The Headmaster's Office 07: Sundara

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An upskirt shoe store fantasy ... with toys and sex ... duh!
16.2k words
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120.9k
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Part 7 of the 7 part series

Updated 10/14/2022
Created 07/01/2014
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blin18
blin18
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Author's Note

All characters appearing in this work are over the age of 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Sundara

by Belinda LaPage

Preface

Sundara is a continuation of The Headmaster's Office series of stories. It can be read either independently or as part of the series.

~~~

Foreword

Hello readers, this is Rupali. I know what you're thinking: if Rupali is writing the foreword for one of Belinda's "Headmaster" stories then her secret mystery man is no longer a mystery. It's true; I know his identity. I feel a bit late to the party because her readers knew so long ago but ... well I'm one of you now; no more secrets.

The story that follows is -- Belinda tells me -- the second of three on my discovery of her secret. I read the first one: 'Twisting on the ...' -- I can't say the rest, it feels like bad luck. I can vouch for the first part before she left the dorm, but as for the rest ... frankly I think she made some of it up.

Belinda also let me read the other stories. I didn't like the ones with me in them; it was weird reading an 'I' and 'we' story (ED: We call that First Person Narrative, Roops. BL) where I was getting all of the attention. It's like having sex with yourself, but not in a good way. To make it up to me, Belinda promised to write me a story where I was the 'I' and she was the 'she' (ED: A Ghost Written First Person Narrative. BL). "And it will be super hot!" she assures me. We'll see.

This is that story. I haven't read it yet, but Belinda has been asking me some very personal questions about the day we went shoe shopping, so I guess I know what it's about. I hope you enjoy it. Please don't make up too much stuff, Belinda.

I love you. R. (ED: Love you too, sweetie. BL)

~~~

Sundara

"Do they do autopsies on heart attack victims?" I asked Belinda.

"Depends," she said. "Maybe if they're young. Why?"

"Because I don't want my parents to read 'Evidence of sexual arousal' in the Other Comments section of my post-mortem," I replied miserably. In truth, I was feeling anything but miserable; I was only half kidding about the heart attack because my heart really was pounding like a marching band on meth, but I was also excited, apprehensive and so, so horny.

"Oh, you poor princess," Belinda teased. "Have you lost your crown?"

"Don't be snotty, sweetie," I told her. "It doesn't suit you. And mind the wind; I think you just flashed your bottom."

That took away some of her sass. She looked around and checked for people behind us -- there weren't any, I had already checked three times -- and then smoothed her summer school dress and held the hem casually with one hand.

"What was wrong with the last two stores, anyway," I asked. We were shoe shopping ... well that's what Belinda said we were doing, but we had walked in and straight out of two shops already. What we were actually doing was fulfilling a fantasy for her, but if I got a nice pair of heels out of it then ... hey, win-win is still a win, right? OK, that's a lie; it was a fantasy for us both, so win-win-win if I get the heels.

"Um, the creepy old pervs, for one," she said, "who were undressing you with their eyes the moment you walked in. Don't you want to flash a hot young guy, Rupali."

"I don't recall saying anything about wanting to flash anyone!" I lied, because playing up the reluctance seemed to fit with the fantasy. "You make a valid point about creepy old guys, but I'm sick of walking, so promise me you won't make any excuses when we find a shop with a young hottie."

"Promise," she smiled. That was a pretty quick agreement; I got my first inkling that I was being set up.

There was another shoe shop up ahead and I looked in as we passed the window. Empty: good. Half past three on a Wednesday afternoon in early spring is a good time for shoppers and a bad time for shop-keepers; even the streets were pretty empty of pedestrians. We stepped in the door and looked around for the shop assistant ... oh, fuck it!

"Let's go," I said. "There's another one down the street."

"Hang on," Belinda whispered. "He's pretty young and handsome."

"He's pretty young and Indian!" I hissed.

"You're being racist," she said.

"I'm Indian!" I glared at her. "I can't be racist to another Indian."

"You told me you were Australian," Belinda smiled. "Besides, what's wrong with Indian? Hot is hot in any package."

"He'll judge me," I explained in a whisper. "Indian boys think all white girls are sluts and all Indian girls are chaste virgins. If you flash him he'll smile and enjoy it; if I flash him he'll think I just crawled out of the gutter from fucking a wino."

