Sunday, June 3, 2012

area under the curve

At my undergrad, everyone is obliged to take a math class, which was the result of somewhat overzealous distribution requirements that were essentially a throwback to the Cold War. The thinking is like so: maybe if we make them take science and math, then instead of becoming resentful they will become physicists who will destroy Sputnik and we’ll win over the entirety of Communist Russia. Despite that lofty goal, the unfortunate truth is that there are many things that I am good at, but they don’t exactly extend to differential equations.

By the time I started college, I had figured out a few things about myself, and one of them is that I will never, ever manage to stay awake for an entire math class unless I sit in the very front. Today is just like any other day, so I even though I was about 5 minutes late I slipped into my desk on the second row back from the podium. I sat down and soon enough I settled into my seat: the balls of my feet on the floor, my heels on the legs of the chair, and my knees as far apart as the chair is wide. I am absentminded and think that the skirt I’ve worn to accommodate for the August heat is loose enough that it will demurely drape down between my thighs, and keep all inappropriate views hidden.

It doesn’t. I don’t figure that out until I detect my own odor floating through the air around me.

This classroom is structured so that since I am on the second row, my face is perfectly in line with the PowerPoint—that’s why I chose the spot—but that also means that my pelvis is in line with the TA’s head, who is standing about 15 feet away. When I consider this, along with my scent as it wafts through the room, I am immediately embarrassed. I squirm in my seat and pull my knees together again.

After 10 more minutes, the lecture becomes complex enough, with phis nesting inside of sigmas and more letters than numbers dotting the slides, that I don’t focus on my knees anymore, and simply move everything back to my original most comfortable position. When my TA is momentarily flustered and pink, I remember what I have done and scramble to pretend that I am modest.

I repeat this cycle maybe 3 more times through the lecture. By the end the TA looks distraught, and he can’t mind his rhos and thetas anymore.

A few minutes later, he finishes up the lecture: “That’s it for today. We’ll have our second quiz next Friday, and don’t forget the problem set due on Tuesday. The assignment is on Blackboard. Remember, group work is ok, but you can’t use the Internet!”

There’s some grumbling as everyone is leaving. I have managed to shove my notebooks back into my backpack before I hear the last part of the lecture:

“La Ravaudeuse,” the TA says, “I need to talk to you for a minute, don’t leave yet.”

I stop my motions for an instant and all the blood rushes to my face. I think about all the reasons I could need a talking-to, and most of them range around my palpable boredom, my fear of Greek letters, and possibly my posture this morning. I sit down with my ankles together and my bag in my lap as I await the verdict. I’m aware that the room has become approximately 50 degrees warmer in the last 3 minutes and that I am sweating as profusely as my heart is racing and my skin is flushing.

The TA wanders up the stairs to my desk. He stands beside me.

“Miss la Ravaudeuse,” he starts.

“Margot,” I correct him, with a shake in my voice that destroys all pretenses of composure.

“Ok, Margot.” He accepts my correction. “Follow me to my office, please?”

“You want to have a meeting now?” I’m surprised. It’s 3pm. I should be either hitting the gym, the library, or the bong. I have learned that college is a wonderful time of self-discovery.

“Now, please, unless you have another lecture to attend?”

“No, I guess I don’t have anywhere specific to be.”

I stand up and follow him out of the room and down the hall in this Soviet-era cinderblock building. I marvel at how this fluorescent lighting can make this graduate student—4 years my senior, a genius now 2 years into a math PhD, with the physique of someone for whom health and fitness was not a chore but something maintained with attention and a certain kind of pride—look pale and tubercular. Our shoes clatter and echo.

We get to his door, which he swings open with a flourish that is just as enthusiastic as the creaking sound the hinges generate. The room is covered in books and notebook paper. Three monitors glow in the corner. He gestured to a seat across from his desk. I flop into it.  My knees are together.

“Margot,” he says, sitting down opposite me, “I need to talk with you about your behavior in class today.”

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I blurt. My mouth is talking and my brain is only modestly contributing. “I didn’t realize how I was dressed until like 10 minutes into lecture, I didn’t mean to be a distraction, I was so totally mortified and I kind of wanted to die because I always sit the same way when I study, it’s just this habit, and I didn’t think about the part where the classroom is shaped like some ridiculous ersatz amphitheater—“

“Um, ok.” He cuts me off. “I just meant to tell you that I need you to not sit in the front if you’re late, it interrupts the lecture.”




“But we can definitely talk about that, too.”


“That skirt.”

“What about it?”

