Sexy Scientist

Sophie is close to solving the infamous Shimura Conjecture. The needed inspiration comes from a foursome.

I'm grateful to my friend (code name Spunk) for background information concerning Math Graduate Students. The pseudo math jargon in this story is fictional and is not based on real terms, except partially. Finally, there is not yet any documented evidence connecting orgasms with mathematical insight! Too bad, right?

****************

I was dreading April. I was out in California, and as a budding graduate of Cal State Hayward my prospects for acceptance to graduate school were bleak. I was pretty sure I got great letters from my professors, attesting to how talented I am, but let's face it, okay? A 4.0 BA from Cal State Hayward does not carry much weight when one applies to graduate schools.

I had tried every trick in the book. I included a 'head shot' in the application, and in the head shot I included some nice cleavage. Maybe with the cleavage picture some man on the admission committee might give my application a second look? If said man was enterprising enough to check out my Facebook page he would also see quite a few pictures of me in -- what's the word? -- oh yes, revealing string bikinis, hee, hee.

After all, while my face is pleasant enough, my body is flawless. All my goodies are the right size: my tummy is taut and flat, my legs are shapely, my waist is small, even tiny, and my hips are generous. My skin could be in a commercial for a French body lotion, the after picture. My hair has a golden hue, and falls enticingly in little curls around my shoulders. A girl can never invest too much in her hair; it's just not possible. That's wisdom from my mother.

Oh yes, my boobs. Let's just say I've never received a complaint from a guy concerning my boobs. Our nation's most talented civil engineers have created bras that give support, look feminine and not like a freeway overpass, and are easy on a girl's back. Thanks, guys!

I had stripped my Facebook page of the photos of me topless on the beach. I felt that was pushing the envelope. The imagination is always more powerful than reality, my mother always told me. The jury is still out as to how right she was about my boobs, however.

Jim brought in the mail with a look on his face. He handed me an envelope from Columbia University in the City of New York. I had already received rejections from Stanford, Berkeley, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. The University of Chicago had accepted me but without any money. Screw that!

Oregon State was so far the only school both to accept me and to offer me money, as a teaching assistant, known as a TA. I figured I was Oregon bound, but there was still Columbia out there from whom I was waiting to hear.

Usually I open envelopes with a letter opener; I'm a very neat person. This time I ripped it open, being nevertheless careful not to damage my nails. I looked quickly at the contents. I looked again. I looked a third time. A smile began to form at the corners of my mouth. Jim could see the sparkle in my eyes, he told me later.

"I'm accepted!" I screamed.

"With money?" Jim asked.

"Yes! I'm to be a TA!" I said. I danced around the room and kissed Jim all over his hunky body.

"You don't look happy, Jim," I said.

"Well if you take it, you'll be moving to New York, right?" Jim said.

I knew what was happening. I had hoped it wouldn't. I had hoped Jim's love for me was strong enough to just be happy for me. I had hoped. I had truly hoped. I had even prayed. I had hoped in vain; my prayers went unanswered.

"We can talk by Zoom and see each other every chance we get," I said. "Ever seen a girl undress on Zoom?"

"A California-New York romance? You'll be surrounded by all those Ivy League men. You'll soon forget me," he said.

"Never! Don't be like that. I love you. You love me. We'll always be together," I said.

As it turns out, I was wrong. It took Jim only four months to find a hot to trot bimbo to replace me, and there I was, a mathematics graduate student at Columbia, loveless and forlorn. My mother told me New York was full of men, 'like in the millions' she had said, and I only needed one to replace Jim. As if Jim could be replaced! You can't replace a soul mate just like that, I told her.

"Jim replaced you in four months. Now you need only four months, and you can replace him, my dear," my mother said. She was wrong, of course. It took me five months to find Adam. Adam was the first in a string of soul mates. I think I have a promiscuous soul.

************

"Hey look at this," my boyfriend and new soul mate Ben said to me one afternoon. I was just beginning my third year of graduate school. Adam had given way to Mark. Mark had yielded to Sam. Sam had been replaced with Mike, and finally I found Ben, my newest and best-est ever soul mate. Ben was a keeper. He got me.

"Look at what?" I said. "Is this yet another porno you want me to watch? You know those pornos are exploitative of women and not even close to being realistic," I said. "They do however get you hard; I'll give them that." I loved it when Ben got hard; I usually reaped the benefits, hee, hee.

