Climax: Volume 2

by Ella Ford

  So the announcement of Professor Ernest Jacobie’s not-unexpected passing over the holiday season of 2012 was greeted with the world’s shortest mourning period and the swift announcement of his replacement: Professor Jennifer Cole.

  Professor Cole was an entirely different beast to Professor Jacobie. Modern and right-on, Jenny Cole was thirty (an age that seemed impossibly mature back then) and thoroughly down with us kids.

  To illustrate: the first thing that she wrote on the whiteboard in her first lecture was not her name - it was her Twitter handle, and she invited us all to friend her on Facebook. She was that kind of teacher. You’ve all had one.

  So I added her, against my better judgement. Not, you understand, because I was particularly confident in my Facebook feed’s ability to project the life of a professional and diligent student. That ship had sailed the day that my roommate Carla had posted a series of pictures of me slumped over the Dean’s Oldsmobile with my panties around my ankles and a bottle of Jim Beam slowly emptying down the poor Dean’s windshield.

  In fact, I’d added Professor Cole because I wanted to indulge in that most modern of trespasses - the Facebook photo rape. I simply had to see photos of her, because, well, I had developed a little crush on her.

  It’s not my fault, Your Honor, it was my hormones!

  You see, Professor Cole was a very smart and serious woman. As well as having a misplaced sense of her own youthful identity, Professor Cole stood out from the college faculty by dressing well. Crisp, pressed skirt suits, with immaculate blazers and blouses. And she always, always, wore pantyhose and heels. Like, always! I remember seeing her at a Friday night football game (Go Wildcats!) wearing that same perfect lilac combination and the same matching open-toe pumps with the conservative-but-daring three inch heel.

  Can you see where this is going yet?

  Naturally, my interest in macroeconomics grew considerably in the second half of the college year. I found myself quoting Keynes and Adam Smith in bars and gradually moving closer to the front of the room during her lessons. There was no boring Wednesday afternoon that couldn’t be improved by spending an hour watching Professor Cole perched on the edge of a desk, lazily swinging her perfect legs back and forth, back and forth, hoping against hope that she’d slip one of her shoes off and dangle it from her stockinged foot.

  So I added her on Facebook. And spent several very happy nights leafing through her photos like a digital burglar.

  ---

  One night in late April, I found myself alone in the dorm at eleven on a Saturday. Carla was off touring with band and all the other girls and guys were studying for finals. So I had myself a good old fashioned one girl party, just me, Jim Beam, the internet and the plastic-pal that I kept underneath my mattress.

  As I was loading up Facebook, I happened to notice that it was someone’s birthday. Ah Facebook, you remove every inconvenience of friendship - like actually having to care enough to remember the most basic details about your nearest and dearest! So I clicked the link and a gaudy birthday-balloon popup informed me that today was, in fact, Jennifer Cole’s thirty first birthday! Furthermore, it invited me to wish her a happy one.

  Well, I’d been drinking and I was feeling daring, so I did just that. Without thinking, I typed:

  Happy Birthday Professor Cole!

  I paused for a second before sending and thought it might be nice to add something a little personal about enjoying her class. So I clicked in the box again and typed:

  I really enjoy your feet!

  Then I hit send and shut the lid on my MacBook.

  About thirty seconds passed and I settled back on the bed. At the exact second that my head touched the pillow, a wave of realization washed over my sluggish, whiskey-slurred mind and I sat bolt upright.

  “I meant class! I meant class! Oh God, I meant I enjoy your class!” I shouted out loud, not caring who heard me. I leaped across the bed to my desk and fumbled open my MacBook with a speed that surprised the detached part of my mind that was finding this whole thing highly amusing. “Oh God, did I write feet?” I muttered to myself as my computer slowly restarted, the hard disk grumbling at the indignity of being woken so soon after being put to sleep. “Come on come on come on,” I breathed.

  With glacial slowness, the computer flickered into life. I quickly located the browser, loaded Facebook in record time and navigated to Professor Cole’s profile with a skilled precision reserved for digital natives. There it was: “I really enjoy your feet!” Oh God, the humiliation!

