Being Thorough Pt. 02

Being Very Thorough (Thorough Chapter 2)

I looked down at my phone, pretending to swipe and type every now and again -- you know, like any other normal student in this rather unspectacular lecture on political sociology -- but really, the device was showing nothing but a small digital clock in the upper left corner and my own reflection.

My mirror image in the glossy black plastic looked... nervous. Did I look nervous? Or scared? Antsy? Embarrassed? Horny?

All of the above?

3:55p.m, the clock said. The lecture was about to be over, and I would head over to the library like everybody else.

Except literally nobody else was wanting to head over to the library (and simultaneously wanting to head over to any place on Earth but the library) quite as urgently as I did, I'd wager.

First, however, I would head over to a restroom and take off my panties because the Campus Security guy with the blue eyes who had fingered me to an orgasm yesterday had told me to.

No matter how many times I went over this relatively simple scenario of cause to effect, action and reaction, it never made more sense to me. I was an average wallflower nerd at best, with all the sex appeal of a well-maintained rolodex and just as much sexual experience. How the hell could this be happening to me?

More to the point, how the hell could this be happening in me? How could it reduce me to... this?

'This', in this case, being the nervous, scared, antsy, embarrassed, horny tension that had my heart going in a trot instead of a normal walk all damn day. The tension that had kept my pussy drenched from the moment I had got out of bed (or maybe even earlier than that).

I was Isobel Wilkinson, the borderline autistic quiet ironically asocial sociology student with the 4.0 GPA. I was sensible, rational, and -- if yesterday's... event was any indication -- a little too susceptible to authority figures.

People like me didn't take their panties off to meet a nameless guy who had told them to (so he could... do... what? Exactly?).

People like me also didn't fantasize about not having put on panties at all in the first place this morning.

They didn't imagine what would happen if the professor were to catch a glimpse of what was -- or wasn't -- going on under their skirts.

They didn't spend the entire lecture mentally cataloguing the best moments in which they, hypothetically, could have widened their knees just a bit -

The bell pulled me from my contemplations, and set my pulse off like a starting pistol. With curiously steady hands, I packed my books, folders and pencil case into my backpack and made my way out of the study hall and into the next restroom.

Four girls were waiting in the line outside, and two were in the stalls to my right and to my left, all of them chatting loudly with one another, as I methodically hung my backpack from the door handle, put down the toilet seat (precautionary measure), laid some toilet paper out on the floor, then stepped out of my shoes and onto the paper, rolled my silky semi-transparent dark gray panty hose off my legs and feet and carefully draped them over my backpack, before I finally pushed down my panties.

A translucent string of wetness clung to the gusset and smeared against the inside of my right thigh, painting a moist line halfway down to my knee.

The girls around me laughed as if they could see me standing there in my stall, naked from the waist down and wet between my legs. This is a college restroom, not the gynecologist, honey! Did you mix Adderall and Concerta again?

All at once I was convinced that he wouldn't be there today, and that I was an idiot. Worse, an idiot with a wet thigh and moist panties wrapped in toilet paper stuffed into a clean plastic bag she had carried around with her for this very purpose all day.

Huffing, I put my panty hose on again, cursing as the edge of a fingernail caught the material and put a small tear in it at the right knee, and cringed at the strange feeling of silky nylon and stitched seams against my otherwise bare private parts.

I stepped back into my boots and re-laced them meticulously, straightened my skirt and finally flushed the excess toilet paper down the toilet.

And then I went to the library.

To study.

That was all people like me did there, after all.

***

The girl's line went even slower than yesterday, or was that just me? I looked over to the boys. Three quarters of a minute, tops, and one of them was up. Girls were called in after two, three minutes at most.

I knew because I had been counting the last half hour, getting in line -- on the girl side, the proper side -- and then leaving on a pretense only to queue up again no less than four times over.

It was windier today, too, I thought. Certain body parts of me were suddenly very susceptible to every breeze and breath, even though I stood with my legs crossed.