"You're being melodramatic," Belinda rolled her eyes at me. "Besides, he could be Pakistani."

"Right! A Muslim with a little statue of Ganesha on his desk?" I asked, tapping one foot and giving her my best 'Oh, really?' look.

"Hey, don't get your panties in a tangle!" she teased me.

"I'm not wearing any!" I hissed. "And it's your fault!"

"Well me neither, but I'm being a bit more grown up about it," she shot back. "Look," she said, suddenly getting all serious and trying on her commanding act; but at 4'11" and three-quarters, blonde elfin features and wearing a green and white striped summer school dress, Belinda looks about as commanding as a Brownie ... although I concede she does look a lot hotter.

"This is how it is," she delivered the ultimatum, "he's hot and you promised. Is any of that untrue?"

"You set me up, didn't you?" I said. "Have you been here before?"

"That's hardly the point," she defended. "Am I, or am I not, the Queen of Hot?"

I sighed. "You are the Queen of Hot, Belinda. And I am but your humble servant girl." This was a familiar game.

"If I say it's going to be hot, is it ever not?"

She had a point. She comes up with sexy games on an almost daily basis -- the girl's got imagination -- and she never strikes out. Ever! "If you say it's going to be hot, it's going to be hot." Sigh.

"This is going to be hot, Rupali." She looked up at me with blonde eyebrows raised. At 6'1", I'm more than a foot taller than her; why do I let her push me around? I could pick her up under one arm and walk her out of the store myself.

"OK. Let's go." God, was my heart hammering before? Now it was about to leap out of my throat. The shop assistant -- pardon me; the hot, Indian shop assistant -- started towards us with a big smile. He looked to be our age or a few years older and he was also about my height -- nice and tall -- narrow across the shoulders and chest, but with slim hips he still had a very manly shape. His thick, wavy black hair was trimmed to a neat length and his long face was made handsome by prominent cheek bones and a strong jaw. His skin was a lovely coffee and cream brown like mine, so his family was probably from the North, or he might be carrying some British colonial blood -- and still my beating heart -- he was clean shaven. Why so many Indian men want to go around with a moustache looking like a criminal -- or worse, a pervert -- is beyond me.

"Hello. Namaste," he said, "Welcome to Sundara. My name is Rajit." He pointed to his name tag. "How can I be of assistance?"