  Surely nobody had seen it, I reasoned. It was late on a Saturday night, everyone was either out or in bed. As I clicked the delete button and waved goodbye to the offending sentiment, I hoped against hope that I was the only person to see my stupidity. I sat back in my chair and tried to calm my breathing. After several minutes, I started to relax, allowing myself to believe that I’d deleted the message in time.

  Message received from Jennifer Cole. Click to view.

  The popup appeared on my screen and the bottom dropped out of my world. A few seconds later, my phone pinged its arrival. Then my iPad. My digital world was mocking me!

  With trembling hands, I guided the mouse over to the message and clicked it. Oh God. It opened up and I blinked three times to clear my tear-blurred vision.

  Drop by my office on Monday. Let’s talk this through. Jen.

  ---

  “Please, come in and take a seat Rebecca,” said Professor Cole with a warm, nervous smile. She used my full name, putting me instantly off-guard, as if I could be any more off-guard than how I felt at that moment.

  Sunday had been lost to a hangover and a faint feeling of dread and regret, a constant replaying of scenarios in which every outcome had involved me being identified as a foot-loving lesbian pervert who had a first-grade crush on teacher. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my sexuality, you understand? More that I felt more than a little uneasy about every student in college knowing the fine details of what I liked. No-one, other than my roommate Carla and my best friend Lisa back home, knew that I liked girls. And no-one, I mean no-one, knew that I had a thing for feet! I wanted my coming out to be something on my terms - preferably after I’d actually plucked up the courage to sleep with an actual woman!

  I walked slowly across Professor Cole’s office, every tortured step an agony of embarrassment. Eventually, I reached the comfortable looked chair in front of the desk at which Professor Cole sat and lowered myself down. Professor Cole looked up from her paperwork and studied me. At once, I had the strong sense that she was as nervous as I was. Probably not part of the college lecturer handbook, having to deal with a student’s sordid fetish!

  “Do you know why I asked you here today Rebecca?” she asked, peering at me over the rims of her large, hipster glasses that seemed curiously fashionable for someone so conservatively dressed.

  “I-I guess…” I said, lowering my gaze to the floor and wishing that a sinkhole would appear and swallow me up. Oh, to live in Florida, I thought for the first and only time in my life.

  Professor Cole clicked the top of her pen and placed it neatly by her notebook, then pushed back in her seat and stood up. She was wearing a cream pencil skirt and black blouse, unusually sombre attire compared to her normal look.

  I watched her walk around the desk, approaching where I sat, then lowered my eyes again as she hopped up onto the desk and pushed back.

  I felt a warm flush creep up my neck and burn my face. Don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs, don’t look at her legs, I repeated inwardly, over and over.

  I looked at her legs.

  Oh god, I couldn’t help myself. I’m an animal, a pervert! I only intended a quick glance, flicking my eyes up from the floor by a degree or less; looking for a quick snapshot that I could take away from this humiliating ordeal and examine later in the dead of night. But my eyes reached her feet and became locked in place, captivated by every sensual detail.

  Professor Cole, as expected, wa
s wearing pantyhose. Her usual sheer, tan brand that were slightly darker in tone than her skin and had a subtle shine that shimmered down the length of her calf. On her feet, she wore black, high-heeled pumps with a delicate stiletto heel and open toe. Through that maddeningly enticing portal I caught a clear glimpse of her toes, painted red to match her lipstick and fingernails; muted jewels through the reinforced toe of her hose. In that instant, she sat back and crossed her legs, a movement that I remember happening in slow motion with a ditzy pop ballad in the background. Her nylon-clad thighs rubbed together with a subtle swish and I let out an involuntary sigh.

  “It’s about your Facebook message,” she started, ending the music video in my mind and bringing me crashing back to this hateful reality.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered.

  “I’m afraid that ‘sorry’ won’t cut it Rebecca,” she said sternly, shifting on the desk. “You made an inappropriate comment about my person, one that could get me in a lot of trouble with the faculty,” she added.

  “I-I’m really sorry Professor Cole,” I repeated. “I didn’t think.” I felt meek and small, embarrassed beyond my wildest imaginings.

