Considerate Boyfriend Pt. 03

Considerate Boyfriend, Part 3

Prom Night

"Do you think I should wear these?" Betsy asked.

It was Tuesday, just before noon and only two days after Betsy and her beguiling little daughter, Sydney had shanghaied me for the better part of the weekend. They had left me weak-kneed, cross-eyed and seriously dehydrated. They had managed to dehydrate me by teasing every drop of cum from my poor aching cock over and over for the entire course of the weekend. They had left my cock a raw, reddened, pitiful lump of sore flesh. My jaw still ached, and my tongue was almost as raw and abused as my poor dick.

"No, Betsy, you can't wear those to dance in. I think they have pretty strict laws about... um, exposing yourself when you dance in a bar," I told her.

"But-but - don't you think they're lovely panties?" she countered. She sounded so disappointed.

I wasn't disappointed in the least. Betsy had sashayed into my office in the snuggest miniskirt I had seen in a while, propped her foot daintily on the corner of my desk and was happily exposing her delicious pussy to me in a pair of open-crotched sheer black panties. The sight of those sweet pink folds of sensitive flesh peeking out through the black, lacy opening at her crotch was the loveliest, most inspiring thing I'd seen all morning. And the sights I'd already seen this morning included a vision of Sydney seated in the front row of my class, her sweet young legs splayed open to me for most of the class period. I'd just come from teaching my American Short Story class.

Strangely, Sydney had been wearing panties and possibly even a bra too this morning. She ordinarily shunned both as being too confining. Her panties had been pale blue, almost matching the cotton candy blue of her sweet thatch of pubic hair. Toward the end of class I thought her panties had begun to look awfully dark and damp.

With the memory of Sydney's sweet blue lagoon fresh in my mind, I stared into Betsy's lovely opening a moment longer, yearning to bury my face, tongue first in it.

"No. You can dance with your boobs out, but this," I said with a wave of my hand at her crotch, "Is too much. Even if the sight takes my breath away."

"Oh," she responded, withdrawing her foot from my desk and smoothing her little skirt. Clearly, she was disappointed.

"I love your skirt too. But isn't it a little short?" I asked.

Betsy flashed me an almost evil grin and replied, "Yeah. I've kind of had to be extra careful. I've already caught two of my students staring. It's kind of nice to know I can make young men pay attention, though." She thought a moment longer, got a wicked gleam in her eye and added, "I bet they would love to see my new panties!"

A moment later she turned and strolled out of my office, leaving the door open and me with a hardon straining at the seams of my pants.

The day before, after more prodding from both Betsy and her daughter, I had tracked down the phone number to "Dancers" and cautiously called to ask for Vera. Luckily, she was the one to answer. It turned out she had done a great night's business that night and many of her customers had asked about "that little girl." I could understand why so many of her customers had been asking about her.

Eventually I broached the subject of having Sydney come for a return visit some night soon. Vera practically screamed in my ear, begging me to bring her back. Her excitement quickly stalled out when I mentioned that her mother would like to come along too.

"She's not coming along as a chaperone, is she?" she asked cautiously.

I probably laughed a bit too long and surely too loud at Vera's question, but I could understand how she might think a mother in the room could complicate things.

"I don't think she has the slightest desire to chaperone her daughter. In fact, I suspect you might have trouble getting her to obey all the rules your dancers have to follow, if you know what I mean," I told her when I stopped laughing.

"She good-looking?" Vera asked in a businesslike tone.

"Sydney and Betsy are as different in looks as night and day, but Betsy is every bit as beautiful as her daughter. I think you will more than approve," I assured her.

Vera thought for a moment before answering, but said, "Well, I'll have to talk to them both, lay out the ground rules, you know. But if you think the mother will be okay, I'll give her a try too."

The rest of my conversation with Vera was relatively simple. Sydney had demanded that Vera's regular dancers be given the night off with full pay. Betsy had agreed to that as well, but she had expressed a willingness to dance for most of the night instead of the two or three hours in the early evening Sydney had bargained for with Vera on Sydney's first little adventure. Sydney had agreed to this, reasoning that the two of them could alternate their dance sets and give each other a few minutes of rest. For some reason I didn't understand, both women were captivated by the prospect of watching one another dance. There didn't seem to be any competitiveness at play, so I let it go. Vera fell all over herself agreeing when I suggested this coming Saturday night. I told Vera the two women were calling it 'prom night' and Vera chortled and replied, "Might be more like rodeo night, if you ask me!"

