From: cowgirl [cowgirl_stupid@excite.com]
Sent: March11ÈÕ2001ÄêSunday 12:17 AM
To: webmaster@bdsmlibrary.com
Subject: Professor Pamela (pt.4 of 5)
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer (4 of 5)
(F/F, humil., professor/ student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina
(edited and proofed, by cowgirl)
TI didn't write this story, a friend "professor Christina" did. It's the
story of a university professor who manages to explain and rationalize her
bizarre repressed sexual obsession with one of her female students
underwear. Much thanks to "wp", who helped fill in some blanks in this
chapter!
- cowgirl
*****
Professor Pamela Panty Sniffer (4 of 5)
(F/F, humil., professor/ student, panty fetish)
By Professor Christina
Was I overstepping the bounds of student/faculty decorum? Sending that
email left me inexplicably rattled. My heart pounded, I was perspiring,
I was unable to focus my thought...and I had to pee. Of course, Miss
Stern chose that moment to burst into my office.
"Pamela, sit down. We have to talk."
"Yes...fine, Miss Stern, but not just--"
"Pamela. Sit."
My only hope was to keep it short. I could feel my anxiety growing
already, the old fears returning. Calm down, I told myself. Deep
breaths. You CAN control your bladder. You can...
"It's that Margolis girl."
Oh, god, please...
I can't recall any more of the conversation. Couldn't even hear it. No
matter how much I nodded my head, agreed, pleaded, I could not free
myself of it and pursue relief from the pressure in my bladder.
...And then... it happened. When Miss Stern saw the contrite, horrified
look on my face, she stopped talking, and the silence in my little office
was
broken by what I was sure she must be sencing by now.
But worse...infinitely worse...as the warmth of my pee spread within my
panties, around me, under me, and I looked up at the disgustedly aware
grimace on Miss Stern's face, I...
...had an small orgasm. Despite an heroic effort to preserve some shred of
dignity, gasping and shaking, I peed and came right in front of the worst
possible person. I tried convincing she hadn't noticed it, but her
expression said it all.
As my orgasm subsided, Ifought the urg to burst into uncontrollable sobs of
moritfication. MissStern stood up.
"My god, Pamela! What is WRONG with you? I am shocked. SHOCKED! Can it
be that those ugly rumors among the girls are TRUE?"
I knew I should get up and run to the bathroom, But I felt completely
drained of will, trying desperately to achieve denial, somehow withdraw
from this life that was going so wrong. Undo this. Erase it.
"Stand up, for god's sake! Don't ruin your chair any further. Don't
expect ME to clean up after this...this...display. I have NEVER seen
anything like this!"
I was no longer a tenured professor at a prestigious school. I was an
idiot. A stupid little girl who had disappointed everyone. I stood
Miss Stern with pee dripping down my legs from my soaked panties,
flushed and still shaking.
"Well...what are you going to do? Just stand there?"
I can't bring mself to analyze Miss Stern's expression, as I am doing my
best to avoid dwelling on the incident, but there was a transformation.
Her voice had quieted, and I even detected a compassionate, if not mocking
change in her voice. My abject mortification was only intensified. I could
do
nothing but nod through my tears. She spoke to me as if a child:
"Pamela. March to the bathroom, take off those panties, and bring back
some paper towels. Hurry up!"
I marched, the stain on my skirt and the runnels down my legs clearly
visible. As I passed a couple of students in the corridor, I was
horribly aware of the squishing sound emanating from between my legs and
but all I received were a few odd looks and stares. I was so stuningly
regressed
that I didn't even realize I'd failed to wrap up the wet smelly panties
after I took
them off, but stupidly walked back to my office holding them in clear view,
which
did receive several puzzeled snickers and stares from students in the halls.
This, of course, earned yet another exclamation of disgust by Miss Stern,
who'd just returned from her desk while I was away with a plastic bag in her
hand.
