A Perfect Fall 2020: College Sub

"Thanks, Amy," I said, appreciating her spending her valuable time with me.

"You're welcome, my dear," she smiled.

"And thanks for these," I added, waving the nylon package in my hand.

"I'm looking forward to seeing you wearing them tomorrow," she added.

"So am I," I agreed and then headed home, realizing we hadn't talked about sports at all except for her brief metaphor, where she'd taken a fitness concept I'd thought I was thoroughly familiar with to a new and unexpected level. Until today, sports was all I ever talked about.

...

That night I couldn't wait to try on the nylons and masturbate. Yet I've always been so self-conscious about getting caught, I always waited until I was sure my Mom and Dad were asleep.

I know, I know... I'm 19... they likely knew I masturbated, just like I knew they had sex... sometimes.

Yet I just couldn't take a chance on their hearing me.

It was after 11:00 when I finally put the nylons on. I couldn't believe how different they felt from what I'd worn in the past. So soft. So sheer. I looked in the mirror in just a t-shirt and panties, and admired my silky legs. They kind of felt like these stockings were caressing them.

Amy was definitely right. They did accentuate my legs.

I grabbed my vibrator and went to my bed, still in the nylons but nothing else, and opened my laptop. Usually to get myself off I watched porn on mute or with headphones, or read erotica. Although I wouldn't tell anyone this, when I watched porn or read, I got the most turned on by videos or stories where the girl was taken aggressively, or seduced by a strong man... often a black one. I can't explain it, but black men turn me on. I'm not sure if it's the taboo race thing... I don't think so... but I find black men more confident, and thus sexier. Always have, ever since I was 14 or so.

I pulled up a BBC story, I also liked the idea that black men had bigger cocks than white men, my experience with white boys having been literally anticlimactic, and although there could be many reasons I found them inadequate, their small hair-trigger dicks sure didn't help.

I slowly teased myself with my vibe as I read about a black nerd seducing a white cheerleader. The idea that someone meek and low on the social ladder like a nerd could dominate a popular cheerleader was a real turn on, for reasons I couldn't explain.

As the story progressed, and eventually the nerd slid his enormous schlong inside the cheerleader, who by this time was literally begging for it, I was completely captivated by picturing his big cock, and I slid the vibe inside myself. I imagined I was the cheerleader, and the cock inside me was Mr. Watson's. I just knew he had a big cock. A big black cock, a stereotypical BBC.

I furiously fucked myself and came in just a couple of minutes, imagining Mr. Watson slamming into me and, oddly, his wife watching from a couple feet away and cheering us on!

As I lay in bed in the afterglow of a great orgasm, I wondered what kind of true self Mrs. Wat... sorry, Amy might help me discover. Perhaps she even already knew who or what I was, deep down!

...

I never masturbated in the morning.

Yet today I felt compelled to do what Amy had instructed me to do. I was also curious to see whether stretching my wings a bit would have any noticeable effect on me afterwards. Usually I wanted a nap after I had an orgasm, or to drift off to sleep like I had last night, still wearing those heavenly stockings.

I reached for my headphones, opened my laptop, pulled up some BBC porn where a hot young black man with a shaved head (why are bald black men so hot?) seduces his babysitter. Although Amy didn't have any kids, I imagined myself being the babysitter. I mean a big black cock inside me would be a great employment perk!

I closed my eyes, listening to the man's deep voice instructing the babysitter how to suck his cock, while calling her a little slut. I'd never remotely thought that being called a slut might be a turn-on, and I would likely have ripped the guy's nuts off if anyone had called me that during sex or any other time, yet when I heard a black man call someone that, especially when it was racially infused, it really got me wet. I couldn't explain it and I felt peculiar about it after I came, but it turned me on nevertheless. My having a hot, chiseled black man living right next door only made it hotter.

I listened in fascination to the man's firm words.

I listened in jealousy and awe to the girl's obedient responses.

I rubbed my pussy with increasing urgency.

I came hard, covering my face with the pillow as I screamed my lungs out!

I lay in bed for several minutes... letting the intense orgasm continue to course through me. Finally I got out of bed, showered, and started my day feeling oddly rejuvenated. My morning went very differently in the aftermath of that orgasm. I didn't feel at all like taking a nap, but ready to take on anything.

