The Calculus Tutorial

This is a brief piece of fiction. It was started off as a writing assignment by "n" who was unable to finish it. This piece also provided "j" with the first opportunity to practice the art of editing. But if there are defects in the story they are solely the fault of E.E. Norcod who is always to blame for things that go wrong. Any resemblance to anyone, living or dead exists only in the mind of the reader.

Part One

The Walk

I am fuming as I walk toward the math building across the cool dark campus. I should be at the best party of the fall but instead I have to meet for some sort of a bizarre tutorial session with my creepy Calculus instructor. Ok, I have to admit that I didn't study as intensely for that first exam as I should have. But I don't think it was fair to take all of those points off for not showing the intermediate steps in the derivations. Shit! That fall wind blew right up my short skirt and without any undergarments – no panties or pantyhose – it is shockingly cold. All I have on beneath this black sheath dress is a black tricot half-slip and that is not that much protection. Ordinarily I would not wear a slip with a dress this short but ordinarily I would have on panties and pantyhose. And this slip is not working all that well at keeping my skirt from riding up. When this damn dress rides up it shows a whole bunch of damn slip hem and I bet that the tops of my stockings are showing. And probably not just stocking is showing but a flash of naked thigh as well. Damn, damn, damn it's cold.

My heels click and clack furiously on the cobblestone pathway as I finally approach my destination. The big old Live Oak trees cast really weird shadows in the sodium vapor lights and I glance over my shoulder to see if anybody is following me. How did I get myself in this situation? I pull down the hem of my dress once again, self conscious of my nakedness underneath. Still, if a little spanking is all it will take to get out of this academic mess, I can handle it. No big deal. Ok, I'm finally here and I don't think any of my friends have seen me. The door at the back of the building is old and it looks like it is rarely used. On my first attempt to unlock it I drop the key that I found in my mailbox yesterday. God Damn Son of a Bitch, Fuck! am I nervous. Ok, I hate to admit it, but I am scared, real scared. Without thinking I bend over to grope for the key. Only then do I realize that if anybody is looking I am giving them the 'beaver shot' of the semester with this short skirt and my unclad bottom. I squat down and eventually, OK, my fingers find the key. I fumble as I work the key into the lock. Finally, with a good deal of pressure, the key turns. The door opens with a creak into a dimly lit stairwell which descends into darkness. My heels click and clack on the stone steps as I wobble down on feet unfamiliar with descending stair in really high heels.

It is pitch black at the base of the stairs. I run my hands along the wall in search of a light switch in the usual place. No luck. Suddenly, a very low wattage fluorescent light palely flickers to life. I let out a short yipping scream and clutch the hem of my all too short skirt as He appears right in front of me. He looks pretty creepy by day, six foot four inches with long arms. He is all massive shoulders, pot belly and sagging ass in the oblique dim light. He never seems to be clean shaven and His reeking breath can sicken you from half way across the classroom. And in the dimly lit basement He looks a lot worse. He looks extremely pleased with himself. "I'm glad you took me up on my little offer my dear." he gloats with a smug smile on his pitted face. "Follow me." he commands and He begins to walk with that particular squat waddle of His down the hallway. I walk down the hall, clicking and clacking, holding the hem of my dress, thinking of the nakedness of my down-under and dreading the ordeal to come.

I've disliked Him since the first day of class when I laid my unfortunate eyes on him. No matter where I would sit in the lecture hall, it seemed like His eyes were finding me. His mouth would be lecturing about Calculus but His eyes would be telling me something else. Those pig eyes would be stripping away clothing. Normally, being oriental and naturally small breasted, I don't wear a bra. But when ever He gets the chance He calls me up to the front of the room to work an integral at the blackboard. I can feel those pig eyes stripping off my tee shirt and tweaking my nipples. I started wearing one of the only two bras I own to calculus class. I suspect that He must mentally do that to all of us but somehow I seem to feel it more acutely than the others. Each day, the first class slot after lunch, my stomach roils as I sit in that overheated classroom.

As I clicked and clacked my way down that seeming endless terrazzo basement corridor I think of that first exam. That exam was a mental agony the likes of which I have never experienced before in my life. As I sit there in the blond wooden chair-desk, I can feel His eyes undressing me. He is stripping off my jeans and lifting off my tee shirt. He is unhooking my bra and slowly pulling down my panties. I can even feel Him slipping off my shoes and pulling off my socks. I look at the exam paper and the numbers started swirling around. I can even feel His eyes probing into my most private places, stroking my clitoris and my inner labia. He is poking into my vagina and anus. Five minutes into that exam I am sweating, salivating and I feel sick to my stomach. And strangely, my genitals are becoming hot, tumescent and wet. I can feel the wetness seeping into my panties. I swallow hard but I can not keep the equations from moving across the page as all my mind can focus on is my clitoris. My genitals seem to be on fire. That one hour exam seems to last the entire afternoon and I swear it is getting dark when He says "TIME". I throw my one-third-complete paper at him, run into the lavatory, fling open the door to the stall and, covered in sweat, heave my completely undigested lunch into the commode. And when I can heave no more, I finally get around to latching the door of the stall. I pull my jeans and sodden panties all the way down to my ankles and sit on the commode, my sweat soaked tee shit clinging to my chest and back. And I masturbate with an urgency I had never felt before. I don't just stroke my clitoris with my right hand but in a frenzy I rub my labia as well. Such is my abandon that finally I stick three fingers of my right hand into my vagina and crank away like hell. I am sure that anyone walking into the ladies washroom must hear my moans and thrashing but I am uncaring of my environment. Such is my need. And the worse part of it is, that now, as I hobble on my high heels down this dark basement hallway, my genitals are starting to swell and burn again with the same intensity.

As I wobble down the hall on my shaky ankles, I am reliving the next day after that exam. I approach the bulletin board across from the lecture hall with trepidation. Oh god, there it is, my student number and my grade. 273-48-3321 and 51, highlighted in red. Three other student numbers are also highlighted, three other girls I later find out. And down at the bottom of the page is written in red ink, "The four students whose grades are posted in red are to see me immediately after the lecture today". I have the lowest grade in the class but there are four of us down there in the fifties. And that god-damned exam wet pussy bothers me still. I hate Him with a passion that goes beyond words. The four of us stand silently outside His office at two o'clock that afternoon. A silent, sweating line. Since I had the lowest grade, I have to wait until after the other three girls. I don't remember them well except that two are blond and real cute and the third is, like me, an Oriental. But my stomach is churning too much to really do much thinking. These thoughts and memories fill my mind as I click and clack after Him this evening. Him and His lumbering gait. Down that damn dim basement hall toward that inevitable room where my 'tutorial' awaits. What I expect will be a tutorial in pain and humiliation. He said I need tutoring in math. That afternoon He asked "Will I accept it?" Of course I will, what choice do I have? That afternoon as I sit there in His cluttered hole of an office, my genitals start to inflame again. He says the tutorials were very strict. I say "no problem". What choice do I have. He says He will e-mail me with the details, times, conditions, requirements, preparations. When I left the office I once again run to the ladies room. At least this time I don't vomit. But the crotch of my panties are soaking once again. And once again, in a frenzy, I masturbate. And now this evening I am walking behind him down this hall and my pussy is starting to drip. Once again I pull down that god-damned fucking hem of this all-too-short skirt of this tight black son-of-a-bitchin black sleeveless cocktail dress. And the worst thing of all is that I can feel the juice from my privates on the naked inner surface of my thighs.