Mindscape · Part 1

Mindscape · Part 1 (1/2)
Next

He sometimes watches her as she sits in the Math Lounge, a place she seems to always be between classes, or during spare hours on campus; often, she is even there in the evenings, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of groups of men who, for the most part, treat her in a warm, friendly, but platonic manner. There is nothing specifically striking in her appearance, but she seems enclosed within a sphere that hints at something much more intriguing beneath its surface. She remains apart from the crowd, though there is no hint of aloofness in her manner.

Yet there is something in her which smoulders, that seems to draw the notice of others, always somehow managing to disturb their peace of mind. It isn't that there are no other women in the lounge; many of them are far more attractive than she, or better dressed; rather, her casual, comfortable clothes, and the dishevelled look of her hair instead suggest the attitude and glow of someone recently come from the bed of a lover. That smouldering sensation is one of complete, innate sensuality, brindling occasionally to a full-blown, but not tawdry, sexuality.

Such dynamicism must surely be felt by every male – and even by more than a few of the females – within the confines of the lounge, even though they may be unable to pinpoint the source of the effect.

As he watches, she shifts, from time to time, alternately stretching her long body from the seat to the table, or curling, feline-like, into a tight corner of one of the lounge couches, feet tucked under her body. To watch her, one would not necessarily agree that anything she did in particular could be called "graceful"; there was, however, an undeniably attractive elegance in her sense of motion. It was easy to see that her movements were unconscious; she moved to ease stress, or make herself more comfortable in the same casual, unthinking way a cat would, unconcerned – even unaware – of the efect she had on others.

There are times when he cannot take his eyes off her, despite the card wars raging among his friends around him; he finds his mind follows tracks for which his normal studies leave lamentably little time. He is by no means uneducated in the subtler, more pleasurable, human sciences, but approaching an unknown out of nowhere is usually not his style, though he admits to himself that it has its own interesting connotations. So patiently, he waits, and watches for something – anything – that would allow him the slightest opportunity to engage in a more intimate interaction. Sometimes the waiting becomes a spectrum of delicious frustration.

Illicit thoughts come to his mind, unbidden, and block out the white noise and sights of the room and crowds around him. He sees scenarios of approaches and more. He pictures doing things to her body, and of places he could take her, many of them within the same building. He formulates countless plans, and counts formless ideas, marking his time until everything falls into place with an almost amused, mysterious expression on his face.

She knows the power she could have over men if she wishes. Granted, she has never been one to consider herself a beauty, but given the interest or the inspiration, it would not be difficult to have any man who appealed to her. Most of the time, however, she didn't think of herself as being in the hunting mode; rather, she preferred to pick a target and manipulate him into making the advances. That way, she never had to take the upper hand, which suited her just fine.

He is watching again, she notices, though she makes no attempts to initiate some sort of recognition. As always, her face is impassive, with neither invitation nor rebuttal in her expression. For the moment, she has chosen to ignore him; hunting is not a high priority for her this day, so the seat she has chosen in the lounge, which is now emptying just prior to another class, is with her back to him, several seating-groups away. With a small, private smile, she acknowledges to herself the fact that his eyes are hot on her head, and then turns her thought to other matters.

Time passes; denizens and regulars file in and out of the lounge throughout the day, as do they themselves. Towards the middle afternoon, he watches her come in from the cold, to sit down across the room, with her back to him. She takes off her boots and coat, pulls a book out of her knapsack, and settles in, in no particular hurry to be anywhere. It is a Wednesday; he knows she will be around until sometime near six. His friends notice his distraction, but when questioned, he only laughs and says to them that he is working on a new project in his mind. The afternoon wears on; soon there are only a dozen or so people around the lounge, including the two of them.

He has worked himself up to a keen tension, a certain level of arousal which would soon begin demanding a release. For sometime now, he has been waiting to act, and with pressure mounting, he becomes certain that the time is at hand. He watches, marking time with the pages of an engineering textbook he has barely looked at all day, the weight of which has become tantalizingly uncomfortable against his lap in recent hours. He waits, until…

She has reached the end of a chapter in her book, and sets it aside, glancing out the wide windows, shifting restlessly. Rising, she crosses the room to the pop machines for something to do, and taking the cold can it gives her, returns to her seat, but she does not pick up her book. Instead, she shuffles through the contents of her pack, fidgetting, feeling almost bored, and waiting for time to pass, so that she might move on to her plans for the evening. She stretches, a luxurious feeling that brings every muscle in her back and shoulders and arms back to life.

At full reach, she wiggles her fingers, then throws her feet across the coffee table to stretch them also, wiggling her toes as well. Wriggling into a more comfortable position, with her feet now tucked up beneath her, she stretches her arms along the back of the couch until the strain across her shoulders becomes too much, then brings her arms back to clasp her hands behind her neck, fingers laced under her hair.

