School Daze Forever Ch. 08

Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

***

My name's Jenny and I'm twenty. I like the little rhyme; it makes me smile. I think I have a birthday coming up soon, but I'll have to check with the Mistresses.

Time is a funny thing. Both milk and cum can make it feel like it's speeding up or slowing down. Routines can make a week feel like a day. Not being allowed to cum can make ten minutes feel like forever. If you remember a special moment over and over again across decades, how long does it actually last? Is it really just about what it said on a clock somewhere? Is it even about how long the moment felt while you were living it? If it's fundamental enough, maybe it lasts for the rest of your life.

All of that is a roundabout way of saying that the story of my college career isn't always going to be blow-by-blowjob, hour-by-hour. Those first few days, though, were chock full of new and exciting experiences. That's why I want to play with time a little bit right now. On my third afternoon as a student at 'R&RU,' I had three classes. The first two were interesting and informative, but I don't think anyone will shed a tear if I skip around a bit. The third one was a horny hoot, though, and I think it's a great example of how learning can be fun. That's a moment we can spend a little extra time living in.

Introductory Sexual Psychology was to begin with a fascinating journey into the default male psyche. That, I realized right away, would synergize nicely with our Sexual Anatomy class, and I did briefly wonder if the college had invented 'male brain dummies' for us to practice with. It didn't seem likely, but it was a fun, silly thought.

Our professor, Mistress Gayle, played one little game with us underneath the classroom's blue lights before she went into full-blown teacher mode.

"So, how old do you think I am, girls?" she asked.

All of us tensed up and got extra quiet. Mistress Gayle was the very first university Mistress I'd seen who looked genuinely, noticeably older than me. Mistress Vivienne, for example, had immediately seemed older than me, but in hindsight, that had mostly been about her confidence, her authority, her professional clothes, and her larger breasts -- especially when I'd discovered they gave special milk. I'd been eighteen when I'd met her -- and still was, there at the official beginning of my college career -- and, in hindsight, she could've been anywhere from twenty years old to who-knows-how-old. Only learning that she was a college graduate twice over had pushed my estimate up to twenty-five at least.

Mistress Gayle was, for lack of a better term, a Real Adult. My gut pegged her at thirty-five, and maybe even a little older -- but then I lost all my confidence. 'Old life' tidbits that weren't even real memories zapped and fizzled in my brain. Everything I'd observed and learned during my first few days as a college girl scoffed at those tidbits as they lamely tried to justify my guess. I realized I had no idea -- none at all.

She smiled at our fretful silence. "I see most of you realize that I just put you in a no-win situation. That bodes well for when you start studying default female psychology in greater depth. I'll admit I'm bragging a little bit, girls, and giving you a sense of just how lucky you all are. I turned fifty-seven a few months ago."

That got a few gasps, which she soaked up. She didn't even pretend she didn't love them.

"... And technology progresses apace. If you keep being good little girls for the college, you might look even better than this at sixty."

The ripple that went through our class of forty-eight girls was indescribable. I think it's hard for any eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl to fully appreciate what it could mean to be healthy and beautiful -- young, even though technically not -- for that long. It made me happy, of course, and even a little excited. I'd put some of the pieces together during my walk through town on my first day. I'd already realized that college girls and college graduates were the prettiest. I knew that being healthy had a lot to do with that. All I can say is that, sitting in that classroom and taking in Mistress Gayle's full, healthy body with fresh eyes, I still had a sense that I didn't fully 'get it.'

I remember looking around the big classroom, trying to suss out whether any of my friends and sisters had had a different reaction -- something that evinced more understanding or appreciation. I saw two that made me curious. One of them was from a girl whom I'd only just officially met: another Ingrid, who had dark, curly hair, and was fuller-figured than the sinewy blonde firecracker who'd talked to Lily at lunch the previous day about massage therapy. The other was from Annabelle -- our Annabelle. I made a mental note to catch up with her. I wanted to know what she knew, or understand what she understood. College girls helped and supported each other, after all.

