The Panty Professor

("The Panty Professor" is yet another true episode in the sexual story of my life. I am purging my soul. Telling of my past "sins" is part of my repentance.)

In my freshman and sophomore years of college I never made the Dean's List. By the end of my junior year my sorority sisters and I had making the Dean's List down to a science.

It's amazing how sitting in the front row, wearing a short skirt and little white cotton panties can get you the attention of the professor without even raising your hand. Proper procedures for crossing and uncrossing your legs is also very important.

Once my sisters and I got the attention we desired, we put the next part of the plan into action. We found out where the professors hung out and we hung out with them.

About ten miles from campus an old train station had been converted into a bar and restaurant. Awesome place, huge, very high ceilings so the smoke didn't bother you much, picnic tables where no one seemed to mind if you carved your initials. The graffiti on the tables provided considerable entertainment.

Quite frankly, we stalked the professors. The sisters all had proper fake I.D., especially those not yet of legal drinking age. We sent spies in to find out where the profs sat, and we, of course, got there earlier the next time and camped out at the next table.

The professors recognized some of us, surprisingly, because it seemed that in class they looked more at our legs than our faces. This led to us joining them at their table for friendly chatter over the first several weeks. Friday nights became something to which everyone looked forward.

It became perfectly clear from the start that our law professor had an incredible panty fetish. Beats dirty socks I guess. I won’t say his real name, but we nicknamed him Slut Boy, which he thought was real cute. The other professors all had their own special area of sexual peculiarity. Dang, my feet are ticklish.

The real fun started when someone resurrected an article that Helen Gurley wrote for “THE WALL STREET JOURNAL” quite a few years back. The article was about a game called Scanty that she and the other employees of the office where she worked played. Of course, this was before sexual harassment became a vendetta.

The objective of Scanty was for the guys to chase the girls down the book aisles, catch them, and remove their panties. That’s it, game over.

The professors got the bright idea we should all play Scanty. The girls were all for it, very enthusiastic. Like who couldn’t see our GPA’s rising along with a few other things?

“One thing first,” Slut Boy insisted, “you girls have to sign a little agreement before we play.” That’s a lawyer for you. The dudes wanted to cover their ass but yet uncover ours. The Pre-Sexual Scanty Agreement looked like your typical official legal document and went like this …

“I, the undersigned, hereby voluntarily agree to play Scanty at my own risk. In no event, will I initiate or participate in any sexual harassment or similar action against any of the participants. Furthermore, in consideration of the fact that matters might get out of control, I agree to:

… Take my birth control pills and insist on using a condom.

… Not get pregnant, but if I do, arrange for an abortion or waive all rights to child support.

… Pledge not to disclose any details of this agreement or activities related to its implementation to wives or significant others.

… Waive all rights to my panties if they are removed according to the rules of the game. … Promise not to fake orgasm.”

(blah, blah and blah went on the fine print)

We played Scanty at the university library after hours. Most of the professors had keys.

Slut Boy drew names out of a hat to see who chased who.

My name was on the first slip of paper Slut Boy picked out of the hat and I became very exited. “What are you wearing?” he asked.

“Can’t you see what I’m wearing?” I blurted.

“No, no, I mean underneath. Your panties.”

“A black leather thong.

Slut Boy crumpled up the piece of paper with my name on it, tossed it back in the hat and selected another one. He drew Suzanne’s name.

“Suzanne,” Slut Boy inquired, “same question, what are you wearing?”

“A string bikini,” Suzanne replied seductively.

“What color is it?” Slut Boy demanded.

“Uh, it’s ‘serpent orchard’ I believe.”

Slut Boy crumpled up the piece of paper with Suzanne’s name on it, tossed it back in the hat and selected another one. He drew Angela’s name.

“Angela,” Slut Boy inquired, “same question, what are you wearing?”

“A high-cut rio brief,” Angela cooed.

“Is it 100% cotton?”

“Yes, it surely is.”

“What color is it?”

“I think the color is called ‘heather mushroom. Want to see?”

“No thank you.” Slut Boy crumpled up the paper with Angela’s name and put it back in the hat and selected another one. This time he got Lisa’s name.