My phone buzzed at me. My self-allocated study time for tomorrow's first lecture (social psychology) was coming to a close already. I needed to keep up with my own schedule to stay on top of my workload, but instead I was standing around outside the library like a moron. Steeling myself, I got into the line and resolved to stay there.

The girl's line. With the woman in the cubicle who wouldn't notice that I wasn't wearing panties.

Or would she?

My brain flashed to a very short experimental phase I'd had a year ago that involved artsy movies about lesbians, but I shook the thought away easily. No, no. This was real life where security personnel didn't consist of oversexed demigods but of normal people who really didn't want to touch you at all, even with gloves. Time to wake up, Isobel.

We -- the five girls ahead of me in the queue and the two behind me -- stood there for a good ten minutes. Everyone was absorbed by their phones, but we all got a little restless when the plastic screen didn't open again for another five. Eventually, the first student in our line -- natural leading personality, I thought -- went and called out a question.

In reply, the screen on the right side opened and a young man with piercing blue eyes and a rich basso voice stepped out.

"My colleague had to take a break. She'll be back soon, but if you need to get studying urgently enough that you don't care about protocol, you're welcome to step over into this queue."

And then he was gone and I stood there as if my feet had been nailed to the floor and watched as all seven girls quickly got in line behind the guys.

Eager to study, huh? a snide voice inside my head asked them. Or just eager to be felt up by the hot security guy?

No.

He wouldn't do that with any of them.

Would he?

None of them would follow instructions as beautifully as me, I was certain.

Then again, he had told me to show up at 4, and to get in his line despite the embarrassment. I had done neither of those. So much for following instructions, really.

At least you aren't wearing any panties, my brain reminded me, and I couldn't help a bark of laughter that earned me a few confused looks from the people in the queue.

So I got in line behind them and counted the minutes.

***

I was the only one left. I had been the only one left for a full six minutes already.

Three new girls had come to queue up behind me (the female to male ratio at this college was 5 to 3 so I wasn't really surprised at the lack of boys), but they had quickly changed lines when the Campus Security woman had shown up again and resumed her slow but steady business.

Yet here I stood, stalwart and fast and alone like the cheese, feeling more foolish by the second.

The student that had gone in right ahead of me... she had been gorgeous. Cheerleader type, glossy black hair, ebony skin, tall and softly curved. She was the type of woman who could forgo panties on a regular basis because she didn't need to wear any, didn't want to wear any, and didn't have to wear any, and felt and looked sexy and confident without them, instead of just... drafty and faintly vulnerable and silly.

The type of woman who would look very good indeed with the Campus Security man's right hand buried in her hair and the other grabbing her beautiful, round butt as he kissed--

Good grief, Isobel! Get a hold of yourself.

I looked over to the other queue that now only consisted of two women who looked much more like me than the cheerleader had.

I wondered if the two of them also had wild imaginations hidden underneath their very proper jeans and plaid skirt, respectively. I wondered how their moans would sound--

Jesus, Iso-

"Isobel."

I startled even though he had said my name rather quietly, and dropped my phone which I had been clutching in my hand all this time. Cursing, I picked it up and saw, from the corner of my eye, the two students in the other queue eyeing me. Reason said they were just looking because my phone had made quite a lot of nasty, splintering noise as it hit the concrete, but reason had taken a back seat the second a pair of blue eyes had fixed upon me yesterday like a pair of wolf's eyes might fix upon a lamb.

My cheeks grew warm and suddenly I needed to be out of the women's knowing sight much more urgently than I needed to stay away from the unbearable, unhealthy pull this strange man exerted on me.

So I slipped into the little cubicle and faced him, with my wounded phone clutched to my chest, and waited.

And hoped.

***

"Put your bag onto the belt and stand over there," he said as he pulled the screen shut behind me.

I stood rooted to the spot and looked at him. My heart was doing weird things in my ribcage, as did my thoughts in my head. For a second, I was convinced that I had imagined an entire day, so strong was the sense of déjà vu.

"Miss," he said, just a bit louder, and repeated slowly, "Put your bag onto the belt, take off you jacket and shoes, and stand over there."