“It’s short. I’m not sure if you realized it before today, but I could definitely, um, see right up it, and, you see, I could see that you weren’t, you know…” This TA has become increasing flustered during this conversation. He’s red in the face and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Oh my god.” I feel all my blood drain out of my face. I decided not to wear panties today, secondary to a near-complete lack of clean clothes. I squirm in this wooden chair, and feel my labia slide across its lacquered surface.

“Yeah. That was a bit of a distraction.”

“…fuck me.” I am not thinking too much about what I’m saying, and the tone I use reflects my complete exasperation. My knees flop to the sides as I realize what my words revealed.

“What?” He drops the pen out of his hand and raises one eyebrow as he peers straight up my skirt.

“I can’t believe I just said that.” I slump down in my chair, heels sliding up its legs as my pelvis inches out to the end.

“You totally did.” He is smiling while he stands up.

“Right.” I look up. The hemline is creeping up my thighs.

He stands up and walks around his desk and stands in front of me. His arms are crossed in front of his chest as he leans his bulk against the desk.  He is bolder now.  He reaches a hand out and touches my hair; his finger and thumb linger at the tip of a lock.

I decide that the distraction my skirt has generated is one that I am interested in, as well. The structures hidden in the area under the curving surface of my skirt are integral to the decisions that I make from here on after.

I turn my head just enough that I take this man’s thumb into my mouth, and I suck the end of the digit. I flick my tongue across its tip, and exhale onto its surface.  The man put the remainder of his hand on my face, thumb over my lips, and his fingers wrapped around into my hair.

His other hand explores the zipper that courses over the expanding volume revealed by topographic changes in his slim-cut trousers. His fingers undo the button and pull down the zipper; they lower the elastic underneath and reveal a perfect, hardening cock, covered with a thin glaze of fluid leaking out. The thumb moved as he tightens his grip on my hair and pulls my head towards his erection. I part my lips and my tongue skims the surface, tasting the fluid that slowly exits his body. 

He tolerates this for a moment before he pushes harder and thrusts his pelvis towards me. He enters my mouth with some force, and his now-free hand joins its partner in holding my hair by the fistful. He holds my head steady in place as his hips start to sway; gradually working to a strong, fast pace as he fucks my mouth.

My knees are completely spread as I sat on the edge of my chair, nearly kneeling to hold the right pose. My left hand explores his hips further and allows me to steady myself, while my right creeps up to my receding hem and slides between my labia in search of my clit. My hips glide across my hand to the rhythm of the TA’s hips. I decide that he clearly knows what he wants, and I remove my hand that steadies me and I press it inside my pussy, while its companion massages my clit. At this moment, I realize that I couldn’t recall the name he used when he introduced himself at the first class 10 days ago.

I hear a sudden clearing of a throat. It cannot be the TA’s, as he continues to moan throughout, becoming less and less verbose the longer he fucks my mouth.

“Mr. Maxon,” a new voice declares, “I thought we had discussed this. You are to call me before you have meetings with students.”

Mr. Maxon!  Andrew Samuel Maxon. Right. That was it, I remembered. That was his name, and also why he told us never to look for “Sam Maxon” in the directory, even if that was the name he used.

Sam did not release my head or miss a beat as he explained that this was an unplanned meeting to discuss a pattern of behavior that I was starting to develop. This was followed by a moment of silence, during which there was noting to be heard by the slopping sounds made by Sam’s impressive cock in my mouth, and a sound of metal on metal followed by some footfalls. This new man is standing behind me. I feel his breath on my back as he bends over me.

“You know we have a protocol,” he said. In an instant I felt something—I later figured out it was a belt this man had just pulled off—wrap around my torso, effectively pinning my arms to my side between the elbow and the wrist as it draws to a tight close. I inhale sharply: I hear the buckle of this belt slide and click into place before I realize that I am now completely powerless.

I feel a third hand on my head brushing off the first two. Then I feel two hands under my armpits that pull me up to my feet.  I am now standing up, facing Mr. Maxon, whose impressive dick is pointing straight at me. It twitches.

“Turn around,” he instructs me.

I comply. I did, after all, ask him to fuck me.

I turn, and I am standing face to face with Dr. Wynne. He is the 35-year-old prodigy head of the math department. Rumor has it he graduated from a nearby university with his bachelors when he was just 19, and he finished his PhD at 23. Part of the way he had made this happen was by being a charming person in addition to a possessor of a staggering intellect.

Of note, Dr. Wynne was a triathlete. It was particularly apparent in this moment. He moved towards me, and I heard Mr. Maxon step aside. Dr. Wynne had nudged me up to the edge of the desk, with the curve on the underside of my ass now starting to sit on its surface. I heard a sweep and clatter, and Mr. Maxon’s hands are on my shoulders from behind: he has moved to the opposite side of the desk.