"Here, put them in here, leave them here in the middle of your desk,
Pamela. I want you to look at them and think about this for the rest of
the day. Now get to work on the chair and the carpet. God! How does
someone like you get into a respected position like this? It never
ceases to amaze me. Of all the incompetent, basket case, adle-brained
academics I have ever worked for...well...you, Pamela, take the cake.
Wetting yourself right in front of me, and then...well...I can't even SAY
it. You need of help, Pamela. You know that, don't you
Pamela?"
"...DON'T YOU, Pamela?"
"yes...miss stern..."
"Now listen to me, Pamela. That little Margolis slut is on her way over
here. You will make it clear that she is either to comply with my
standards of dress and attitude, or lose her position in my office.
Is that clear, Pamela?"
"yes...miss stern..."
"Good. I am taking the rest of the day off because I can't stand to be
around you right now, and I have some personal business to attend to. I
do not want to return tomorrow to an office smelling of urine. Do you
understand me?"
"yes...I understand." I whispered as I winced at the soiled panties, mocking
me from my office desk.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
___________
I awoke the next morning, sheets soaked and twisted around me, drenched in
sweat, teeth clenched, exhausted and feeling like I hadn't slept at all. I
was panting, but it was muffled, and I was barely able to breathe. I was
smothering, in fact, with ichy, wet hunks off hair plastered to my cheeks,
my
stuffy nose buried in the pillow, my dry mouth sucking on a corner of it.
My
lower back, butt and thigh muscles all ached, my legs sprawled and spread
wide, both my arms pinned beneath me, fingers of both hands crammed between
my swampy labia, my head swimming with swirling faces of Cindy. Cindy
scrunching up her face, scowling in disgust. Cindy smiling sweetly, then
smirking mockingly. Cindy snidely sneering at me. Even if she made me call
her Miss Margolis in her letters, I still resisted doing so in my private
thoughts!
As they swirled around each other--up and down, in and out, side to side,
front to back--the jarring images seemed to be jeering at me, yet goading me
on, like some grotesquely gaudy, tauntingly tawdry carnival game that I'd
been playing and playing, and losing and losing, and kept playing anyway.
A
game I knew was rigged, hated to be suckered into playing in the first
place,
but simply had to keep playing as it depleted my pocketbook, took every cent
I had, and then sent me away, dazed, demoralized, devastated and dead broke
.
. . desperately seeking a place to use my bankcard so I could go back again,
before the carnival closed down.
Dragging my arms from beneath me, untangling myself from my sheets, I
crawled
out of bed, woozy, teetering, and stumbled toward the bathroom, craving a
shower. But on my way, I glanced to the side at the blank computer screen
bleakly staring back at me from the desk I had snuggled into the window nook
of the bedroom, where I'd set up the smaller, more intimate of my two home
studies. (The other, with the library, occupied what was intended as a
dining room, for those who had social occasions to use them as such, which I
did not.)
Veering and staggering to the desk, I turned the computer on, waiting
impatiently for it to boot up. Leaning against the chair, gripping its arms
tightly to prop my weary body up on my sagging legs like a decrepit old
woman
clinging to her walker, I glanced up and squinted against the sunlight
pouring in through the three large, uncurtained windows of the alcove.
Someone might see in, I admonished myself, as I quickly crossed my arms to
cover my breasts, quivering beneath the clinging, wet nylon of my sheer,
white nightgown, my nipples hard as pebbles. As I pulled my chair out and
stepped around to sit, my legs were hampered by my damp panties, which I
suddenly noticed were pulled down and twisted around my thighs.
Grunting in disgust, I tugged my panties up and plopped down on the chair,
clicking on my ISP icon as I settled in the chair, feeling the damp nylon of
my panties and nightgown beneath me, smelling my own dank, sweaty, musky
odor, wondering if I should have put a towel down on the seat first. But as
the sign-on screen caught my attention, a sense of giddy anticipation shoved
all my other shameful, dreadful thoughts out of my head and my fingers
hurriedly typed in my password and clicked to sign on. INVALID PASSWORD?!