  The room fell into silence and I stared hard at the floor. Still no sinkhole.

  “Tell me, Rebecca,” said Professor Cole quietly, “why did you write what you wrote? About my feet I mean.”

  Oh god, we were really getting into it. “I don’t know…” I whispered, wondering if the intense heat from my burning cheeks would set off the fire alarm and grant me some respite from this scrutiny.

  “Do you like feet Rebecca?” purred Professor Cole. I heard a soft sliding sound and looked up. The young lecturer had slipped the shoe off her raised foot, exposing her heel and arch. Oh shit!

  “I… I suppose so,” I said in the quietest voice I could manage, unable to look away from the hanging shoe.

  “Do you like it when I do this,” breathed Professor Cole, lifting her foot until it was two feet from me, flicking her toes up and down so that the shoe bounced rhythmically before me.

  I nodded mutely, hypnotized by the erotic motion.

  “I’ve seen you looking at me before Rebecca. I’ve seen how you always take the front seat in my lectures. How you only seem to take an interest in my lessons when I sit on the desk at the front of the room.”

  Oh god, was I so transparent? I blushed furiously, looking away from her foot.

  “I ought to go to the Principal. Such attention could be seen, to an unsympathetic eye, as sexual harassment you know. It’s so difficult to tell these days.” I sensed that she was playing with me. I mean, this clumsy porno-seduction was hardly subtle.

  “Please don’t, Professor Cole,” I begged, feeling half excited and half terrified.

  The older woman made a final exaggerated flick with her foot and the shoe bounced up and off her toes, falling to the floor and coming to rest between us. “Oh dear, how clumsy,” she breathed. “Perhaps you could help me out, Rebecca?” she asked, and again I detected the note of self-doubt in her voice. This cliche of a scene was not something she was used to doing, clearly. I felt myself relax a little.

  “Yes, Professor Cole,” I managed to say, then slipped forward off the chair onto my knees before her. I looked up and studied her exposed foot. It was inches from my face, I could sense its warmth and the subtle smell of her - an intoxicating mix of perfume, sweat and shoe leather. As I looked on, she flexed her toes, stretching at the thin material of her pantyhose.

  My heart was racing now, my mind galloping away at a million thoughts a second. What if someone came in? Was this wrong? What would she taste like? Is that an ankle bracelet?

  She sighed above me, studying me intently, then held up her foot, pointing her toes at my face. “My feet get so tired,” she purred. “Standing at the front of a room full of people in those heels makes my arches ache so badly.” Her words came out in the style of a vampish-seductress, albeit clumsily and unpracticed. Though, at the time I was too captivated by the sight of her foot to offer any serious critique of her performance.

  I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. A distant part of me realized that it was my turn to speak. “I, uh, I could, like, massage them for you… If you wanted?” I breathed.

  She grinned at me impishly and lifted her finger to her mouth, touching her glistening bottom lip. “Would you?” she asked enthusiastically. “That would help me out so much, and maybe we could forget this whole thing,” she added.

  I nodded, scarcely able to believe what was happening to me. This was the stuff of late night, guilty fantasy. Insatiable older woman, forbidden tryst. And soft, warm, pantyhose feet.

  I looked down at her foot once more and shuffled forwards, then I lifted my hand and flexed my fingers, savoring this moment endlessly. With a sudden sigh, I took her foot in my hands and wrapped my fingers around it, my mind barely able to process the influx of sensations that were flooding through it. I felt a familiar warmth in my midsection, a growing flame that sent waves of pleasure through my body. I began to move my hands, breaking the hypnotic trance of first contact. I passed her foot through each hand in turn, stroking my fingers along its length, tracing the pronounced arch and tweaking her writhing toes. It felt impossibly soft beneath my fingertips, warm and smooth.

  I lifted her leg slightly and examined her sole, lost in the myriad wrinkles and contours of the skin there. Then I began to knead her flesh with my thumbs, pressing down with moderate force.

  “Oh god, that feels so good Rebecca,” said Professor Cole above me, throwing her head back and staring at the ceiling.

