I felt awkward in my slutty glamour gear. Left to myself for a moment, I fumbled with the garters and marveled at the way the top of the corset held up my tits, making them spill over the top, offering them as if on a platter.
While I was thus absorbed, Professor Blackthorne quietly came up behind me. His voice made me jump. “Oh dear; your arse is starting to lose its colour.” Before I could even ready myself, he planted a slap on one of my asscheeks. It caught me off guard, and the skin was tender; I shrieked, and came very close to falling over. But my cunt grew hot again.
As he continued to spank me, and my arousal grew, I became brave enough to turn my head around and watch. I took in his look of relaxed attention, the way the slap of his hand made my flesh ripple with the impact, the rosy blush of my ass. But then: “I didn’t give you permission to turn your head, (slap!) cheeky girl.” I whirled my head back around and snapped it straight forward. He heaved a heavy sigh and gave me a couple more hard spanks. The sting was almost overwhelming, and I whimpered softly.
Finally, he stopped and directed me to kneel. “Do you see those shoes I’ve left on the floor? Bring them to me.” He hadn’t told me to rise, so I crawled across the carpet as gracefully as I could. When I reached the shoes, I spontaneously put them in my mouth and crawled back, like a pet dog bringing her Master his slippers. When I presented them to the professor, he said, “I am genuinely impressed by your initiative, Kate. Very impressed.”
The corset prevented me from bending over to put the shoes on, so Professor Blackthorne did it himself. Once again, I felt awkward sitting as he knelt before me, like something in the universe had gone topsy-turvy. He saw the expression on my face, paused, and said, “You know, Kate, physical positions are only a symbol of the reality. Regardless of who is sitting and who is kneeling, you know that I am in control of you. Don’t you.”
It was a statement, not a question, but I breathed, “Yes, Sir,” feeling his power wash over me like a cool breeze.
“Now stand.”
I rose, wobbling a little, on the five-inch heels. I held out my arms to keep my balance, and the professor slipped a pair of elbow-length black gloves onto me. He led me to the mirror, and a stupid grin spread over my face as I took in my appearance. “And now the finishing touch,” said the professor. He handed me a compact of powder and gestured to a small box of cosmetics on the table.
I was at a loss. “I hardly ever wear makeup,” I said. “I don’t even know how to put it on.”
“Oh, come now,” he said, “You’re a smart girl.” He led me to sit down.
Cautiously, and with Professor Blackthorne watching over my shoulder, I made myself up. My undergraduate art classes came in handy now. I decided to pretend that, with makeup instead of acrylic paints, I was superimposing the face of a porn model on top of a plain grad student. By increments, my appearance changed. I didn’t even recognize the woman who looked back at me from the compact mirror…but she was glamorous and beautiful, and I was
definitely attracted to her.