"Age," Mistress Gayle intoned. "More specifically, the sense of one's own mortality. Over the next semester -- and, indeed, over the next few years -- you'll be learning over and over again that details matter. Culture, class, religion, geography, genetics, careers, and all the rest matter. Thousands of heuristics, none of which are reliable by themselves, will come together in your minds to make you expert gamblers. What's the game? Getting your Masters and Mistresses out of their own heads, and, hopefully, helping them to experience a little death - le petit mort, in French. Orgasm.

"Today, we begin at the end, because the end is fundamental -- even though we're doing everything in our power to prove it isn't so. Decay. Death. How do default males, specifically, react to those two looming specters psychologically? How does that affect their sexual responses, above and beyond the physical challenges that age itself ironically raises? Some Masters who are barely adults will be crippled by thoughts of death, while Masters fifty years older than them will have already done the work and settled into an existential shrug. Denial isn't healthy per se, but if you're on a one-off work study, don't look that gift horse in the mouth. Focus on its nice, hard cock instead.

"Let's say you don't get that lucky, though. Let's say you're dealt a challenging hand. What can you do, from the outside, and especially in a very short period of time, to accentuate the positive and mitigate the negative? Please open your virtual textbooks to page one. I helped to write it, so I'll beg your pardon for my sense of humor."

'Chapter One: The End'

It was clever enough, but only two girls laughed -- not Ingrid or Annabelle.

*******

Mistress Cynthia was not the ultimate hairdresser, manicurist, or beautician. She was their boss' boss' boss. She was making the big bucks in the high-rise tower, studying trends and even making new ones happen. She had people under her approving new shades of nail polish and lipstick. She was responsible for whether or not millions of dollars would be invested in something genuinely innovative.

That was her vibe. She wore makeup, perfume, lipstick, nail polish, jewelry, and all the rest, and she stood defiant, daring us to claim that our own scientifically enhanced, biological beauty was the gold standard. It was whiplash. All of us first-years had spent the previous few days, and even a few hazier months before that, being led into a beautiful dream where young college girls were simply sexy, and 'R&RU''s girls were simply the sexiest.

"Name one real thing that can't be faked," Mistress Cynthia demanded. Under the blue lights, we figured out quickly that it wasn't a rhetorical question. Instead, it was a trap that she was demanding one of us spring. She wasn't going to let us sit there quietly, like Mistress Gayle had.

Lily, of all people, raised her hand next to me. Mistress Cynthia called her out with a sharp, curt nod, and blazing green eyes that could've sliced sheet metal in half.

"Death, Mistress," Lily said.

Mistress Cynthia smiled wickedly. "Excellent answer, Lily," she said, "and wrong. Those of you who major in Alteration & Enhancement will learn that firsthand, and those of you who choose to focus on your little 'acting' classes instead might end up as my department's guinea pigs. That's right, girls; 'Cosmetology' is not a major. It's a baby step."

Duly terrified, all of us shut our mouths, opened our eyes, and learned from her. She was a boss bitch, and we were her bitches. It was downright surreal to begin at the beginning, with the basics of pre-care, foundation, lipstick, blush, eyeliner, and eyeshadow. It seemed so far beneath her, but she guided us through every step with icy intensity and even the occasional word of praise. By the end of that first class, I was halfway convinced that I'd eventually be able to make myself look like a completely different person using just a few simple tools.

Lily, with artful blush across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, was cute beyond cute. In the mirror, the Jenny I saw with dark eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick, plus some skin-lightening foundation, could've been some kind of a rock star. I'd taken some inspiration from Claire, the second-year I'd met in town on my first day. The new Jenny needed a different haircut or wig, but I was sure we would get to that in due time.

"Piercings," Mistress Cynthia coldly noted from above me. "Tattoos, perhaps. Don't worry your pretty little blonde head about those, though, Jenny. They can be faked, just like everything else. Not bad work for your first class. Not great, but not bad. Lily, you didn't do anything wrong per se, but you were already cute. Next time, put in more effort. Try to push your look in a new direction."

"Yes, Mistress," we both dutifully replied.

There was no automatic shudder of pleasure, obviously. Instead, there was relief. The blazing green eyes had passed over me, and had barely grazed my precious angel. Neither of us were Mistress Cynthia's 'bully toad' that day, and that was good enough for me.

******

Within five minutes of Introductory Sexual Role Play starting, Mistress Abigail had practically turned our worlds upside down.

