This Year's Model

She smiled warmly and laid a hand on my arm. "Hi, Wes. Glad you could make it on such short notice." We chatted briefly until the hostess told us our table was ready. I offered her my arm as we left the bar, and nodded politely in response to the glares being thrown my way from the defeated, older men. "Enjoying playing the cougar tonight?" She laughed deeply, and I inwardly relaxed. Things were getting back to normal.

After the waiter took our orders and brought drinks by, Radmila took a deep breath and reached into her bag to pull out a small stack of paper. "Okay, Wes. I've thought long and hard about this. Lost sleep. Lost more than a couple chances to ... relax with Ellen. Thought about you, about what kind of poker player you are. Are you bluffing? If I refused, would you really go after me and risk bringing the whole school down in the process?

"In the final analysis, I believe that you're a man of honor, your ... desires notwithstanding. And if I held those desires against you, that might be, let us say, a bit hypocritical of me. I honestly don't know if that honor would compel you to bring this to light or not; that could go either way. But I do believe that if we make this agreement, you'll live up to your end of it. So, do we have a deal?" I nodded, not trusting my voice to hide my enthusiasm. She smiled, with maybe a hint of relief, and handed the papers to me.

"Good. As I looked unto this, there were four rising senior girls who stood out as great candidates for this ... educational opportunity, and I've chosen one of them. But I wanted you to see profiles of all four. I've left off names and pictures to protect the anonymity of the other three. You've got estimated bust size, speculation on their respective ... familiarities with men and submissive tendencies, that sort of thing. I've done my best to live up to the spirit of this as well. I didn't intentionally pick someone who met your criteria on the surface, but who I knew you wouldn't be interested in. There's one who I know is a little cockwhore, but she's ugly as shit." I must have raised an eyebrow or reacted in some way, because she chuckled and winked. "You forget: we ... uh ... shop at the same store in this regard. For that reason, I've also left off my student assistant for next year." And with that, whatever lingering tension there was between us evaporated.

"I suspect part of the appeal of this for you is that the girl is being sent to you. Maybe it titillates you that she doesn't really have a choice in the matter. Puts her in 'her place', that being one of subservience to you. I won't tell you which one I picked since that would ruin the surprise, but I'd be curious as to which of them you would have chosen. It might guide me in future choices, might not. But, at the very least, it'll make for positively fascinating dinner conversation."

As I began to leaf through the profiles, Radmila excused herself to the ladles' room. I quickly found myself floored by the sheer depth of research she'd done on these girls. It was staggering. As a group, they were well-behaved in the classroom, respectful towards teachers and school administrators, but with a history of not making bed checks. Three of the girls had asked the school nurse for condoms. I found myself idly speculating as to who these girls were, but that was getting me nowhere. The reading was so engrossing that I didn't even notice when Radmila got back to the table.

"Come to any conclusions, Wes?"

"We give out condoms to the girls? And the nurse keeps track of who has requested them?"

"Don't let that get out. There are things going on here that our fathers are happier not knowing about."

"So I'm learning... Okay, everything else being equal, I'd cut the girl who hadn't asked about birth control. Knowing absolutely nothing else, the other three would seem to be more open about their sexuality."

"Can't argue with that logic."

I chuckled, "It also eliminates them from your list." Radmila briefly flashed a look I couldn't read and mumbled, "Not necessarily..."

"Ohhhhhhkay. Um... Of the other three, I'd be tempted to eliminate bachelorette number 2. Nothing wrong with a couple of demerits for uniform infractions. Indeed, I'd love my girl to have an eagerness to use that uniform to her advantage."

Radmila snorted, "You're such a guy."

I took a chance that we were really and truly good with each other again, "Oh please. Like you demand your girl to keep her skirt on..." She laughed and looked a little sheepish. "Well, sometimes I make her just flip it up over her hips, but your point is well-taken." I pretended to visualize just such a look, and got a playful slap on the arm for my trouble.

"So yeah, a couple infractions are fine, even tantalizing. Nineteen in one semester? That's either a moron or a girl who doesn't know how or when to use her body and clothes."

"And you wouldn't like to be the one who teaches her how and when to use it?"

We shared a devious smile. "Hmmmm... I withdraw my previous objection. Any sense on whether these girls' tits are real or not?"