I took the nylons and put them in my bag, plus an almost-never-worn sun dress, and headed off to the campus. I couldn't wear them at school, that would seem weird. That said, I did notice a few girls on campus wearing nylons, and most of the female professors were also wearing them... something I hadn't noticed before today.

In English Lit I saw Jill, who was in a metallic blue blouse, black skirt, and black nylons. I observed, "You're quite dressed up for Shakespeare."

Jill laughed as she sat down beside me, "Since you saw me going into Amy's the other day, I can tell you it's part of my counselling homework."

"How long have you been seeing Mrs. Watson?" I asked, trying to conceal that I too had been invited to call her Amy.

"A couple of weeks."

"How did you find out about her?"

"She did a guest lecture in my psychology class, and I just had to know more," she answered.

"Oh, cool," I said.

"She has a very unorthodox philosophy," Jill mentioned.

"How so?" I asked curiously, wanting to hear Jill's take on it.

"I really shouldn't say, since everything she says and does is tailored to the needs of the individual patient; I think you'll just need to go see her and find out for yourself," Jill said. "I understand she also does wonders in sports psychology."

"Does she?" I asked, pretending I didn't already know that. For some reason, I wasn't comfortable telling Jill I was now seeing her too. But it didn't escape me that Jill was equally reluctant to tell me anything specific bout her own sessions.

"She once worked with the Olympic women's hockey team," she revealed.

"Wow," I said, as the professor started lecturing about the symbolism in Hamlet.

"Yes, wow indeed," Jill agreed as she crossed her legs, and I couldn't help but see that her black stockings were thigh highs, which with the lace tops made them even sexier.

I barely listened to the lecture as I pondered about Amy. She really was an enigma. I also couldn't explain it, but I could hardly wait to see her again... even though she'd probably kick me out of her house if she learned I was masturbating about her husband.

I had an amazing volleyball practice, my best in a month. I couldn't help but wonder whether my morning diddle had somehow loosened me up.

I didn't change into my dress and thigh highs until after I left college and pulled into a coffee shop to borrow the rest room. I actually ended up being four minutes late, which I hated.

I rang the doorbell and when she answered, I apologized profusely, "Sorry, sorry, SO sorry for being late!"

She just replied mildly, "We really need to help you relax," as she let me in.

"This is me relaxed," I joked.

"Then we really need to help you to relax a lot more," she amended, dressed in a business blazer and skirt and as expected, pantyhose or more likely stockings... tan this time.

"I may be too far gone."

"I haven't lost a patient yet," she joked, as she took my hand and led me into her office. It seemed unorthodox for her to take my hand, but she had already established she was unorthodox, which was confirmed by Jill.

I sat down on the couch, she sat down in the chair straight across from me and she asked, "How do the nylons feel?"

"They're amazingly comfortable."

"Yes they are, but how do they make you feel?" she reworded.

I pondered the question. After a pause I admitted, "Feminine." I paused again before adding, "And sexy."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"I don't understand the question."

Amy smiled, as she reworded the question, "How did wearing the stockings to school make you feel today?"

"Oh," I nodded, realizing what she was actually asking. I felt bad for not wearing them all day, and I admitted, "Actually, I only put them on to come here."

"Okay. Why is that?" she asked.

"I also wore them while I masturbated last night, and I didn't take them off till after I did it again this morning," I added quickly, not wishing to disappoint her.

"There's no judging here, Becky," Amy reassured me. "No right or wrong; it's just about exploration. So you never have to apologize to me about anything, by implication or otherwise."

"Okay, and thank you."

"But I am curious, just to get a better understanding of how you tick, why you chose only to put them on once you were coming here," she probed. "Did you like wearing them last night?"

"Yes, actually," I nodded. "I loved how they felt, and how they made my legs look in the mirror."

"Did you feel sexy in them?"

"Yes."

"Did you feel more confident in them?"

"I never thought of that," I admitted.

"So why didn't you wear them to school?"

"I don't know," I answered.

"Saying you don't know why you make a particular choice is an attempt to hide your true nature from me. Which is perfectly natural, but for our purposes here is counterproductive. I think you do know why, if you're brave enough to look," she said. "And again I'm not judging you, I'm just explaining how you can learn to see yourself better by being as open and non-defensive as possible with yourself and with me."