With the arrangements made for the coming weekend, I called Betsy and Sydney to give them the news. Both were thrilled by the news and that's where my trouble started. Betsy's crotchless panties were only the start of the taunting and teasing both women would put me through. On Wednesday Betsy called me into her office excitedly as if she had a mouse or a spider for me to kill. Upon entering her office, I discovered Betsy standing in front of her desk clad in a sheer, baby blue, floor-length negligee. She was clad in a matching, extremely sheer pair of panties and bra. Again, her sweet pink slit, and the dark fur of her landing strip were clearly visible through her almost invisible panties. She could never wear any of this as a stripper.

I would like to say her outfit left almost nothing to the imagination, but I would be lying. I had a pretty good imagination, and I was imagining a lot of things as I gazed at her slim, long legs and trim figure swaying to and fro in this latest outfit. In fact, I wanted to use my imagination all over her, right then and there in her office.

"Hold it right there, Mr. Torbelson!" she commanded suddenly, pointing directly to the spot of carpet where I was standing. This was her teacher's voice and I froze in place, instinctively stopped by the cold, hard authority in her voice.

"But!" I protested. All I had done was stretch out both hands and lean toward her. Filling my hands with those full, round, high-riding breasts with their hardened, pert nipples seemed like the most absolutely necessary thing for me to do in the world right now. Her breasts were calling out to me. I could tell from the way they swayed and danced so invitingly before me that they positively needed the comfort of my hands surrounding them, cupping them.

Betsy hastily retreated to the far side of her desk, looked sternly across at me and said, "Keep those hands of yours to yourself, Mr. Torbelson! I will not tolerate any monkey business in my office."

I personally wanted very much to share my hands with Professor DePoet. It would have been inconsiderate of me to keep my hands to myself. She and I clearly disagreed on this matter, but in the end, I was forced to respect her wishes.

Thursday afternoon Betsy marched into my office wearing a strapless little blue minidress that was barely the length of a T-shirt, planted herself in my open doorway, her feet spread in a defiant stance and blurted out, "What do you think of this?"

Finally! Something she could actually wear as a stripper! She definitely knew how tempting she was to me. She looked hot and she was standing in my open doorway almost defiantly.

"Magnificent!" I told her, "Now, that is exactly the slutty sort of dress you should be wearing Saturday might!"

"You like?" she half-asked and half-smirked.

I'm sure she already knew the effect she was having on my dick. I was gawking at her like a horny teenage schoolboy.

"What about now?" she asked suddenly.

Dammit! Just when I thought Betsy understood the 'dress code' and the boundaries for sluttiness in a strip club, she went and pulled something like this!

While I looked on, she had proceeded to hook two fingers from each hand into the top of her dress and give it a firm and most unladylike tug, bending at the waist as she squirmed it down over the length of her body. A second later she straightened, leaving her little dress in a heap around her ankles. Aside from her gleaming shoes and a lewd smile Betsy was standing buck-naked in my office doorway.

"Will this get their attention? Am I slutty enough?" she asked with a sweep of her hands to indicate her bare-assed condition. She even performed an inviting little shimmy of her hips to make herself more appealing.

"P-p-p-panties!" I stammered out hoarsely, "Y-y-you must wear p-p-panties!" It was hard to get sincerely mad at her when I had a hard-on. But it also pissed me off no end that she could parade down the school's halls wearing next to nothing, strip down to her high heels in my office doorway and yet, I couldn't even get one good handful of her gorgeous tits. Betsy was driving my sexual frustration to a fever-pitch. I didn't know what to expect next.