First had come the revelation that she was Mistress Gayle's twin sister; I'd suspected, but had had to give credit to Mistress Abigail's completely different vibe nonetheless. She'd been frizzy, crunchy, and bubbly right off the bat. Then had come an 'oopsie' where she'd revealed that they'd been having 'twincest' with each other for over thirty years. Next had been the far-less-surprising revelation that they'd been some of the first official college girls to ever attend 'R&RU,' getting the chance to learn directly from the founders, and even from some of the older-timers from the war -- older-timers like Dr. Mikurai, whom my dorm was named for.

Before we could process any of that, the frizzy, crunchy, bubbly woman had basically disappeared before our very eyes. Mistress Abigail had filled the room with somber gloom just by shifting her body and voice, and had implicitly demanded a moment of silence for those great visionaries who'd passed on. After about thirty seconds in that sober stillness, a sly wink and hunched posture had brought us all in closer, transforming her back into the queen-bee gossip holding court. She'd gleefully informed us that Dr. Mikurai had been so profoundly gay that he hadn't even bothered undergoing any reeducation or rehabilitation himself to expand his sexual horizons. Apparently, Mistress Gayle had been heartbroken, as had many others. Mistress Abigail, meanwhile, had claimed to have loved being a 'fag hag.'

Then, with a clap of her hands and a sudden straightening of her spine, she'd tossed Mary-Beth and Penny into the deep end of the pool.

They were over by the four massive trunks of clutter, fishing through them to find costumes and props for their scene. The rest of us were assembling onto the comfortable leather seats of the large room's theater-style risers, getting ready to be the audience. The default stage, down below, boasted nothing more than a nondescript desk and chair. To one side were the trunks, and to the other were a loose collection of stage or movie lights, some of which were on wheels. About five feet behind the desk and chair, a thick, black curtain hid the room's true size. Everything was a sign that imagination was going to be a vital tool for us all -- even those of us who wouldn't get a chance to be onstage that day.

"First note, girls," Mistress Abigail called out. "Strip! You know you're changing costumes! Mary-Beth, you know you need to put on a strap-on, no matter what else happens. I know you girls aren't shy; don't be dawdlers, either."

"Yes, Mistress," Mary-Beth replied.

"Okay, Abby," Penny said afterwards. She'd sounded hesitant, but after she uttered the words, I saw her mouth twitch. She liked it. She stripped off her sundress, and Mary-Beth lifted her skimpy schoolgirl shirt. The short-haired girl's perky, merest-hint-of-cocoa titties bounced free of it, then kept jiggling abruptly as she stood and lost the dark-blue-plaid micro skirt, too.

"What do you think, girls?" Mistress Abigail asked the rest of us casually. "Is she a bare-handed girl? Paddle? Riding crop? Flogger? Slapper? Cane?" She'd offered to spank anybody who didn't use 'Mistress' during class. It was to be completely voluntary. I wasn't surprised that Penny was setting herself up for it.

"I don't think she knows yet, Mistress," Annabelle said from a few seats over. There was an empty one next to her, reserved for Mary-Beth. "She said she liked the wooden paddle during Challenge Yoga."

"Oh, so she's got some spunk in her," Mistress Abigail said, her eyes widening with excitement.

"Well, Cum Lunch was a while ago, Mistress," Sandy said from the far side.

Mistress Abigail clapped her hands and gave the tanned redhead double finger guns. That was one of her things. She was a ball of weird energy, and it was already making some of the girls giddy. Whenever she stopped moving completely, it was to make a point or send out a different vibe; her default was to slowly stalk back and forth in front of the stage. Right then, she was keeping her body mostly facing towards us as she did it, which made her bent-knee stride look a little like a crab walk, though much more dexterous.

She paused for a moment to fish into the breast pocket of her thin, opened-up plaid shirt. From it, she retrieved a small item. She pressed down on it with her thumb, and the room's lights instantly switched over to green. I heard the sharp hum that accompanied it, something the gradual transitions generally masked.

"Go ahead and warm yourselves up, girls," she said. "You're not allowed to cum yet, though. Pearl of wisdom: most Mistresses and Masters want to help you help them. Most people looking to consume erotic content want to get off. Call it 'easy mode' if you want, but it's very common. Plenty of time to ramp up the difficulty later."