"I guess..." I explained thoughtfully, "...that I didn't want to draw attention to myself."

"Thank you for sharing that. What kind of attention?"

"Being leered at by boys or judged by girls," I admitted.

"Okay. How so?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's that I'm an athlete. So that's the only way I should be perceived by people."

"But we established yesterday that you're more than that," she said.

"Well," I smiled. "I also masturbate."

She laughed. "Twice, since I saw you last."

"Yes."

"Did you feel any different today?"

"I felt a little more refreshed all day," I admitted. "I also had my best practice in a while."

"So were you less stressed?"

"I didn't think about that," I replied, but after some thought I added, "but yes, I guess I was."

"When you're on the court, you know exactly who you are, correct?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"When you're in class, do you still know who you are?"

"I think so," I said.

"How about the rest of the time?"

I laughed. "What rest of the time? I guess those two scenarios are basically my life."

"Are you okay with that?"

"I thought so," I said. "Now, I'm not so sure."

"We're making some excellent progress here; now tell me why you're not sure," she led me, as she dangled her 4-inch heel from her foot.

"I honestly don't know," I admitted. "I thought I was content with my life, but somehow your questions have me questioning that."

"I'm sorry if I'm causing you any discomfort," Amy smiled slightly. "Although my leading questions are all part of your journey of self-discovery."

"One thing I've discovered... big whoop... is that I'm boring," I said.

"Life is frequently boring and mundane, unless we choose to break free of that cycle," Amy pontificated.

"And how do I do that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Dig deeper into what your subconscious craves, and learn how to satisfy those cravings."

"So I crave things, but I don't even know what they are?"

"Most people, especially women, live in a world where, usually out of fear, they consciously or subconsciously reject or hide from their core personas."

"Core personas? Plural?"

"Yes, we all have more than one," she nodded, but didn't elaborate further.

I wasn't sure what to say.

She asked, surprisingly, "What did you picture last night while you masturbated?"

"Pardon?" I asked, Oh, fuck! even though I'd heard her question all too clearly. It had begun with my just reading a story, but my final climb to orgasm had been all about Amy's own husband fucking the life out of me while she herself watched! She'd have a fit if I told her that, and quite rightly! I lowered my gaze in embarrassment, and noticed her shoe dangling on her foot. I couldn't explain it, but it drew me in.

"Part of the subconscious that many women ignore the most is their fantasies, but in essence, your fantasies are about who you really wish to be," she explained.

"Oh my," I said before I realized I'd said it... even as I felt my cheeks burn hotter.

"Mmmmmmm," she said, her smile widening.

"What?" I asked. Could she see through me? Could she possibly know it was she and her husband I was masturbating about?

"You have a secret fantasy," she assessed correctly.

"Don't we all?" I countered, trying to pretend this was a normal conversation.

"Yes, we do," she agreed. "So since we're on the topic, why don't you tell me about your hot fantasy last night? I can tell that you found it particularly exciting."

"Um, I, well... I..." I struggled even to begin to say it.

"Lesbian?" she asked.

"What? No," I said, always hating people assuming I was a lesbian just because I was an athlete and a girl.

"Sorry," she apologized. "I wasn't stereotyping girl athletes, I just sensed you might be curious about that."

"Why?" I asked, as this... perversion? proclivity? sexual identity?... wasn't anything I'd ever seriously considered.

"Many girls are curious, and even a higher percentage of women your mother's age are," she explained. "At some point, almost every woman wonders what it would be like to kiss another woman, or to be with another woman."

"I've never thought about it," I said, because there was no doubt that Amy was the first woman even to slightly arouse me, or to make me ponder exploring what she was talking about.

"Fair enough," she nodded, writing something down on her pad. "So... what did you fantasize about?"

"Um..." I began, looking back down at her dangling shoe.

"You don't want to tell me," she noticed. "Don't be ashamed. Sexual fantasies are not only natural, but necessary."

"I'm not ashamed exactly," I'm scared shitless! "it's just very awkward."

"Sex is beautiful," Amy said. "And we all have naughty fantasies. I do, and I'm sure your mother does too."

"That I can't imagine," I said, my mother being such a conservative woman.