I sat there at my desk staring at Betsy's magnificent bare form and wondered what I had gotten myself into. Both mother and daughter had taken to tormenting and teasing me mercilessly. Sydney had been behaving much better than her mother - until this morning. All week she had worn panties. Now, granted, she continued to sit in the front row and had casually, almost absentmindedly opened her legs wide for me to see them from time to time. Yesterday she had worn a bright yellow pair, but this morning she had returned to her old tricks once again and gone panty-less. She was relentless in opening her legs and putting all those cotton-candy blue curls between her legs on full, shameless display for me. Only once during class, when one of her classmates came forward to pick up one of their papers did she bother to clench her sweet little thighs together. As her classmate returned to her seat, she grinned at me and slowly, deliberately opened her legs even wider for me. I could see the open lips of her pussy when she was finished. I quietly wished more of my students would have the courage to sit in the front row with Sydney. It might have put a stop to this unrelenting torture she was putting me through.

Sydney didn't stop there this morning, though. At the end of the period, when the class filed past my desk to submit their weekly writing assignments, Sydney had lingered. I'm sure she had intended to be the last in line.

"Professor Torbelson," she began, holding her paper out for me to see instead of dropping it on the pile on my desk, "I worked extra-hard on this assignment, but I have a question about this part here."

I eyed her with suspicion, fearing she had some devious motives at work. My suspicions would prove correct.

I accepted the paper she pressed into my hand and instantly discovered it was sticky-damp along the edge.

She pointed to a sentence at the end of the second paragraph, drew the middle and index fingers of her right hand over the text for my eye to follow and said, "I worked really hard on this part. It took me a long time to make sure it was exactly right - the way I thought you would want it. What do you think?"

I stared blankly at the page. Her fingertips had left a visibly glistening wet streak across the page. I realized then that as the rest of the class had pressed forward around my desk to submit their assignments, Sydney had quietly dipped her hand into that splashing-wet little blue lagoon between her slim legs in order to prepare for this very moment.

I took a slow, deep breath. And yes, with her drenched hand hovering so near to my face and with another ample amount of her nectar spread across her paper's edges and now its middle, I was being treated to the headiest, most stimulating fragrance I had smelled since - well, since last weekend.

"Oh, Sydney!" I began in a gush of excitement, "You have it in perfect order! Well done!" At the same time my hand instinctively snaked out beside me searching for the wellspring of her sex.

She was too fast for me. Instead of sliding softly up the smooth inner side of her thigh, my hand merely clipped the hem of her dress as she sidestepped my little fishing expedition. It still mystified me that that she seemed always to be so sinfully damp between her legs. She seemed to accomplish it with positively no effort or awareness of it at all. Perhaps arousal was a near-constant state for her.

Sydney sidled away from my desk and sadly, away from my eager fingers. She left me with nothing more than her dampness and lingering scent on this week's assignment. I graded it on the spot, marking her down for a run-on sentence and one minor punctuation error. I held it up to my nose and inhaled deeply and decided her 'in-depth' efforts merited additional consideration. I gave her an 'A' and wished she had given me the opportunity to give her an 'A+' instead. It would have been so rewarding for us both if I could have gone for even a brief swim in her sweet, warm blue lagoon.

Frustrating near-misses and tantalizing glimpses of both mother and daughter were the only morsels these two sirens had allowed me for days. It was now Wednesday afternoon; I was seated at my desk and Betsy was still poised in my doorway like some tantalizing middle-aged version of jailbait. All I had to show for their taunts and teasing was one well-written, deliciously fragrant and moist essay.

"Well," Betsy announced nonchalantly as she stood before me, "I just thought you might appreciate seeing my new outfit."

Outfit! This was not an outfit! This was a form-fitting, skimpy sleeve of blue material that was only barely covering a highly respected college professor's most important - and most desirable assets. I'd actually only seen her wearing it for half a minute. The rest of the time she'd stood there posing like one of those models on a game show touting the latest prize. In this case the latest prize was pretty damn spectacular, but still, she couldn't dance completely nude in that strip club.

"You do like my dress though, don't you?"

"Yeah... but you have to wear panties!" I reminded her.

"Oh, I'll wear 'em. But still, don't you think I look better without them?"

