“I’m a man of science, Gale. My mind thrives on empirical truths and patterns.”

His thumbs dug into my thighs as he stood between my knees, the polished wood of his desk warming against my skin through my stockings. Fishnets, as requested. We’d been talking, dancing this dance, touching for nearly an hour, the penultimate moments of months of flirtation. I leaned back on the heels of my hands, feet swinging languidly aside his legs as he looked at me, one red leather Mary Jane dangling delicately from my toe.His gaze was heavy and dominant, never leaving my eyes, and if it wouldn’t have betrayed his cool demeanour he might have licked his chops like a cartoon wolf. That look, those eyes, he was every schoolgirl fantasy come to life and had been since he first winked at me as he handed out the syllabus on the first day of Fall Term. His surname was Riley but he’d earned the nickname “Professor Thighly” because of his notorious fetish for stockings. Rumour had it that dozens of girls over the years had padded their grade point averages with little more than a skimming hemline and a tidy garter. The bolder among them had apparently indulged deeper with him, his skills as a commanding but not unkind lover were legendary. It was said that Riley was wild for pussy and although I didn’t give a fuck about his advanced maths course, I did want that square jaw firmly between my legs and his massive hands holding me open.

With a sudden jerk, he pulled me closer to the edge of the desk and his eyes softened at my gasp.

“Don’t worry, the door is locked. No one lurks in these dusty old lecture halls this late on a Friday except for very keen students. And you are keen, aren’t you, Gale?”

“The keenest.”

I flashed a taunting smile and he crouched between my legs, fingertips slowly taking in the texture of the fishnet along the outside of my legs, caressing thigh, then calf, then slowly plucking my shoes from my feet and letting them drop to the floor. He cradled my heels in his palms and then began inching his fingers up the inside of my calves. I winced as he neared my knees, quivering with anticipation and the teasing tickle as his hands climbed higher. He paused, his breath warm against my thigh.

“You’re an arts major, aren’t you, Gale?” He didn’t pause for my reply. “Are you familiar then, with the 19th C French painter Gustave Courbet?”

I swallowed hard, knowing exactly where he was going with his question.

“Yes ….?”
“Yes, Sir.”

He smiled and began to gently knead the flesh of my thighs, his thumbs moving ever closer to the dark dampness between them, my swollen sex beginning to push out between the panes of the stocking’s threads.

“And what is the name of Courbet’s most famous painting?”
“‘L’origine du monde’, Sir.”
“And what scene does it so lushly depict, Gale?”

His thumbs were stroking my fattened lips through the fishnets, I could feel the backs of my knees sweating.

“A nude woman, Sir. The foreground shows her vulva, her spread legs.”
“Very good, Gale. Are you surprised your mathematics Professor knows about art?”
“No, Sir.”
“Art has always fascinated me, particularly how it parallels math and science at times, but mathematics is my true muse.”

Still crouching, he plucked at the taut stocking cutting into my upper thigh.

“Your stockings are unusual. Not the typical diamond pattern, these are hexagons.” His finger traced the six sided shape, mesmerized.
“We haven’t covered fractals yet in class, Gale. Do you know what a fractal is?”

I paused slightly before whispering the definition.

“A fractal is a curve or geometric figure, each part of which has the same statistical character as the whole.”

His tongue glided roughly across the net, his breathing grew heavier, his voice thickened with lust.

“Very good, Gale. Did you know they can describe random or chaotic phenomena? Some theories even link them to the patterns that make up galaxy formations.”

His right hand moved from my leg to open a heavy drawer and he brought out a large pair of scissors. He spread my legs and began to make precise snips to my stockings. The metal was deliciously cool as he cut away the delicate netting.

“These stockings, (snip) the pattern repeats, each hexagon (snip) is at the center (snip) of a ring of six hexagons, that make up a larger, (snip) perfect hexagon. As you multiply, it can go on forever,(snip) the pattern can (snip) expand this way, infinitely, (snip) each single part representing it’s whole. Poetic, isn’t it?”

With one last snip he held up a perfect hexagon of hexagons, like a damp, black doily cut from my crotch. I was panting, eyes locked to his as he folded it neatly and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He leaned in and blew gently on my exposed lips and clit, moist and pulsing under his breath. He pressed his mouth to me and parted my folds with his tongue. He paused, teasing before setting himself loose on my aching cunt. After a few moments, he looked up and with a wry smile he spoke.

“Shall we test those theories, Gale? Shall we see if fractals really can lead us to the blueprints of galaxies? Can they lead us to the origin of the world?”





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Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.