Ugh! I was an invalid, alright. My fingers in an ungangly flurry, tried to
type it again, but fumbled, had to delete it and then forced myself to do it
slowly and deliberately, one finger and one key at a time.
My musky odor annoyingly wafted up from the keyboard, from my fingers, and,
as one hand went to the modem, to click open my email, I found my other hand
had drifted up beneath my nose and I was sniffing my fingers. UGH! For
God's sake! I thought--no, actually said out loud. Then my eyes intently
scanned my new email. Four from administrative offices at the university,
one from a professional association, one from a publisher, two from
professional collegues and . . . and that's all. None from Cindy. Nothing
from Cindy.
My heart sunk, and I felt a lump forming in my parched throat. Taking a
deep
breath, letting it out in a slow sigh, I openned the last, and then the
first, in the list of emails. Not to read them. I was utterly uninterested
in what they might say. Just to see the times they were sent, as if,
somehow, I might detect that my email service had shut down during the night
when Cindy might have tried to email me her response, but been unable to.
The sheer thought that of that unlikely prospect, as irrational as it was,
made me queasy with worry that--distraught; tender, fragile heart in her
hand, gingerly reaching out--the poor, vulnerable girl had poured her
wrenching heart out to me for hours in an email, only to have it abruptly
bounced back at her, returned undeliverable because of some insidious,
cruelly inscrutible electronic mishap.
I quickly turned to reach for the phone, intending to call her. Apologize
if
I'd woken her. Apologize for intruding. Ask her if she'd tried to email
me
last night. Apologize if my ISP somehow malfunctioned and returned or lost
her email to me. Or perhaps mine to her. Assuring her I'd wrote and sent
her one last night. Promising to resend it if she didn't receive it.
Apologizing if she'd received it but hadn't had time to write a reply or
even
read it yet. . . .
Had she even read it yet? I wondered. Of course, I thought. But, maybe . .
. . I returned to the computer to check the status of the email I'd sent.
Yes, she'd read it, within an hour of when I'd sent it, according to the
times indicated. I was relieved for a moment, then suddenly very sad.
She'd
read it nearly ten hours ago, yet not a word back, not even to acknowledge
she'd received it and would respond later, when she'd thought about it some
more, had more time, wasn't so tired . . . . But she didn't respond, I
glumly reminded myself again, as my thoughts slowed and swung back to that
deeply, forlornly resonant note like a long clapper finally clanging on the
other side of a huge bell.
Maybe she'd rather talk to me in person, or over the phone, I pondered. And
then I remembered I didn't even have her phone number. I didn't remember if
I'd seen a phone number in her file or not, and was just about to call up
her
file when I paused.
What was I doing? What was I thinking? What was wrong with me, anyway?
This was a student! A teenager barely out of high school. One I'd been
advising. One whom I'd barely talked to in person except that first day in
my office, and that night when she'd come to use my bathroom, and . . . .
What was I doing?
Shaking my head wildly, my damp hair flying, like a dog shaking off after a
swim, I signed off, lurched up and headed for the shower. In a remote sort
of way, the shower did feel vaguely good. But I felt miserable--frazzled,
achey, weary, dazed, confused. I forced myself the run my daily planner in
my head, rehearsing the sequence of anticipated scenerios, potential
problems
and responses--my usual morning mental routine while I showered, put on my
make-up, and got dressed, before a soothing half-hour with my coffee and
newspaper to gather and poise myself for the day ahead. But each scenerio
was interrupted by some unexpected abut antipicated encounter with Cindy,
and
phrases from my email to her ran into and over the words of each news story,
until, by the time I had to leave for school, I didn't remember a thing I'd
read in the paper, what classes I had to teach, what I had to do to prepare
for them, what appointments or meetings I had, or anything else that I was
supposed to be doing that day. Just running into Cindy walking to class,
running into Cindy in the hall, running into Cindy walking through campus,
running into Cindy in the department office, in my office . . . . As if my
whole day would be a relentless series of chance encounters with Cindy, with
me fumbling for what to say, compelling me to plan out each contingency of
where we might meet and what I could or should say.