In order to show me exactly how much she resented my mention of underpants, Betsy pivoted until her backside was aimed directly at me. She bent slowly at the waist until I could see the sweet smooth-shaven crease just beginning to yawn open between her legs, plucked up the dress, and then, slowly, teasingly began the process of drawing the snug material back up over her body. I was surprised that someone - a student or another faculty member - hadn't walked by during all this slow tease and discovered the prim and proper Professor Betsy DePoet with her tits out and her lovely ass bare. Once Betsy had straightened her hem and fussed a moment with the bodice, she turned to face me once more. A portion of one areola was clearly visible and I was certain she knew it.

A serious expression came over her face and she asked, "You don't think less of me for wanting to act just a little bit slutty and cheap for just one night, do you?"

For the first time all week I came suddenly to understand the reason for all of Betsy's lewd fashion shows and her shameful teasing. I recalled the way Sydney had asked me to hold her as she cried after her night as a stripper weeks ago. All the doubts and guilt she felt at what she had done and how she had tormented and, to her rather prim way of thinking, cheated so many men out of their money in the bar that night were feelings Sydney had come to terms with. Her mother appeared to be facing the same conflicts and the same doubts.

I slowly felt I was coming to understand both mother and daughter. Behaving this way - dressing trashy, enticing me and most other men, as well as fucking like a mink were things they both enjoyed, but deep down, both Betsy and Sydney were decent, honest, good-hearted women. Sydney had already begun to come to terms with these two very opposing parts of herself. She had Tommy, and also me to thank for that. Betsy, on the other hand was still working to reconcile the sluttiest, lustiest part of her desires with that already firmly established, strait-laced, member-of-the-faculty part of herself. Right now, her struggles were driving me crazy.

Between the many sightings of Sydney's dripping wet, pastel blue pussy and the lewd, hands-off glimpses of Betsy's delicious body, I had developed a deathly case of blue balls. Until this week I had seriously doubted that blue balls were even a real thing. Now my dick was stiff most of the time, I felt light-headed when I was near either of them and yearned to break both of the hard-and-fast rules they had made me swear to when I made the arrangements for their prom night: no beating off (Sydney's words, not mine) and no calling them or showing up on their doorstep begging for mercy. I didn't think they would ever know if I 'beat off,' but on the off-chance that either one of them had a change of heart, I wanted to stay hard and at the ready for them at a moment's notice.

Their cruel teasing did provoke a slightly malicious scheme in my head, though. Before I could stop myself, I had dialed good old Vera's number at the strip club and had a conversation with her. It turns out she was almost as excited over this little additional scheme I proposed to her as she was over my first call when I offered her two sensational dancers for the coming Saturday night. She didn't really explain why she was so excited, but she did end our conversation by assuring me she would have everything ready for Sydney and Betsy on Saturday night and chuckled that she'd be killing two birds with one stone. I wasn't sure what she meant by that, but I felt a sort of wicked twitch run through me when I imagined what lay in store for Betsy and Sydney on Saturday evening.

***

The drive to their prom night beginning late Saturday morning was relatively uneventful, though I had to warn them more than once not to flash truckers. Both of them seemed to take great delight in teasing me to distraction as we plowed along on the interstate. It's a wonder we didn't have a wreck. The only thing I used my rear-view mirror for was to stare at the deep blue sea between Sydney's open legs in the backseat. When I wasn't doing that, I was watching Betsy discreetly diddle herself beside me in the front seat or tug her blouse open for passing truckers. They were both so excited they giggled half the time like giddy middle-schoolers.

Upon our arrival, the two of them bounded out of my car, ignored checking into the motel altogether and scurried off to the explore the strip club on their own. I checked into our room, carted the few bags we had into the room and was just making my way to the bar to join them when they returned in a lather.

"We've got to get ready to dance!" Betsy huffed out excitedly.

It was early still but both women were out of breath and almost beside themselves with excitement. Betsy was already tearing at her top even before I got the door to the room unlocked. Betsy shucked her top, tugged a makeup kit from her suitcase and scampered into the bathroom. She hesitated in the doorway, turned to me and said, "Why don't you go on over to the gentleman's club and we'll be along soon. That lady, Vera said she wanted to talk to you."