“Lisa, same question, what are you wearing?”

“A white 100% cotton high-cut brief,” Lisa stated matter-of-factly.

Slut Boy stuck the slip of paper with Lisa’s name in his shirt pocket. “Bob, you pick next,” he instructed.

My name got picked again, this time by Bob. Me bad and embarrassed when I blurted, “Oh shit!” that he got my name. He’s a real sweet but wimply dude and reminds me of a toad. Him and all his friends couldn’t have gotten my panties off unless I let them.

The black leather thong I wore said a size small although I should wear a medium. Very snug and extremely difficult to get on and off without a certain amount of wiggling and tugging. I might add that since I tend to sweat and secrete other juices while being chased down and de-pantied, the thong exuded a substantial aroma. Also, it’s not like you can do the washer/dryer thing on leather.

First, Bob couldn’t catch me so I had to like slow down. Then when he finally grabbed me he couldn’t wrestle me down. “Geez mawn, what, do I have to help you rape me?” I muttered under my breath.

I let Bob get me down and on my back and he lifted my skirt up. He started tugging on my tight thong but didn’t make much progress. OK, so I helped him a little and he got so embarrassed and flustered it was kinda cute.

“Here, let me help you,” I offered as I took his hand and put it inside the thong right on my snatch. Bob like jumped and everybody roared when I said, “It don’t bite, honey.”

When Bob finally got my thong off he whooped it up like he just scored a touchdown. I think he did that mostly for the benefit of the camera. We taped all the episodes.

The funniest part of all this became watching the other participants. Lisa obviously had played hard to get before. She screamed, “No, no, no!” as Slut Boy struggled with removing her white 100% cotton high-cut brief. But when he got them off, she stared incredulously and barked, “Is that all you want?”

“Lisa, remember the rules of the game,” we had to remind her.

Our professors kept the tape and wouldn’t let us see it. They said we’d have a party at the end of the current semester. Only then would they let us watch it and then the evidence would be destroyed.

The day after the Scanty escapade, panties discretely hung in each professor’s office. Signs under the panties had different kinds of fish with witty little sayings, like “SALMON … pinky and stinky” and “BARRACUDA … my bite is worse than my bark.” I got so pissed at the “TUNA” sign under my panties and what it said I ripped the damn thing down.

The girls didn’t get mad, just even. We got wind the professors planned a poker party the weekend before the semester ended and everyone went home. We found out where and managed to hide before they got there.

It didn’t look like poker the professors were playing and the dudes looked very silly wearing our panties. They watched the Scanty tape and carried on like crazy, imitating us.

Finally, we couldn’t take any more and we all jumped up and screamed “Scanty!” and chased them down and ripped off their panties. I mean, our panties.

At this point all of the sorority sisters are staring at hard-ons; no ED (erectile difficulties) here. These professors had become our friends but we really didn’t want to have sex with them. But they all had like this begging dog look on their faces.

I winked at the girls and said, “We can’t do anything that is not politically correct. Our President himself said it is not sex.”

Lisa, as usual, looked a little confused. It did, however, become obvious that she understood the no sex when she asked, “Can I spit or do I have to swallow?”

We let the professors keep our panties. They wrapped them up and gave them to their wives and girlfriends as gifts. We still get notes that whenever their lovers wear them they have the most incredible sex. Each note always ends with, “Best job I ever had, LOL!”

I might add that none of us girls ever had to study after we played Scanty, and we made the Dean’s List with room to spare. We also managed to copy the tape unbeknown to the professors before they destroyed the original.

My sisters and I now market a product, called “Scanties” naturally. You get a copy of the tape and a dozen pair of well used panties for $99.95. A notarized statement is enclosed attesting to the fact that the panties were acquired by chasing us down and ripping them off.

One dude alone, Slut Boy, has purchased over one hundred sets. He now runs an international law firm, specializing in saving the world. Rumor has it he requires his lawyers to wear the panties over their heads, with the crotch right under their nose, to stimulate “make love not war” thinking. He did, however, have to issue a “No masturbating while lawyering” edict, because, as he whined, “No fucking work is getting done.”

To order yours today, dial 1-900-SCA-NTIES and hold until the busy signal stops.