Oh God. How did I get myself into this?

~~~

It's possible Belinda had been planning this for some time -- she loves the long game -- but the first I knew of this fantasy adventure was the night before when we were in bed together playing Hot Five.

We are both in Year 12 at an exclusive private school in Sydney -- what Americans would call Senior Year at High School. We live in the senior girls' boarding house; I am new this year and Belinda has been a boarder for years, so we were a natural pairing for roommates as far as the Boarding House Mistress was concerned. Clearly she overlooked the whole tall vs. tiny, brown vs. pale, brunette vs. blonde, sporty vs. bookish situation, but perhaps she knew something we didn't because within the first month of school we became lovers and best friends. We'll never share clothes or shoes or make-up, but we share our emotions, our dreams, a love of sexy games -- and on one incredible occasion we shared Belinda's mystery boyfriend, although I was blindfolded and still do not know his identity. At least I didn't at the time; but the day of the shoe shopping fantasy was the day I found out.

Hot Five is another of Belinda's inventions. One person thinks of a topic ... OK, Belinda thinks of a topic and then together we agree on the five hottest examples of that topic. Without fail it gets us so aroused that we have to quit the game to make love, which is true of all Belinda's games and one of the things that makes her so special.

We were spooning in the dark in my bed, Belinda's tiny form folded into mine like a Russian doll; my left arm under her neck and my right hand cupping her breast through the sheer satin of her nightie. This is how we usually sleep until she gets too hot -- literally, not figuratively -- and sneaks back to her own cold bed.

"Hot Five things you do with your clothes on," she began.

"Oooh, good one," I said. "I know Number One already."

"You just go ahead and think that, sweetie. But remember who's the Queen of Hot."

"Of course Your Majesty," I said deferentially, giving her breast a little squeeze. "But it was your royal personage who was the number one hottest thing with your clothes on at the beginning of the year. Do you remember No Panties Tuesday?"

I was smiling with the recollection. Trish had dared Belinda to go sans panties all day at school in a game of Truth or Dare, but Belinda had grown out of her school dress over Christmas and it barely covered her pussy. She spent the whole day sitting with her laptop bag on her knees and ended up getting a yellow card to visit the Headmistress.

"Remember it? It's burned into my psyche, from embarrassment though, not hotness!"

"Oh, it was hot all right," I laughed. "You were so nervous and red faced; you just drew more attention to yourself. Every time you twisted in your seat to see who was watching, that tiny dress would ride up. I saw your pussy three times."

"Oh, you dirty perv!" she cried, elbowing me gently in the stomach, the poorly veiled glee in her voice betraying her words. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"We were just roommates then," I said. "And afterwards it never came up. I still think about it when you're not around though."

"OK then," she said. "In that case, Number Two is you playing netball without your shorts."

From the sound of her voice, I could tell she was smiling in the dark; pleased to turn the tables on me. I was selected for the school's First Seven netball team at the start of the year and didn't realise that there was an unlisted item of uniform. The official uniform is a pleated netball skirt worn over the school gymnastics leotard with a netball bib. The leotard is very high cut and -- for gymnasts at least -- is designed to be worn with opaque tights so that it is athletic rather than sexy. What I didn't know is that all of the girls buy black athletic shorts to wear under their skirts so they don't have to shave their bikini line before each game.

"Fair enough," I smiled. "I think the boys appreciated it more than you, though. I've never seen the front row of the bleachers so full!" If I'm truthful, I kind of enjoyed the attention and did a bit more jumping and pivoting to make the skirt flare out than was probably necessary.

"I've got my Number Three," she said. "But you won't like it."

"I thought that you were the Queen of Hot," I teased. "Do you think something's hot that's not?"

I expected some sassy response like I wasn't refined enough to know it was hot, but she didn't.

"Writing," she whispered. It sounded like she was a bit ashamed, which is strange because she's never backwards about sharing sexy thoughts with me.

"What? Like Christmas Cards?" I asked, trying to lighten the nervousness I heard in her voice.

"No. Erotica," she replied. I gave her a moment but she didn't continue.

"So like pornos for blind people," I asked, trying not to giggle.

"You're not taking me seriously," she pouted; I didn't need to see the pout, I could hear it.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," I said. "Do you write pornos?"

"Erotica!" she corrected me. She sounded less annoyed now; I think she worked out that I was teasing her. "You know that bedtime story I told you a few weeks ago?"

"The one about your Physics lab partner Bob?" I said. "That was very sexy. I look at Bob differently now." This is true; I was masturbating while she told it and it made me come. I'm beginning to see why Belinda has a crush on him.

"IT! WAS! NOT! BOB! FROM! PHYSICS!" she snarled, punctuating each word with a poke to my bare thigh. She is so in denial. "Anyway," she continued, "that's erotica. When I wrote that one out, I had to stop every page to cool off. You might have noticed some weeks I'm a bit needy."

"Well, now that you mention it ...," I said softly, stroking her nipple through the satin. Actually I had noticed; but I would have used the word 'horny'. For about a week at a time -- when she's writing, it turns out - she's completely insatiable.

"Erotica is usually just a short, sexy story -- or a collection of them broken into scenes long enough to get you good and hot," she explained, beginning to sound more animated as she hit her stride. "Good erotica is pretty hot; it can get your fires burning and keep them going for an hour or more. When you come after that it's ...," she paused, maybe realising she was favourably comparing sex without me to sex with me. "It's just really nice," she finished weakly.