"Really? They start with some slut and she's naked and giving a blow job. Then the two of them progress to sex, fucking every which way imaginable. Is that so different from us?" Ben asked.

"No, as far as you go. But the ones you like have some surprise entry by a friend of the man at some point and then he fucks the girl, too. That kind of shit never happens, and you know it!" I said.

"Remember you told me about that time back in college, when your boyfriend's roommate accidentally stumbled on your boyfriend fucking you rear entry and you then gave his roommate a blowjob?" Ben said. "You were spit roasted!"

"Totally different. I was drunk, first of all, and second, I didn't fuck his roommate," I said.

"Isn't that only because your boyfriend got upset? Wouldn't you otherwise gladly have fucked his roommate?" Ben asked.

"That too was different. His roommate was hot. I was drunk, young and stupid. I'm a graduate student now, I don't drink anymore, and I'm no longer a slut," I said. "I'm a responsible graduate student and I can't fuck around and be taken seriously. Sorry, Ben, I know you'd like me to be a slut, but it's just not me. I'm not like that anymore."

"Uh huh."

"I'm not!" I said. I had to admit, though, I once was like that. I shudder to think about how many different men have enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh with me.

"Well, check out this web site," Ben said.

"No," I said.

"It's not porn. It's about the sexiest scientists. The top ten in the nation," Ben said.

"That too sounds sexist," I said. "They're talking about the sexiest women scientists, right? Not the top ten sexiest men scientists."

"Yeah, that's right. They do the sexiest men at a different link. Think of it this way. Nobody thinks women scientists are sexy. They think they're dull, drab, and dreary, if they exist at all. This web site is trying to blow up that idea. It's the opposite of sexist! Sexy is not necessarily sexist."

"Oh," I said, which was as close as I could come to admitting he had a point. Ben knows me, he understood, and he smiled. I clicked on the link. I read the web page.

"Well Ben, I don't know about sexy, that's your domain, but I can tell you right now these are very pretty women. Some are downright beautiful," I said, feeling totally intimidated.

"You're just as pretty and much sexier. They consider math a science. You should be on the list!" Ben said.

"Yeah, right."

*************

Fast forward a few months. Ben and I were on Spring Break, pretending we were still college age and we drove down to Florida. I have a youthful face, and if I do my hair up right, I could still pass for a college coed. Ben looked his age, however, but he could pass as my date.

Ben had friends down there and he got us invited to a party. Well, Spring Break parties down in Florida can be rather wild, and this one was no exception. In a surprise coincidence, I ran into my first true love Jim at the party, who had moved from California to the Southeast. If running into Jim was not the definition of awkward, it should have been. Jim had been my first true love; my first soul mate. The wounds from our breakup were still not completely healed.

With Ben's encouragement I was wearing a white T shirt with no bra and white hot shorts without panties. I looked like a college sexpot on steroids, and I was getting the attention a girl dressed as I was could expect. It was intense. Jim was clearly interested, too. Awkward!

Yes, I got drunk. I got rip roaring drunk. I was one tequila shot away from alcohol poisoning, I felt sure. I was feeling no pain. I think Ben had delusions that if he got me sufficiently drunk we could relive that time in college that I never, ever should have told him about. He was thinking threesome with me, him and some other random guy. Jim, you say? Well, I was tempted, let me tell you. No, no longer; I was no longer a college bimbo at Cal State Hayward, I was now a math grad student at Columbia and trust me, math grad students simply do not behave like that.

On the other hand, and this is alcohol-think, Jim was a former lover. Somehow getting it on with a former lover at a party is not as slutty as fucking some new, random guy, you don't even know, right? Ah, the drunken mind's ability to rationalize is an amazing thing.

Sophisticated non-slutty math grad students also don't agree to participate in wet T shirt contests, or go to parties where the drunk men "throw the bitch in the pool." Yet there I was, giggling, as three men picked me up and tossed me into the pool. Who needs a wet T shirt contest when you've been tossed into a pool?

I climbed out of the cold water not in a rage, but rather giggling, like the bimbo I truly am, deep down. I was soaked. I was shivering despite the warm Florida weather. "Smile for the camera!" was all I heard, so in between my giggles I smiled as practically every man there wanted to take my picture. I was confused, since I was not thinking, and did not realize that my T shirt and shorts had both become transparent due to being soaked in the pool. I wasn't naked, but then, effectively, I was naked indeed.