Dr. Wynne is looking directly into my face. He presses a knee between mine, and nudges my legs apart. He grips my hips and pulls me up onto the desk.

“Sam,” he said, “You never told me anything about Miss la Ravaudeuse except that she was an exceptionally attentive student. You mentioned that you thought she might have a talent. You did not mention any remarkable behaviors.”

He presses my shoulders back. I loose my balance and fall onto Mr, Maxon’s large outstretched hands, which guide me to the table surface. He grabs my arms and pulls me back: my ass is now held up by this desk, and my head is hanging off the opposite end.  Dr. Wynne is now standing between my legs, with his thigh pressed right against my dripping cunt. Mr. Maxon’s hands rest on my mandible, and he opens my mouth for me.

It occurs to me that less than two minutes ago I was happily sucking cock for my math TA, and that now I am tied up, and somehow in a position that I may not be able to get out of. I am staring at a droplet of precome that is forming on the tip of Mr.. Maxon’s dick as I make this realization. His hands are busy pulling up my thin t-shirt and releasing my breasts from the flimsy bra that encases them. My nipples are hard and sensitive and completely erect.

It is at this moment that I feel two strong hands grab my thighs, pick them up, and spread them, ultimately wrapping them around a man’s waist. Three large fingers press their way into my body, and a thumb rubs roughly against my clit. I gasp at this surprise, and at that moment Mr. Maxon’s cock thrusts back into my mouth. One of his hands is on my jaw and the other in my hair as he steadies my head for the ease of fucking my face. His balls slap into me and saliva streaks down my cheeks.

The hand below starts to massage my pussy and my clit, and soon is fucking me with an equal intensity to this cock. Dr. Wynne’s free hand explores one of my bouncing tits as he steadies it to pinch the nipple. My hips begin to gyrate over his hand and I am making muffled sounds over this cock.

Dr. Wynne slaps my tit. I yelp as I press my pelvis harder into his hand. My legs are wrapped around his torso; they squeeze him insistently into my body.

He makes my pussy clench around his knuckles. He makes my body tighten and release and orgasm, his thumb steadily rubbing my clit as fluid flowed out of me and down his wrist, while his fingers fucked my spasming cunt. I nearly cried from the intensity, but the cock in my mouth distorted the sound.

I heard a zip. Then a rip, the distinctive sound of opening of a condom wrapper. I feel a new pressure on the introitus of my already-well fucked cunt before Dr. Wynne presses his cock into me. I feel like I could split in two.

He leans forward as he fucks me. Both his hands are on my breasts, kneeing them and pinching and rolling my hypersensitive nipples. His cock must be curved: it bends and makes pressure sensations inside me on the internal surface of my overstimulated clitoris. I feel another orgasm structuring itself inside me; its progress is relentless, and my cunt is shuddering around this cock in short order.

It doesn’t matter if I tried to make words now. The sounds are incoherent, due only in small part to the hardening dick that continues to fuck my mouth, that spasms and shoots a hot, salty, bitter load onto my tongue. He comes in several thrusts, with several squirts of fluid. It dripped out of my mouth and dribbled down into my hair.

Dr. Wynnes hands left my breasts and landed in the small of my waist, on the top of my hips. He was fucking me deeply now, and my pussy leaked clear fluid down the front of his suit.  His cock swelled and he groaned and fucked me so hard the desk moved. His orgasm ended only a few seconds after Mr. Maxon’s.

Mine had been continuous.

I feel Mr. Maxon lighten his grip on my hair as his cock softened between my swollen lips. Dr. Wynne steps back from me, too. In a moment both of their just-softened dicks slip from my body, my thighs quivers around Dr. Wynne’s waist. My skirt is a useless pile of fabric that has bunched up under my breasts, leaving the whole expanse of my naked pelvis present for viewing. The two of them each place a hand under my bound arms and help me up. Mr. Maxon releases the belt; Dr, Wynne adjusts my bra and shirt before he flips down the hem of my skirt. The both escort me off the table.

“Miss la Ravaudeuse,” Mr. Maxon started, “is a special student who revealed certain behaviors today during class, and I thought that she might benefit from a private meeting. I didn’t have time to call you, Dr. Wynne, and I’m so glad you kept our meeting for 3:10. I almost about it.”

“Margot,” this is the first time Dr. Wynne has addressed me. I am surprised that he knows my name. “It’s important to think about the effects of your behavior. If your behavior in class continues, we may have to form a disciplinary panel for you.” His stern face is softened with a wink.

“Do you understand?” he finishes.

“Yes, I do,” I reply.

I never wore panties to class after that.