The green light did its work on me, even though there wasn't much to see. Mary-Beth and Penny were almost finished putting on their costumes, so there wasn't a lot skin on display. Penny had gone for a punky, delinquent look, but had opted for tattered jeans instead of a skirt. Mary-Beth, meanwhile, was following the few instructions she'd received from Mistress Abigail. She was playing the role of a Mistress who was, in turn, playing the role of a police officer. The Mistress character got off on 'realism,' as silly as that was, and so her costume definitely wasn't that of a stripper or Halloween slut. The dark aviator sunglasses she'd found were a nice touch, I thought. They, plus her short, dark hair, made her out to be a halfway convincing cop from the neck up. The black, perpetually-erect strap-on dildo jutting out of the fly in her pants was kind of a problem as far as suspension of disbelief was concerned.

Under the green light, I wasn't very concerned with that. The dildo was hot. I could easily picture a real Mistress dressed up like her, ready to do all sorts of dominant, naughty things to me. My pussy throbbed, and my asshole twitched around my large, rippled plug. I wanted to swap places with Penny. I wanted Mary-Beth to fuck me, even though she wasn't actually a Mistress.

Lily grabbed my leg and slid her hand way up my thigh, pushing at my flimsy dress. I did the same back to her. We both scooched down in our seats so that our pussies were lewdly thrust forward. Our free hands -- my right, her left -- quickly sought out their obvious targets.

"Oh," Lily said softly.

"Oh?" I whispered back.

"I can do it with my left hand, Jenny. That's so weird. That's so cool."

"Do you mind if I try?"

"I'm your bitch," she said. That made me feel a little bad for a second, but she hadn't sounded mad or impatient. She'd just sounded like a horny girl who was masturbating, and needed to remind her friend to pick up something at the store.

I lifted my left hand from her pale, softer-than-soft leg, then used it to gently, but authoritatively, remove her right hand from mine. Then I sent my sinister appendage experimentally towards my pussy and clitty. Everything just sort of happened. I wanted to masturbate with it, and so I did. It was weird because it wasn't weird. Another 'old life' moment zapped, fizzled, and died in an instant. I'd been right-handed. I'd assumed without thinking that I still was. Thanks to Lily, I'd just discovered that, at least as far as working my own pussy lips and clitty was concerned, I was ambidextrous.

"Neat," I said. Then I switched back, and put Lily's hand and mine back where they belonged: on each other. I felt how satisfied she was that I'd taken control, even in that small way. We squeezed each other's thighs and kept pushing ourselves closer to the edge. I wasn't entirely sure where Mistress Abigail wanted us, but she was the one who'd flipped on the green lights. As long as I didn't cum, I knew I wouldn't be a 'bully toad.'

As if Mistress Abigail had read my mind, the green light faded until just a hint of that color remained. I found a new equilibrium and eased up on my pussy and clitty.

"Okay, you two," she said, "get into first position. Mary-Beth, you're walking Penny into the station, back room, whatever. We really ought to give you character names, but then we'd need to give you character-character names, too. So exhausting!"

The pair crossed the stage behind the desk and chair; Mary-Beth made a pit stop to drop off some props: lube, a box of latex gloves, and something that looked like a ball-gag strap, but with a large ring instead of a ball. She met Penny over to their left -- our right -- on the stage.

Mistress Abigail did an energetic pivot towards them, then pointed to a line of electrical tape on the ground. "That's the wall with the door. Let's say that it's 'real.' What do I mean by that, Penny?"

Penny was in front of Mary-Beth; her hands were cuffed behind her back. The cuffs looked pretty realistic to me. It seemed to me like she was trying really hard to get into character, and that Mistress Abigail's question had caught her off guard.

"It means... that the room that we're using is actually a room. We only have to pretend it's a certain kind of room, but the room exists. It has walls, and a door."

Mistress Abigail clapped her hands together. "And so? Mary-Beth?"

"So we have to act like they're really here, even if my Mistress character wouldn't necessarily bother with it if the room were completely fake."

"Oh, you girls get smarter every year. Yes, yes, yes! Play within a play. Character within a character. Class within a class? Aaaand: action!"