'Miss'? Oh. So we were... weren't...

Oh.

Oh, alright.

My stomach sank, and I wished I could sink right along with it, into the floor. I was such an idiot!

I took my backpack off my back, dumped my phone into one of the front pockets, and put both into one of the plastic trays.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," I tried to quip to lift my own spirits, but my voice sounded brittle.

"In fact, I do. It's my job," he replied as he watched me closely. "Jacket and boots, too, please."

Under his watchful eyes, I took off my knit jacket, then slipped out of my boots for the second time today and placed both items in another tray. Finally, I tiptoed over to the foamy little platform and took my position.

Uncrossing is arms he stepped up close to me and leaned into my private space.

"Want to hear something I don't say to all the girls?" he asked me, looking me straight in the face.

I searched his face and found a smirk. It was hiding in the left corner of his mouth and around his eyes, but it was there.

I swallowed on a dry throat and felt like my heart had crept up into it, fluttering around there like a hummingbird, elated with relief.

God damn, his eyes were so blue.

"'Hands on your head'?" I guessed. I didn't want to believe that security screenings for every other student at this school involved being treated like a dangerous criminal.

That was just for me. Special treatment.

The corner of his lip quirked up, the smirk showing itself. "That'll be the second step. To begin with, I'll tell you to take off your bra."

Stupidly, I looked down my torso as if to make sure that said garment and the two body parts it was covering were actually there. And indeed, the outline of the sturdy full cup padding was clearly visible against the plain dark gray ¾ sleeve high neckline shirt I had on today.

Said padding shielded my tightened nipples from view.

I was only wearing this outfit today because I had washed my usual sweater yesterday and it hadn't fully dried yet because it had fallen off the stupid clothesline during the night. That was the only reason I was wearing something... tighter. (Calling a knit jacket-baseball shirt combo 'sexier' than my washed-out hoodie was a stretch. Ridiculous. Who would I want to impress anyway?)

"Right now?" I asked, stalling.

"Right now," he confirmed but didn't give me so much as half an inch of space.

So, with a fortifying breath, I curled my fingers around the bottom seam of my shirt, ready to take it off. But he shook his head.

"Not the shirt. Just the bra," he instructed me. "We don't want to be inappropriate."

"No, of course not," I returned dumbly and reached up my back underneath my shirt to undo the clasp of my bra. This move required me to curve my spine a little, which in turn caused my chest to lift. His eyes lowered shamelessly to track the motion of my upper body, and the motion of my boobs underneath my clothes.

My solid cotton shirt hid everything from view, thus leaving everything to the imagination. Apparently, Campus Security people were imaginative types. Or at least this one was. His eyes feasted on me even though my tits were truly nothing to write home about (especially not while clothed), and they seemed to get brighter as my bra loosened and obscenely tented my shirt.

I reached all the way up the insides of my sleeves to pull the bra straps down my arms and over my hands, one after the other, and finally freed the loose bra from below, pulling it down and out. My modest-sized, newly bared chest tingled as it made contact with the fabric of my shirt.

He held out his hand and I turned over my underwear like it was some sort of contraband, and then watched him as he turned it this way and that and felt and squeezed it. That shouldn't be sexy, I thought, and had a sudden vision of him bringing the garment up to his nose and smelling it, smelling my skin on it, feeling the residual body warmth in the material.

Even that wasn't a turn-off.

I bit the inside of my cheek. Jesus.

Eventually, he folded the two cups together delicately and laid the bra onto the single table that stood in the corner of the cubicle. "I'll have to confiscate that, Miss," he said with some humor in his voice as he watched my mouth fall open, ready to issue some protest. Bras were expensive, and well-fitting ones were hard to find, he couldn't just-

"I will keep it until tomorrow," he said to placate me. "Show up on time and you'll get it back."

"To-... Tomorrow," I affirmed, remembering very well what he had said was on the agenda for tomorrow. My body heat jumped up a notch.