"Wesley," she said, trying her best to sound like a scornful mother, "this is Atlanta, not LA. Eighteen-year-old girls do not get boob jobs in Atlanta. And besides, they're 'breasts.'"

I decided to pour it on, to see if I could tease a reaction out of her. "No, Radmila. Good girls have breasts. Good girls who want to play at being bad have boobs. Naughty girls have tits." I lowered my voice to sound as seductive as I could. "And you'd better be sending me a girl with big ... soft ... suckable ... fuckable ... tits."

She looked me directly in the eyes, her voice dripping with lust, and asked, "And which do I have, Wesley?"

I swallowed hard. Apparently, she could dish it out too, and I wondered, not for the first time, if I could keep up with her. "What are you playing at, Headmistress Starovic?" I asked, trying to maintain the innuendo.

She laughed, deep and hearty. "I don't know, Wes. Nothing really, and I hope you know that." I nodded encouragingly. "I've just been so worried over this and whether we'd be able to work this out. And between the wine and all the flirtatious guys, I guess I'm pretty worked up."

"So, you're saying that Ellen won't be making bed check tonight?" I winked.

"No, I believe that my student assistant has some work to catch up on in my office this evening." She smiled dreamily.

"Remember, Radmila. Her family's got money, so ... try not to break her. We may need those donations."

"I like to believe that all of our girls will look back on their years here with joy and fondness. Besides, you didn't think I was a pillow princess, did you?" She leaned in to whisper in my ear, "That girl's pussy tastes better than baklava."

When the waiter came around asking about dessert, I couldn't help myself. "How is the baklava tonight?" I asked with a wink.

**********

Over the summer, something Radmila said that night at the restaurant got me to thinking as I was preparing for the fall term, and not just for my classes. I couldn't just abuse my girl and throw her away at the end of the year. (Unless, of course, she wanted to be abused...) No, I needed to give her a memory to look back on with satisfaction. This was, first and foremost, about me and my desires, but there needed to be something for her as well. A realization of what she really wants, sexually? A coming-of-age story to smile about in years to come? I couldn't leave her with a sense of being used, since that could come back to bite me in the ass. And that meant getting to know her. Talking with her, getting her comfortable enough that she would open up to me, as it were. Finding her limits, getting her to acknowledge them, then gently pushing them until she was where I wanted her to be.

And it meant that I couldn't count on getting head on the first day of classes. Ah well. World enough and time...

**********

August, in Atlanta, causes one to consider petitioning for the immediate canonization of the guy who invented air conditioning. (You need three miracles? How many people were living in Atlanta right now instead of somewhere cooler and less humid, like ... anywhere else in civilization?) I was even allowed to keep my office door closed to maximize the efficiency of my window-mounted A/C, at least until school actually began.

By tradition, classes arrived for the fall term in reverse order. The incoming freshmen (the term "freshladies" never caught on) came in a week before the rising sophomores, the juniors three days later still, and the seniors four days after that, giving them an additional two weeks of summer. Ostensibly, they were to be using their time to work on college applications; as far as I could tell, all they were working on was their tans.

Move-in week for the freshmen was like a Jackson Pollock painting, chaotic but with an underlying sense of direction. It gave them a chance to be bored together, bond and build some camaraderie. Headmistress Starovic arranged for all the faculty to meet the incoming class, both formally in meetings and informally for lunches, games, movies, and other delights for the 15-year-olds. Normally, I begged off of the informal events, with the approval of the Headmistress. Not that I wanted to appear standoffish, but rather to keep a safe and protective distance between myself and the jailbait.

So Wednesday of freshman move-in week found me in my office, lesson-planning and making up reading lists. When a knock rattled the opaque glass on my office door, I expected to see a colleague on the other side; who else would be around this week? I joked, in a comically stentorian voice, "Enter and be recognized." So she did.

Leslie Montaigne, one of our seniors and a candidate for valedictorian. She was the oldest daughter of a family that was loaded; descended from some French philosopher, campus rumor had it that her father could lay a somewhat questionable claim to a landed title if France ever went back to a monarchy. But why would this entitled little rich girl, the very epitome of la race originelle, be coming in with the freshmen?

"Ms Montaigne, hi. Come in, come in, sit down. Good summer?"

"Tres bon, Mr. H. And yours?"

