsty groaned.
"C'mon ease up would you?" He muttered, "And, stay relaxed, till I'm all the way in."
She tried to relax, imagining herself taking a dump, as he pressed forward again.
Then without saying any more, he thrust forward and embedded his length all-in-one and Kirsty wanted to howl as he rammed his length into her.
The pain was excruciating and, she snapped up, but he forced her back down, with his left hand on her lower back, just above the skirts waistband.
"It’s what you wanted, what you asked for, so take it," he snarled, in his lust.
Then he reached down and grabbed both of her swinging breasts, hard.
And he nearly twisted her nipples off, all the while pounding in and out with increasing ferocity, grunting with each thrust.
Kirsty quickly realised that he wanted to give her as much pain as he could without really injuring her.
She was sure her tits would be bruised, but she liked it.
Abruptly Kirsty began meeting his shafts thrusts by slamming herself back against him: "Oh, you do like it?" he said, twisting her hard nipple-flesh some more.
Kirsty’s moaning told him she did.
"Yes, I do. I love it," she heard her voice, as if from a different person.
"Fuck me. Fuck me hard," she panted.
The stranger grabbed both of her breasts through the blouse, twisting and pulling them as he leaned back and with a deep groan, shot his load into her.
Kirsty felt odd warmth spread through her guts, then she collapsed onto the bed, as the big man fell on top of her, as they both gasped for air.
Then as Kirsty’s stranger stood on shaky legs, he told her, “Before we’re finished, there’s something you need to do.”
He grabbed her hair and pushed Kirsty to her knees, “Now clean me...”
Kirsty knelt before him, placing her hands on his thighs. It wasn’t as though he needed to tell her what to do, that was as if read. He had his needs and, she had hers.
As she leant forward Kirsty took his flesh in gentle hands, then licked his flaccid length clean with an avid tongue, then enveloped him with open lips and warm, moist mouth and, the stranger groaned, reaching out for her with both hands.
Kirsty gagged a little as he entered deep, but when he sought control, by placing his hands on the back of her head, she grasped his wrists and pushed them away, while she sought to accommodate his length, without too much more discomfort.
Finally he was satisfied, and stroking her hair, he told Kirsty, “Thank you.”
Then as Kirsty stood and straightened her outfit, her stranger walked behind her nuzzling her neck and inhaling her scent, as he ran his hands over her shirt, lingering on each hard nipple.
He turned her in his arms and, for a brief moment their lips met, “Perhaps next time we meet up, you’ll kneel properly for me, as you wait?” He kissed her again, quite roughly, as he groped her buttocks, beneath her short pleated plaid-skirt.
“And, you do know how to kneel properly, don’t you?” He enquired of her in a conversational manner.
‘Next time?’ Kirsty mused, ‘there was so rarely a next time. After all, this was all about need…’ Did she need more?
‘Silly Question,’ she thought with a wry smile. Of course she did and, feeling temporarily sated she replied, “Yes, I know how to kneel properly…”
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