Well, if you have a picture of a bimbo properly clothed but effectively naked with all of her charms on display, and you're a drunken college guy, what do you do with said picture? Does the Internet come to mind?

I wasn't thinking along those lines. Indeed, I wasn't thinking at all. All I was thinking was that every man there was looking at me as if he wanted to throw me on a bed and fuck the bejesus out of me. It wasn't even clear those men would need a bed. Ben and Jim were two of those men. I was turned on. Having around twenty men lusting for you turns on a girl, any girl. We're talking wet and welcoming here.

Ben and Jim picked me up and carried me off somewhere, to a room with a bed in it. They helped me change out of my wet clothes, except that once I was naked they dried me off, much too carefully if you get my drift, with a towel. They didn't put any clothes back on me. Instead, Ben went down on me while Jim played with my tits, and in particular with my nipples. Jim knew of course exactly what to do to me to make me into a submissive fuck toy.

Ben and Jim together comprised an onslaught I could not resist. Each of them knew all my secrets, and each of them played me like a violin. I ended up fucking them both, and I had a lovely orgasm with each one. I fucked them one after the other. Then Ben took me in the ass while I sucked off Jim. I collapsed onto the bed, a drunken mess leaking cum from everywhere, and in that state the two men put me on display for the shutterbugs.

There I lay in a drunken stupor, fast asleep, while the men rolled me onto my back, spread my legs, and tickled the underside of my chin so that I smiled in my sleep. I was photographed like that in every which way, from every angle imaginable. Cum was leaking from every hole, and it was obvious in the pictures.

Once again, if you're a drunken college guy, what do you do with pictures of a drunken, naked, freshly ravished bimbo as I was just then? Does the Internet come to mind?

I was back at Columbia in classes when my fellow male students began to look at me in new, unusual ways. I thought they were actually sniggering under their breath. Apparently, all it took was one male graduate student to peruse enough porn sites to find the Florida Spring Break pictures of yours truly.

The Internet is full of pictures of naked girls and women, but how often pray tell do you run across one of an actual girl in your classes? A girl whom you actually know? A girl you discuss math homework with? A girl you sit next to, and can reach out and touch? How often indeed? Try to imagine the horror of that, if you even can.

That's nothing compared to being mentally undressed by all of the male students in your recitation section, in your capacity as a TA. I used to have five or six students, tops, coming to my recitations. Columbia undergrads are mostly so bleeping smart that they don't need the help of a TA. Suddenly though I had not only full attendance at every TA section, I had lots of other students from other sections attending my recitation sections, too. It was standing room only.

The students would look at their computers, then up at me, then at their computers, then at me, over and over again. Okay, I thought, this is weird. Finally, curiosity overcame me, and I chose a student in the front row, Martin, and I asked him to stay after class. He did.

"Show me what you were looking at on your computer during class. Something's going on, and I want to know what it is," I said.

"No, I don't think you do, Miss Williams,"" Martin said. I should have listened to him.

I used my best tone of authority. "Show me, Martin. Show me now," I declared.

He showed me. It was when I had come out of the pool in Florida, in my wet and transparent clothes and without underwear. I was shocked. I had no idea such a picture of me was circulating. I fainted, and luckily Martin caught me. He lay me on the floor of the classroom and posed me exactly like the picture of me naked on the bed, with cum oozing out of all my holes. He did not undress me of course. Instead he waited the few minutes it took for me to come out of my faint. I suspect he took a picture, too.

"What happened?" I said.

"You had a bit of a shock, Miss Williams. I'm sorry," Martin said. As he said those words, it all came back to me. I immediately had a panic attack. Martin gave me the paper bag that contained his lunch and I dealt with my panic attack.

He walked me home, for which I was grateful, due to my state of distress. I invited him in and gave him a glass of tonic water while I drank a big glass of Jack Daniels rye whiskey. He kept filling my glass with more and more Jack. Yes, Martin got me drunk.

