Class Project

Susan was a student in my Psychology of Learning class. She was an excellent student, never absent and always full of questions and curiosity. Susan was also an athlete, captain of the field hockey team. On game days, she would sit in the front row of class in her plaid skirt with her travel bag and her hockey sticks next to her seat. I confess that her strong tan legs under her skirt were sometimes a distraction. Even worse were the days she wore one of her mini skirts to class. Year after year the year the skirts just keep getting shorter. It is both a blessing and a curse. A front row full of young legs is surely a treat but I have more than once lost my place in a lecture as a result of an uncontrollable urge to peek at sleek thighs.

Susan had taken a course with me the previous semester, so we knew each other and were friendly. She would drop by my office and chat on occasion. We had what could be called a cordial relationship. I began to notice subtle changes in Susan during this semester, changes that puzzled me. She began to dress a bit more provocatively, not in a garish way, but noticeable. I'm pretty sure she came to class with no bra on a couple of occasions and her skirts were as short as I had seen them. I really didn't think all that much about it until a Wednesday about midway through the semester.

On that day, I had given the class a child behavior problem to analyze using the conditioning principles we had learned in class. I told them that they would not be graded on the first draft but that it would serve as measure of how well they were able to apply principles of learning. Susan was wearing a pleated skirt and white blouse. I sat at the desk in front of the room reading while they worked. Once when I looked up to see if anyone was finished, I noticed that Susan's skirt was lifted off of her thighs. She was working away and I was sure that the skirt has just inadvertently caught on one of the hinges of the desk. Just for a moment I was riveted to the sight of very pale yellow panties. I know that I looked for just the briefest moment, but when I raised my head I found myself looking into the warm pools of Susan's eyes. I flushed and went back to my reading, but not before seeing what I thought was a small smile creep into the corners of Susan's mouth.

I was feeling a little bit embarrassed the next day, embarrassed that the thought of those yellow panties had followed me throughout the previous day and had filled my morning as I shaved and showered. My soapy fingers had stroked my cock so slowly as my mind raced with images of warm thighs and delicate soft panties. The next class period was a straightforward lecture on the procedures used by Pavlov in his classic experiments. When Susan arrived for class, I was relieved that she was dressed "down" in running shorts, a t-shirt and cross trainers. As I finished diagramming the basic Pavlov experiment on the board and turned to allow the students to copy the diagram, my heart jumped to my throat. Susan had her left foot propped on the side railing of her chair and her left arm was resting on her knee. She wore no panties.

The looseness of the shorts allowed a clear glimpse of a fringe of soft brown curls between her legs. Being no longer a teenager, I was both surprised and horrified to feel myself grow inside my slacks. I turned to the board and began to explain the diagrams, engulfing myself in the discussion until my erection subsided. Blessedly, nothing happened again for 6 weeks and I was feeling relieved and, honestly, a little disappointed. Three weeks before the end of the semester, Susan was again wearing her running shorts, odd, as it was chilly outside. They knew they were to have another writing assignment in class and I was happy to not have to lecture. I sat at my desk at the front of the room grading papers and helping students individually. As a student left my desk, I looked at the room and there was Susan with her leg propped up and, again, wearing no panties. Susan and the other students were working, heads down, so I lingered on the sight of the smooth firm thigh leading to a hint of soft hair. As I looked, a small hand entered my view and quickly tugged the shorts to one side. My heart pounded and my breath stopped as moist folds of flesh came into view. This was the architecture of desire; delicate lips that parted slightly, framed by neatly trimmed fur. It was an achingly beautiful picture, the proof of which was the slow ooze of fluid that flowed from my cock, telling me (as if I needed proof) that I was aroused almost to the point of cuming in my pants if I didn't distract myself.

The semester was coming to a close and I was both happy and sad that I would see Susan no more, be tormented no more, be so excited no more. The day the final projects were due, Susan left her paper in my mailbox with a note saying she had to miss class to go to the conference semifinal game. I took the papers home and began grading that night. When I came to Susan's paper, its cover was technically perfect and the title was intriguing. "Conditioning of the Orienting Response Without Awareness." As I read the paper, my face colored and breath caught in my throat. I was her subject! She had conditioned me to orient to her in class by periodic reinforcement with a "visual cue." She had graphs of the number of times I had looked at her and even a classic control in which the stimulus had been withheld for a period. My behavior was as predictable as that of a rat or pigeon. She stopped exposing herself, I had briefly looked more often and then had slowly declined in my rate of orienting. I felt humiliated and foolish. Her conclusion was reassuring in its description of my behavior as uncontrollable and not indicative of any cognitive decision processes or volitional control. It was primitive and natural, accomplished, after all, without my awareness.