She is somewhat startled by a firm grip enclosing on her joined wrists. There is an irrepressable, instinctive twitch of her pleasure centres; the contact is unfamiliar, but the potential meaning of the contact is not. Given her current position, she becomes very aware of a sense of vulnerablity, and something far more intense: an immediate sense of arousal. Without turning to look, she is aware of a head approaching her own, and instantly there is the feel of breath at her ears, and lips, gently tickling the hair that covers her ears as it is brushed aside.

The whisper, the unexpected but anticipated approach that would seal her fate, caressed her senses as it spoke: "You have a dilemma here. You are vulnerable, and I have control," it says, a bare smile almost audible in its tone. "Does this bother you?" "That depends on your definition of 'bothered'", she replies. He gives her wrists a sharp squeeze; she must squirm to keep from gasping aloud. "I can't allow that kind of attitude," he muses. "How should I discipline you?" When she does not respond, he crushes her wrists in his grip almost brutally, feeling her body both tense and radiate heat in response. "What should I do?" he repeats.

As the familiar trembling starts, she replies, "As you wish." The grip releases her, but something compels her to leave her arms where they are; nor does she turn to look at the one who commands her. "Gather your things," he orders, standing up behind her. Obediently, she puts her book away, and picks up her coat and gloves. In her periphery, she sees him well enough to be satisfied with obvious physical details, but she makes no attempt to either regard or confront him outright. She has given without question thus far, and would see it through. When she is ready, she turns to him, eyes downcast as is proper.

He motions for her to proceed him from the lounge, and once out into the grand hallway, he turns her in the direction of the elevators. All during the wait for the elevator, he takes the time to admire her long, muscular legs, rounded buttocks, the curve of her back beneath her sweater; he likes the way in which her hair seems to spread across the top half of her back in soft, layered waves, and has to give himself a stern warning so as not to run his hands through that lovely mane. Not yet, at least. The car arrives, and they get in. There are no other passengers as he punches the button for the sixth floor, noted for the maze of professors' offices and twisting, turning hallways.

She stands inside, uncertain of what to do. Roughly, he reaches out as the doors close, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulls her to him, kissing her with something bordering on fury. He opens her mouth with her tongue, pleased and aroused by her acquiesance, but refusing to allow her any response. As her tongue moves shyly towards his own, he breaks the kiss and shoves her roughly away. "Face the doors," he orders, and as she turns, he delivers a stinging spank to her undefended rear. She cringes slightly, but does not break the posture.

There is no one in sight when they step out of the elevator. Taking a quick look around, he satisfies himself with the emptiness of the hallway, then turns to her. "You will take off your sweater," he tells her as he runs his hands over her breasts, squeezing them gently, "then you will get down on all fours and follow me. You can carry you pack in your mouth." Her eyes widen at this command, and she glances apprehensively down the lighted hall. The delay in responding to his command is met with a sharp slap across her right cheek, causing tears to obscure her vision.

In spite of this, she feels a wet warmth coursing through her groin, and knows that she would not disobey, even had she wanted to. He compells her, and she is his. She drops what she is carrying and slips the sweater over her head. Getting everything into an easily carried bundle is a more difficult matter, and further delay brings further spankings. Granted, the cloth of her pants is enough to take away most of the shock, but enough comes through anyways to cause fresh tears to mark her face. When she is ready, he turns and walks briskly down the hall and turns a corner; she must scurry to follow him, lest she get lost in the labyrinth on offices.

As it is, he has waited for her around the corner. He has taken off his thin belt, and now brings its leather tongue down across her lower back, hard enough to sting and leave a welt, but nowhere near hard enough to break the skin. He has no intent of causing any serious or permanent injury to a body he admires so much.

In this way he shepherds her far from the elevators, until they finally come to a stop before the door of a corner office. They have encountered no one in the halls. Ignoring her, he pulls a small set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door, steps inside, and closes the door. She is left alone in the hall, and now she can hear distant voices approaching. Her fervent if silent prayers are left unheeded as two men walk past the entrance to her hallway. One of them glances in her direction; his step falters, and he stops, as does his friend, who, following his stare, also now sees her. "Are you all right, miss?" asks the first, taking a tentative step towards her.

She nods and smiles, holding a finger to her lips, hoping they don't come close enough to see her back and ask uncomfortable questions. She decides to take a risk in speaking, even with her commander on the other side of the door. "It's a surprise," she explains in a stage whisper. "It's his birthday, and you kind of caught me off guard in mid-preparation." The two men suddenly go very red, making many excuse-mes, and leave, wishing her luck. Once they have gone, silence returns, and she forces herself to wait, in spite of the ache in her back, the bruises on her knees, and the fire between her legs.

Mindscape · Part 1 (1/2)
Next