I let her off the hook. "I know. I read erotica too, sweetie."

"Oh, really?" she seemed surprised. "OK. So think about the hottest erotica you've read."

"OK."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Not telling," I smiled.

"Chicken! Anyway, you know how your favourite erotica gets into your head and pings your secret fantasies?"

"Sure," I agreed.

"Well, writing it yourself is about ten times hotter because you use your own fantasies and have perfect earth-shattering sex every time. As you're writing it and editing it, it's like having super hot sex over and over. It's actually pretty exhausting."

Feeling her nipple harden beneath my fingers as she spoke, I began to wish I could trade some of my sports and science prowess for creative writing.

"Would you write some for me?" I asked.

"We'll see," she teased me back. "You need to build up your favour bank, lassie; especially when you see the toy my mystery man made for you."

My heart skipped a beat. I bought Belinda a strapless strap-on dildo some months ago and I wear it to make love to her. She wanted to return the favour but couldn't find one big enough to ... ahem ... accommodate my tastes. Long story short: her mystery man -- the one who took me blindfolded -- is a very well endowed toy-maker. Belinda called in a favour to get him to make a strapless strap-on modelled on his own cock, but I haven't heard anything about it for ages.

"Oh my God!" I breathed. "Do you have it? Get it now!"

"You need to learn some patience, sweetie," she said. "Not tonight, but soon. I need a special occasion."

"I'm horny," I said. "That's special."

"Not special enough," she said. "What's next? Hot Five, Number Four?"

I sighed inwardly and squeezed my thighs together to quell the fire that had kindled there (it didn't help), but I knew better than to push her. She really is the Queen of Hot and if she says she needs an occasion then it's going to be worth the wait.

"OK, this one is a bit of a cheat," I began, "because you were actually trying to get out of your clothes, not stay in them."

"Oh God, not Spike again!" she cried quietly.

Oh yes, Spike again. We went bikini shopping at the end of last summer and for reasons I don't remember we were wearing one of her mystery man's new inventions: a pair of radio linked vibrating vaginal plugs that we called Ike and Mike; when you switch one on, the other one switches on too providing it is in range. She tried on a skimpy string bikini and -- this still makes me laugh - all four knots got stuck! We got Spike the cute shop assistant (yes, that was his real name) to undo Belinda's bikini and while they were alone in the changing room, I triggered the plugs to buzz her to a secret orgasm while Spike was sitting with his face barely a foot from her pussy trying to undo the last knot.

"Yes, Spike again," I said. "You were so hot in that tiny bikini with Spike trying to undress you without staring at your rack, and then at the end you were trying to hold up the halter he had already undone without flashing him or letting him know you were coming. In fact, I'm promoting that one to Number One because he was a sexy stranger and it was in public."

"Alright," she sighed. "I'm not going to argue with you because I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm not as big of an exhibitionist as you seem to think."

"Your turn then," I said. "Number Five?"

"OK, you might not agree with this one," she said tentatively.

"Try me," I was smiling; despite her reluctant introduction, she does tend to save the best until last.

"It might just be me, but ...," she paused, "shoe shopping. You know when ..."

"Oh. My. God! Yes! Shoe shopping!" I was instantly hot again. Belinda had stumbled upon a little fetish of mine that I hadn't shared with her.

"You didn't let me finish," she complained.

"You don't need to," I said. "Everything about shoe shopping gets me wet. The kneeling, the feeling, parading up and down with the clerk watching your ass instead of the shoes, the straps, the buckles, the laces ... hell, just everything!"

"Are you serious?" she asked. "How did I not know this?"

"It was embarrassing," I admitted. "I wasn't brave enough to tell until you said it."

"It sounds like you like it a lot more than me," she giggled. "The bit I like is when the guy ..."

"The hot guy?" I interrupted.

"Sure, when the hot guy is ..."

"Kneeling in front of you!" I blurted.

"Yeah, kneeling in front of you; and you wonder..."

"Whether he's trying to look up your dress!" I finished for her.

"Um, actually, I was going to say, you wonder whether he's thinking about going down on you," she said. "You're a bit of an exhibitionist, aren't you?"

"Maybe a bit," I admitted. I wanted to share my fantasy with her, but I was still afraid that it was weird. "If I tell you something, promise you won't judge?"

"Promise," she said solemnly.

I took a deep breath; here goes. "I fantasise about a sexy shoe store clerk kneeling in front of me, stealing glances at my bare legs and -- not that I have ever been brave enough to do it -- I open my knees a little so he can see my panties, special ones just for shoe shopping, pale pink with a gauzy gusset so that at first glimpse he thinks he has seen my pussy. Then when I open a bit wider, he realises it was only my panties, but I watch his face and after a few moments he realises that the panties are translucent and he can see my pussy after all." Christ, I was hot! Could Belinda feel my nipples stabbing her through the back of her nightie?

I continued: "He's fumbling with my feet and trying not to get caught looking at my pussy, but he's getting flustered and I can see his erection. He can't adjust himself in front of me and he's trying to bend over more to hide it, but it only brings his face closer to my pussy, and now I'm thinking about him going down on me -- like you were saying. Watching his cock has gotten me even more aroused and I can feel myself getting moist, and I know it will soak through my panties and he will see how wet I am and then ..."

blin18
blin18
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