"Me, or your mother?"

"My Mom."

"Trust me," Amy smiled. "Suburban moms are often the ones with the dirtiest fantasies, and perhaps even hiding the darkest secrets."

"I can't imagine," I repeated.

"No one is ever exactly how they present themselves," Amy stressed.

"I guess that's true."

"Trust me, it is."

"You're the expert."

"Yes, I am," she laughed. "So, I'm guessing your fantasy is a little... or even a lot... taboo. Not vanilla."

"Definitely not vanilla," I admitted, unable to evict a visual in my head at this very moment of her husband, with his chocolate skin pressing deliciously against my vanilla body, making my very real, not fantasy, pussy tingle.

"Ohhhhh, then your fantasies are interracial," she intuited successfully.

"W-w-what, n-n-no," I stammered, which I imagine only confirmed her suspicion.

"It's okay my dear, many, many white women have fantasies of submitting to black men and women," Amy revealed, mentioning both genders, I noticed.

"Submitting to?" I asked, surprised by her including that word.

"Sorry, that was a slip of a tongue," Amy apologized. "But I guess I can be frank."

"This entire conversation hasn't been frank already?" I joked.

"Okay, really frank, then," she smiled.

"Please."

"Many white women are naturally submissive, and if given the opportunity, they'll willingly submit sexually to a black man or woman," she explained, again mentioning both genders.

"I've never thought about that, but I guess the videos I watch and the erotica I read is often about women being submissive," I admitted, telling her way more than I'd ever told anyone.

"To black men and women?"

"Black men," I admitted.

"Why do you choose those videos and stories to get yourself off with?"

I don't know," I said.

"Is it about race? Or about the black penis myth?"

"Is it a myth?"

"Not from my experience," Amy smiled, as guilt consumed me that my hidden nasty fantasy was about her very own husband.

"Thank God!"

"Let me guess, you've never come from having sex with a man. Any man."

"No. Although I haven't tried very often."

"And you've never been with a woman, correct?"

"Correct. Never even thought about it until you brought it up just now."

"So the idea of a black man being able to give you the orgasm you desire should be, logically, a compelling fantasy for you," she explained.

"I imagined I was fucking your husband!" I blurted out, my guilt finally overwhelming me.

"Derek would be very flattered to know," Amy said, her response not remotely what I'd feared it would be.

"I'm so sorry."

"For what? My husband is a hot man," Amy shrugged. "You're not the first woman to crush on him."

"I'm so embarrassed," I said, smothering my face in my hands.

A moment later Amy was sitting beside me, placing her hand on my leg and saying, "Becky, I don't want you ever to be ashamed of your fantasies, whatever they are. They're not only natural, but healthy."

"They are?"

"Of course," Amy said, "I'd be lying if I said I'd never fantasized about The Rock."

I laughed, "Every woman does."

"And most men," Amy added playfully.

"So you're not angry with me?" I asked, still a bit fearful, looking up at her.

"No, my dear," Amy said, rubbing my back with one hand while her other rested on my leg. "Like I said, he'd be flattered to know, and that makes me happy."

"He is pretty hot," I smiled.

"And he'd welcome your fantasy, if you know what I mean," she said, giving my leg a suggestive squeeze before standing up.

"Oh my," I gasped.

"Yeah, absolutely oh my," she agreed. "I'd love to dig deeper with you today, but I have a 4 o'clock."

"Oh wow, the time really flew by," I said.

"These sessions often do," she said. "So, you have some more homework to do."

"I liked yesterday's homework," I smiled.

"Well, I expect you to do the same thing at least every night and morning from now on," she said.

"I think I can manage that," I said.

"And I want you wearing the nylons and a skirt or dress from now on," she added. "At all times, unless there's a practical reason they'd be unsuitable, like on a volleyball court."

"Okay," I agreed tentatively.

"If you hate it in a week, you can stop," she said. "But I doubt you'll hate it."

"I'll try," I said.

"And I'm busy tomorrow," she said, "but I'd love to see you Saturday afternoon."

"I have a tournament then," I said, but really wanting to continue these sessions, I added, "but I'm free all day Sunday."

"2 o'clock then?"

"Perfect," I smiled. "Then I can still sleep in."