"I saw you today," he went on, stepping up to me again, just a smidge too close for comfort again. "Outside in the queues. Jumping the lines like you did. Stalling. Fiddling with your phone, chewing your lip. You appeared very... nervous. That's suspect behavior. Do you have something to hide, Miss?"

"No, I... I don't think so," I said but it sounded like a question.

"You don't think so?" he probed and narrowed his eyes at me. "We'll see about that, then. Turn around. Hands on your head now. Feet apart."

I quickly did as told, thinking that it might be better to not have to look into his painfully pretty face, and to not have my perky nipples on display yet again, emphasized even more when I lifted my arms up to put my palms against the back of my head.

As it turned out, I was wrong. Having him behind my back was worse. (And better. And worse.) My breathing sped up as I anticipated his next move. Waiting, not knowing, imagining what was coming next was excruciating. I imagined I could feel his body heat at my back, and the stray, floaty hairs at the back of my neck seemed to tingle as he came in contact with them, like strands of a spider's web. My unclothed core, exposed to the air as it was in this position, seemed to tingle in tune with them. I could do nothing about it, though. So I stood, looking at the blue plastic canvas, and waited.

And waited.

When his hands finally made contact with my body -- on my left upper arm, just below the elbow, to be exact -- I was keyed up enough to simultaneously jump out of my skin and sigh in relief.

"You're gonna stay still again, aren't you?" he asked, and I answered a quiet "yes".

His fingers swept down my lifted arm to my shoulder, across one trapezius to the other. It was still over my clothes, an entirely harmless and G-rated touch, but felt so good I wanted to purr.

"I didn't find anything incriminating on you yesterday," he said as he finished my right arm and switched to the middle of my back, swiping down along both sides of my spine and finishing just over my butt. God, I would have given him all of my bras, to nail onto his living room wall or to burn or whatever, for him to just keep going lower.

"But I'm not convinced of your innocence quite yet. I realize I have been lax in my previous search."

I pressed my lips together and said nothing. Breathing in and out was already using up all of my faculties, and I didn't want to interrupt him anyway. He could and should keep talking with that voice of his. Forever, if he wanted to. I would listen.

His hands went to both sides of my waist and slid upwards from there, over my ribs and farther north, at an agonizingly slow pace. As his fingertips grazed -- more than grazed -- the sides of my breasts, he leaned in to me so that his chest bumped my upper back. I resisted the urge to lean back and more into him, then ended up hunching over reflexively when he reached my armpits again. Too ticklish. I clawed my fingers deeper into my hair and clamped my forearms around my head to stifle a very unsexy giggle.

What was it with this man and armpits? Or did he just like to make me squirm?

"Especially seeing that I'm dealing with a former prime suspect in a vicious crime, I reckon I should take my responsibilities more seriously and be a little more thorough this time."

His mouth was close enough to my ear now for me to feel his breath against its shell. He barely had to whisper any more for me to hear him when he said, "What do you think about this, Isobel?"

I thought his fingers and palms were wasted on the needless frisking of students who just wanted to go to their library. I thought his voice should be used in audio books and radio adverts and for dubbing other, equally handsome men in foreign language movies. I thought it was a bad idea to ask me to speak in whole sentences during body contact, especially when my armpits and the side swells of my boobs were involved.

"Uhhm," I started eloquently, "I... I guess you have to do your job to the best of your- uh, knowledge and belief, so... do your..." I almost said 'worst' but figured that would be just a bit too forward. We'll come to that tomorrow, a voice in my head reminded me, and my mouth tripped a little over the word "duty".

Standing close enough to me to be able to see the hairs stand up straight on my arms, he probably heard my thoughts. There was a smile in his voice when he said, "Very well. I will." His lips brushed my ear. "And you'll be a good girl again."

I nodded just a little too eagerly.

Without further ado, without warning, his hands came around my front and cupped my breasts over my shirt. I swallowed a whimper. They were as needy to be touched as they were tender, and he was rough enough to physically pull me against his body, exactly like I had hoped he would yesterday. I groaned inwardly with how profoundly pleasant that felt. Even better than I had hoped.