"Shorter than I expected, if the seniors are already back to campus."

"Oh, no. Summer's ten more days for us. But those of us with assistantships were allowed to come in early to get started."

"That makes sense, and it explains the T-shirt and jeans. Means I don't have to write you up for a uniform infraction... So, where will you be working?"

She looked quizzically at me. "Don't you know, Mr. H.? I'm your assistant this year! I was just coming by to thank you for choosing me and to see if there was anything you wanted me for."

I had to come up with something to say that would cover my amazement and frank excitement. "That's wonderful! I'd asked for an assistant, and I truly couldn't be happier with any other student here." Understatement.

"Me too, Mr. H. I'm really looking forward to working under you." Her voice showed no trace of innuendo. Maybe she didn't intend for it to come out that way, but Lord help me.

This girl was a walking wet dream.

Light brown hair that hung in ringlets below her shoulders, bright hazel eyes. That Southern girl round face with cute dimples when she smiled. Just from the neck up, she was disarmingly pretty, with a glowing complexion.

From the neck down? Pure sex. Huge tits, had to be at least an E cup, big enough to see from behind. Trim waist, flared hips, shapely legs. All in all, the best of both worlds: a slutty supermodel.

"Mr. H., would you mind if I close the door? It's awfully hot out in the hall."

"Of course, go right ahead." Yeah, I wanted an excuse to check her ass out. I wasn't disappointed -- two perfectly tight cheeks seemed stuffed into her jeans, which looked sprayed on anyway. And, was I imagining things, or did she throw a little extra wiggle in there for my benefit?

'Huh. Well, that solves that mystery," she said, turning her face to me, and in the process giving me the most incredible profile of her tits you could imagine.

"Mystery? What are you talking about, Ms Montaigne?"

"This poster of Garcia Marquez on the back of your office door, Mr. H. Half the girls in the senior class have been in your office at one time or another, and someone remarked that none of us had ever seen the back of your door."

I still wasn't sure if she was coming on to me or just extraordinarily naive, so I had to play it cool. "Oh that. First off, full marks for recognizing him. As for the open door thing, the Headmistress wants to avoid a scandal, so I'm supposed to keep the door open, just so no one thinks I'm taking any liberties with one of my students. But, with classes not in session yet, and it being as hot as it is, it's not a big deal this week or next."

"That's a relief, I'm sure. Um, since I'm not taking your class this year, I'm not really one of your students. I guess that means I'll just have to ... submit to whatever kind of liberties you want to take with me, huh, Mr. H.?" Her tone was getting heavier, her innuendoes less ambiguous. She'd settled any internal debate I was having -- I wasn't going to have to seduce her; I could just sit back and let her seduce me.

"Ms Montaigne..."

"Please, Mr. H.," she said, sashaying back towards me before perching on the corner of my desk. "If we're going to be working as ... intimately as I imagine we will, call me Leslie. Unless, of course, you find reason to ... discipline me. In that case, you should call me whatever I deserve to be called."

She was now close enough that I could see the effect that the A/C and her obvious arousal were having on her body. Her nipples were pebbling enticingly, pushing against the already strained cotton of her pale pink T-shirt. That told me something that I found hard to believe; those giant tits were staying perky and high on her chest without a bra. She obviously wanted this, wanted me. And me? Oh, who was I to deny her what she so clearly wanted?

Still, I had to know just exactly how far was she willing to take this. Was she just teasing the old guy, or was she really ready to be taken, by me, under my terms and expressly for my pleasure? "And, just what sort of behaviors might you evince that would occasion me to discipline you?"

"Hypothetically, you mean? Well, for instance, if I were to come to your office with all the buttons of my uniform shirt open and my skirt hiked up to just below my waist, you should call me your whore, since that's what I'd look like."

She slid off my desk and knelt in front of me. "And if I stroked the front of your slacks, begging you to shove your big, thick cock down my throat again and again, then spray jizz all over my face and tits, aching for you to mark me as your property, the obvious thing to call me would be your slut or even your cumslut, since that's what I dream about being, your slut."

She stood up slowly, sliding those huge tits against me all the way up, then hopped back on the desk. "Or, if I'm on my hands and knees, wiggling my ass at you, praying for nothing other than you fucking my pussy and my ass until I can't see straight, you'd just about have to call me your dirty little cunt. But I'm flexible. Throughout this school year, I'm sure we'll come up with all sorts of options. Right, Mr. H.?"