  She shifted, uncrossing her legs and pulling her foot away from me. I yelped in protest, then gasped in relief as she offered her other foot to me. I took it greedily and gripped the heel with my trembling hands. Slowly, stretching out the moment for as long as I possibly could, I eased the shoe off her foot. Lingering over the slow reveal of her arch and delighted by the way her toes danced with newfound freedom. I set the shoe to one side and began to repeat my tender caresses.

  Professor Cole lowered herself back onto her elbows and peered at me down the length of her leg, her eyes narrowed with desire, mouth slightly open as she panted her approval. She lifted her other leg and pointed her toes, then slowly teased her foot down my bare arm. I shuddered at her touch and felt my pussy sing out its approval. Was Professor Cole a lesbian as well? I thought distantly to myself.

  “I have an idea,” she said from the desk. Her voice had lost any trace of nervousness from before, she seemed entirely in command now.

  I paused and looked at her expectantly, acutely aware that this was her show and I was subordinate to her, subject to her every whim. The thought thrilled me!

  “Why don’t you,” she paused for a second, “use your mouth?” she added with mock hesitancy.

  “Yes Professor Cole,” I droned obediently, feeling not a hint of reluctance.

  I leaned forward and held her foot half an inch from my face. Then I pressed my nose into the space behind her toes and breathed in deeply. I became filled with her aroma and the sense of her presence. My head span and small pinpricks of light exploded in my vision. This was it! This was my first taste of another woman. My heart was hammering and my hands were trembling, but I held that warm, soft foot against my face and breathed her in for as long as I dared.

  Then I pulled away, breathing heavily, a raging storm gathering in my pussy. I looked up at Professor Cole and caught her eye. She was gazing at me expectantly with a hungry expression that was animalistic and predatory. “Suck my toes,” she commanded matter-of-factly, and I nodded without hesitation.

  I leaned in again and wrapped my lips around her writhing digits. As her foot filled my mouth, I let out a muffled moan as the taste of her overwhelmed my senses. It was vital and alive, the essence of womanhood. It drove me forwards and kickstarted my instincts, sweeping away any nervous fear that had gripped me before. I began to suck greedily on her toes, taking in each one in tur
n, soaking her pantyhose with my saliva. Professor Cole’s eyes rolled back in her head and she moaned out loud. I felt her other foot paw at my body, finding its way up my thigh under my loose skirt.

  I shifted my head, visiting the underside of her foot, planting hot kisses along the length of her sole. I reached her heel and lapped at it, wrapping my lips around it, then nibbled my way back along her arch. My entire universe collapsed to this single sordid scene; her foot, my mouth - a perfect couplet of interlocking parts. Her foot was drenched now, soaked by my attention. I dropped it down to my lap and grabbed the other, repeating the same sensual ritual of worship and adoration.

  As I was sucking hard on her big toe, I glanced up at Professor Cole. Our eyes locked and an unspoken, womanly communication passed between us. I knew in an instant what she wanted me to do, where she wanted me to go. Suddenly, all those years of thought experiments and hypothetical scenarios performed in the mental laboratory of a theoretical lesbian paid off.

  I lifted her leg and traced my lips over her ankle, nipping at the taut flesh of her calf. She yelped and moaned, sighing loudly. Then she lifted her hips and wiggled her tight skirt up her thighs until it gathered around her waist. I gazed along the length of her slender leg, following the nylon path to my final destination. I gasped as I found my prey - Professor Cole wasn’t wearing any panties! Had she planned this all along? I wondered to myself as I kissed the back of her leg, resting her leg on my shoulder and lifting up onto my knees, ready for my final approach.

  She seemed to sense my question and nodded with a wicked grin. Then she reached her hand between her legs and playfully stroked her pussy through the thin material of her pantyhose. The hosiery was rich and expensive, with no visible gusset. It pressed the complex folds of her pretty labia down, freezing the flesh in place in a stunning tableau of desire. Suddenly, without warning, Professor Cole gripped the delicate material in her fingers and ripped, tearing open a large hole centered on her pussy. I sighed in delight and shock.