I barely remember teaching my first class, or the second one, for that
matter--and improvised an unscheduled video to show for each, so I wouldn't
have to think or say much anyway. I went by the department office and my
own
before and after the first class, and, with no sign of Cindy, skipped my
scheduled office hours, walked out and wandered around campus before my
second class, hoping I might see her. I ran all kinds of speculative
worries
about her and her reaction to my email through my head, as if I were a
walking crisis-line worker fielding calls with lives on the line.
Then I saw her walking toward me from the direction of the dorms. Idlely
strolling, her hips swaying, casually glancing here and there, she didn't
seem to see me at first and I hastened my step in case she turned onto one
of
the intersecting walks branching off to either side. Then, about twenty
yards from me, she stopped, stood still, facing me, staring straight at me,
her face impassive, unexpressive. I lifted my hand to wave and opened my
mouth to call out to her, hesitating a moment while I feebly fumbled for the
right words and tone, and she abruptly turned around and headed back toward
the dorms. I finally blurted out "Cindy" in a hoarse little yelp, but she
just kept walking away; a bit more briskly, I thought, but I might have
imagined that. I know my heart sunk again; my pulse quickened, and so did
my
breathing, which thickened noticeably too. For a few steps I picked up my
pace and considered giving chase, but my next class was starting soon and I
had to at least set up the video.
Though it made me several minutes late to class, I hurriedly re-checked my
email for a response from Cindy, as I already had three times that morning,
and would ten or twelve more times before the day was out. I had a
committee
meeting at the end of the day that I dreaded but couldn't avoid--I chaired
the committee and had called the meeting--so I rushed through the minimum of
business, rescheduled the rest for the next meeting, and then made one last
stop at my office to check my email one more time.
I sat down at my desk, and paused before grabbing the mouse, staring at the
screen-saver fish swimming back and forth on the monitor, and at my own
reflection on the screen, wondering which looked stupider, me or the fish.
I
felt foolish and more than a bit embarrassed about myself, for the umpteenth
time that day. The way I, a 37 year old psychology professor had been
numbly
bumbling my way through the day, head buzzing, heart flip-flopping, tummy
queasy and tumbling, as I achingly pined and swooned, like some lovesick
schoolgirl over this . . . schoolgirl. Then, for the umpteenth time again
that day, I furrowed my brow, burrowed my eyes to stare intently straight
ahead at nothing in particular as everything in front of me fell out of
focus, into a blur. Bit my lip, chewed it worriedly, and ran urgent
crisis-manager contingencies through my head. Not my crisis, mind you.
But
rather the perpetually permutating traumas I imagined my poor tormented
little Cindy must be enduring as she, I shuddered in empathetic anguish,
courageously struggled on, too stubbornly proud and independent, or too
bruised and scared, to open up and respond to me, to accept my help and
comfort. . . .
My eyes welled with tears as I imagined her mounting fears, pictured her
exquisite face contorted by countless, relentless torments. And then,
abruptly, I took a deep, loud, long breath and blew it out slowly, at a
yoga-trained pace, thrust my shoulders back, straighted my posture, mustered
my composure, and gathered all the grimly determined strength I had in me.
For Cindy. For whatever it took to get this poor, sweet, innocent,
vulnerable little girl through whatever ordeals she'd have to endure,
whatever struggles lay ahead, to make whatever horrid ordeals that had
happened to her into, by God, a growth experience--a positive, expansive
growth experience in which she'd come out stronger and better than ever
before.