"First, Leslie, when we're alone, it's Professor, or better still, Sir. And second," I grabbed her hair and pulled until her face was mere inches from mine and growled, "when can you start?"

The strength I had used to pull her head had forced a sharp intake of air. That breath came out in a slow and cock-stiffening sigh directly into my ear. "Oh Sir... Do you have any idea how many girls at this school wish they were me right now?"

I yanked her hair back until I could look darkly into her eyes. "If you breathe a word about this to anyone, I will wreck you. And not in the way I'm planning to wreck your tight little cunt that I know is getting wetter by the second. Do you understand me?"

She bit her lower lip and nodded, looking scared, turned on, and scared by how turned on she was.

"Good. Now put those pouty lips to better use than talking, slut." I pushed her head down until she had to get on her knees, eyes level with my belt.

Her hands shook as she undid my belt, unbuttoned my slacks, and slipped them over my hips. Fear? Arousal? Fear, I think, until she saw the bulge inside my boxers; then desire took over. She pulled the boxers down, and her eyes got wide.

"Oh my God, Sir. All the nights I laid in bed, fantasizing about being with you, giving myself to you, letting you take whatever you want from me... I never dreamed you'd be this big!" Her eyes stayed frozen as she stroked me with both hands. In all honesty, my cock isn't that big. Six and a half, seven inches on a good day, pretty thick. No one had ever complained. But if she wanted to think I was the John Holmes of suburban Atlanta, that was fine by me.

"Take your shirt off. Whores can't properly worship my dick unless their tits are on display to me." Her hands flew to the bottom of her shirt. She whipped it off so fast that her tits bounced invitingly, then immediately grabbed my cock again and rubbed it against the side of her face.

"Holy shit! How big are those things?"

Still nuzzling my dick, she said, "EE, Sir, but I rarely wear a bra since they got this big; I'm tough to fit. Does Sir want his little slut to buy some sexy bras so he can show off my tits better? I'd do that for you, Sir. I'll wear whatever naughty outfits my Professor wants to see me in. Would Sir would like to fuck a cheerleader whore? Or a lab assistant with only slutty lingerie on under her lab coat? Maybe Sir wants to tame a dominatrix and make her obey every dirty order he gives her? Would my Professor like that?"

Giving my now rock hard dick a series of gentle kisses up and down the underside of the shaft, she looked up at me, her eyes pleading. "Professor, I've made myself cum so many times, thinking about you making me do depraved things for your pleasure. Sir, please... Please fulfill all my fantasies by forcing me to fulfill all of yours. Tell your worthless cunt what to do. How can your slut please you?"

My eyes blazed. "What I want is for my slut to stop using my cock like a fucking loofah and start sucking it."

She moaned with lust and took me into her mouth. But she didn't suck my cock; she worshipped it. She plunged down, hitting the back of her throat, then opened her mouth, flattened her tongue and licked slowly all the way back up. Over and over again. Then she'd pause, flicking her tongue underneath the crown, before corkscrewing her mouth all the way back to the root. Holding me there and swallowing, her throat caressing my head, her moans got more intense. Suddenly, she released me with an audible pop and stroked me, hard and fast.

I looked down and saw that her eyes had rolled back in her head, and her breaths wete coming in gasps and pants. I grabbed her hair and tilted her head back. "Did my naughty little whore just cum from blowing me?"

"Oh fuck, Sir. I've ... dreamed about ... this so ... many times. And the ... reality ... was so much ... better ... intense ... than I'd even ... thought ... possible. God, Sir. Fuck!"

Unbelievable. She'd just flooded her pussy with her own juices without touching herself. All from the pleasure of sucking my dick. Wow.

"Slut, look up at me." I pulled my cock away from her, and she whimpered but obeyed. I took over, stroking myself hard and fast. I wanted to bathe those giant tits with cum. And she wanted it too.

"Please, Sir. Please cum for me, on me. Cum on my tits, your tits, whenever, however you want them. Stain me, Professor. Show the whole campus that I'm your filthy cumslut by drowning my tits." She pushed them together and held them up, all the while continuing to beg for my cum. And I could tell from the pressure building in my dick that she wouldn't have to beg much longer.