The next day, feeling sober, I sat in my office recording my grades when Susan appeared at my door. I am sure I flushed but she seemed not to notice as she breezed in, wearing her field hockey uniform. She closed the door and sat in the overstuffed chair across from me.

"Hi Susan," I said. "Congratulations on winning the semifinal. I am going to come to see the finals as soon as I record these grades."

She smiled brightly, saying "I hoped you were coming but I wasn't sure you would if you read my paper first."

"Well Susan, I was shocked and a bit embarrassed, but it was a wonderful paper and more than a little clever and inventive." I do apologize if, as your subject, I made a fool of myself. I want you to know that I think very highly of you, both as a student and a person."

Susan took another paper from her backpack and laid it on my desk. "I wrote an addendum to my paper, for the sake of completeness and honesty. It's not really formal or scientific but it represents my insight about the role of experimenter and subject in such experiments. I have to go pick up an assignment from another professor. I will drop by before the game and see what at you think."

"OK, Susan, I will be happy to read it."

She left and I turned to her words. True, they were common and straightforward, but they possessed an insight that was mature. Above and beyond that, they were brutally honest, honest with herself. From my memory they were

"Reinforcement is a two-way street. My manipulation had no sooner begun to have the predicted effect on the target response than it became clear that the target response was having an effect on me. My own carefully planned periodic reinforcements began their own increase in rate. The more you looked, the more I showed and the more I wanted to show. My plans changed in very unscientific ways, ways that may have jeopardized the experiment. It was not a game, just a spiral of reciprocal reward. Your glances began to lose the objective quantifiable quality of simple data. They began to become goals in and of themselves, my goals. My very highly prized goals. And not goals in proof of my power, but goals of shared enjoyment. The last day was my biggest fall from scientific grace. The experiment was over, yet I gave one last reinforcement. It started as the standard propped up knee and a glimpse of flesh. The reason why my hand moved my shorts to the side should be impossible to state if the title phrase "without awareness" has any validity. It has none.

And the reason was vividly clear. Speaking it is not easy, but I will, for two reasons. The first is fairness and honesty. I have never wanted so badly in my life to expose myself to someone. In that moment it was about nothing except a profound longing to do what a lifetime had taught me not to do, to open my legs eagerly for someone's eyes. I wanted you to see all of me. Through hooded eyes, I saw you look and it was electric. When another student's question took your attention away from me, I wanted to scream, NO! I wanted you to see the swollen lips and watch me part them for you. I wanted you to see the hot pink folds, glistening with wet juices that your gaze produced. The juices that you made and juices that were designed by nature to facilitate the entrance of thick hot flesh into my core. This is not easy to say. It is not proper so I am told. How do you say "Good morning professor; how are you?" and then choose a punctuation mark to set off what is to follow. "Good morning professor; how are you, and, by the way, I am dying to show you my hot little pussy and know that you are growing hard behind your desk.

The first reason I wrote this was to serve fairness. The second reason was to serve me. To be complete and completed, I want you know and understand as badly as I wanted you to see and savor. Seeing is the surface, knowing is the soul, and as badly as I wanted you to look that last day, I want you to read these words now. When I return to your office, I want to raise my skirt for you one last time. I want to slide my panties to the side and I want you to look and I want to look at you while you look. Then I will free you and take your hardness inside me and be filled. I will glide on you and encourage you and implore you, begging you to love me slowly and softly and to fuck me urgently. Partly it will be about affection and tenderness and partly it will be about my wanting your hard hot meat in my wet swollen hole. When we are spent, I will go play my game. And as I run, I will delight in feeling your juices ooze from my slit and run down my legs. And after the game, I will invite you to drink the remaining juices from me and share them with my eager mouth."

I put the paper down and breathed heavily, and waited.