The power and glory of everything I held to be good, right and dear
re-affirmed for me, filling me, empowering me now, I re-focused intensely on
monitor screen, reached out and gripped the mouse firmly, swiping the
swimming fish away, and clicked on my ISP icon like I was targeting missles
for nuclear war. The war imagery jarred me, and for a moment I was thrown
off task wondering how masculine culture had twisted and scarred even a
devout pacifist feminist like me. I blinked, brushed a tear out of my
eyelash, noticed the smudge on my finger, and scowled in annoyance at how
heavy I'd applied my mascara that day--then shook my head and entered my
password, my newly painted nails hitting half the wrong keys.
Groaning impatiently, I deleted and punched out my password
again--DUMBCUNT--one key and finger at a time.
(I know, I know. What kind of password is that for a feminist professor?
Well, precisely! We're always being told to use passwords nobody could
guess, but you can remember without writing them down. And, when I never
could remember any of those jumbles of meaningless symbols, I thought, who
would ever think me, of all people, would use DUMBCUNT as my password?)
I took another deep breath, then held it, when I opened my email account.
My
heart sunk. Nothing from Cindy again. Just another couple of memos from
administrative offices, one from a committee, and a piece of spam. Or so I
thought at first glance. A closer look revealed it was an electronic
greeting
card . . . from Cindy!
My heart rose again and fluttered, along with tummy, and then my lashes
as I felt my eyes mist over. Blinking to clear my eyes, I took another
breath,
anxiously openned the email and clicked on the greeting card address. How
cute and sweet of her I thought, as I squirmed a little in my chair, and
watched
the card gradually emerge, gathering resolution down my screen, with the
giddy anticipation of a little girl opening the first of her birthday
presents.
"Pamela Snyder, PH.D." it boldly revealed, scrolled
across the top of the card, with ivy embroidered around the top corners and
down the sides. IVY, I marveled, how clever of her, feeling exhilerated as
I
anticipated some sort of thank-you card expressing her heart-felt
appreciation for helping her through her crisis.
Then I saw the hair, the head, the humorless face--it was me! but I wished
she'd used a picture of me smiling. Oh well. I wonder where she got it,
anyway?
--the shoulders, lapels--wearing the grey pinstripe jacket of my very
favorite
professional "power suit"!. Deep cleavage (cleavage?), framed in the frilly
white lace
trim of my push-up bra (push-up bra? where was my white silk blouse?), the
bulging of my breasts thrusting up and virtually bursting out of my
jacket (my god, they look obscene!). The tail of my jacket--why was I
bending over like that? I never posed for this picture!. My bare bottom
sticking out--bare bottom! My ruffled white underpants--I haven't worn any
ruffled underpants! (at least not since I was five)--sagging around my
knees, with a big, wet, yellow stain--UGH!!!--soggily drooping just below
the
tops of my white knee socks--what?! kneesocks with a pin-stripe power
suit?--
themselves tucked neatly into my black-patent MaryJanes (I have not even
OWNED a pair of MaryJanes since, what? third grade? ) What in the world
was
this?! I thought, my face flushed in anger, shame and embarrassment at this
clearly artificially manipulated photo of my face and upper suit, and some
pornograph stranger's body in these lurid clothes, designed to infantalize
and
humiliate me, which it is was quite effectively doing.
I quickly turned and looked back toward the open door of my office to make
sure no one was looking. No one was, but I lurched up and rushed to close
and lock the door anyway. I scurried back to the screen, frantically
wondering how this had happened and why and what it meant, desperately
wanting not to believe that Cindy could do this to me, and if so, as was
apparent, why?! The picture was now complete and fully resolved. And
across the bottom was scrolled the words:
"Her PH.D. standing for Panties Hardly Dry.
Specializing in Gender, Sexuality, and Panty-Wetting. Having acquired the
status of Associate Professor, Pamela has always aspired to be a Full
Professor for which she will acquire a new speciality and desire to be known
as Professor Pamela Panty-Sniffer."
_______________________________________________________
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