I needed to get drunk. I needed an escape from the horror of the reality I had just realized was to haunt me relentlessly,

Martin had me tell him the long, sordid story. I ended it with me telling him my career was finished before it had even started. "How can I show my face in class?" I wailed through my tears. "How can I face Professor Goode?" Professor Goode was my thesis adviser.

"You have to own it, Miss Williams," Martin said. He kissed me.

It's hard to explain what happened. It might have been because Martin was only around twenty or so, and a college student, but I suddenly felt as if I were back in college, and I re-entered my days of being a slut when drunk. I really thought I had left those days behind --- even far behind. Apparently, I was wrong.

Fool that I am, I kissed him back. "I'd like to compare the real thing to the picture, Miss Williams," he said.

"Sophie. Call me Sophie," I said, and we kissed again. "I'm afraid you'll have to be content with just the picture, Martin. I'm your teacher. It's inappropriate." He opened his iPad and called up a nude picture of me.

"Let's start with your breasts," Martin said, in a gentle tone.

"Didn't you just hear what I said?" I asked.

"You may be my TA, but you're only at most two years older than I am, and you have gorgeous breasts. I just have to see them, Sophie," Martin said as he kissed me yet again. His kisses were quite sexy!

Something happened. It was as if a switch had been flipped. Suddenly I was back in college, and once again a nice girl when sober but a slut when drunk.

"I'm not a baby, Martin. Call them boobs, tits, knockers, melons, whatever you want. Here, let me help you." I undressed down to my bra and panties in only seconds. I stopped.

"I want more," Martin said.

I was on the verge of tears, wallowing in self-pity. "Take what you want. I don't care." You don't say that to a horny college man. I knew that, too. I just ignored that little fact in my state of drunken distress.

Seconds later I was naked. Martin pushed me down to the floor right there in my own living room on our Persian carpet and he began to finger me. Bless my soul but I moaned. It felt good. It was just what I needed. I get especially horny when I'm drunk, but I had needed to get drunk. Drink alone is an escape, but drink combined with raunchy sex is a more effective escape.

The shock of everyone, all of my male students, having seen those pictures was just too much. I needed the escape to oblivion that drink combined with sex had a way of providing.

It was ironic, actually. Drink -- combined with a submissive tendency -- was what had led to those pictures in Florida in the first place!

Martin whipped off his pants and briefs revealing a nice, hard cock. I was about to suck it when Martin stuck it right inside me. Whoa! He did not give me a gentle, respectful student-teacher fuck. He fucked me hard. He possessed me. He fucked me like the horny submissive deep down that I knew, and that he knew, that everyone knew, or it so it seemed, that I was. It was exactly what I needed. It was what I craved.

My body rose to meet his. God, he felt good pounding away inside me. I climaxed long before he came inside me. When he finally pulled out of me, he began to look embarrassed. After all, I was as drunk as a skunk and out of my mind in shock from the pictures he had sprung on me, albeit at my insistence. He was definitely taking advantage of me.

I could see the guilt and shame in his face at what he had just done. He began to slink away and get dressed. "Don't you dare go, Martin. Don't you dare fuck and run. I need more," I said.

"It's okay, Martin. I'll take over now," Ben said. Oh, shit! When did Ben come in?

"Ben! Uh, uh...uh...I can explain," I said, as Martin dressed in record time and ran out of the apartment.

Ben looked at the half empty bottle of Jack and looked at my eyes, and my cum filled hole. "You're drunk, Sophie."

"Why yes, yes I am. You see..."

"I see you're leaking cum from that student Martin?" Ben said. "Are you nuts? Fucking a student is a no-no, Sophie."

"Well, you see Ben, uh...uh.. you see..."

"You said you wanted a round two," Ben said.

"I didn't mean, it's just that...uh....uh...that picture...uh... OH!" Ben was fucking me. I flashed back to Florida when he enjoyed sloppy seconds after Jim had ravished me to kingdom come. He was really fucking me! I know Martin had given it his best shot and tried to fuck me like a macho man, but he was just a college student and kind of a sweetheart and not really a macho man at all. Hell though, Ben really and truly WAS a macho man, and he was giving it to me good!

I guess I really do love rough sex. I love it when a man takes charge. My wants, needs, desires don't matter. He just takes what he himself wants, what he needs, and almost by accident I too get what I need. Ben was giving me the sex I so desperately craved. No, correction, he was giving me great sex! Yes, Grrrreaat sex!