Chapter One

 

"And now, Ms. Tarrington, to sum up," the moderator said.

Miranda stood up smoothly and faced her opponent. Out of long habit, her fingers brushed the soft blonde hair out of her eyes, and in passing, nudged her thin, frameless glasses as she frowned across the room.

"My opponent states that a man who believes in creationism has no place running a school," she said. "He strongly implies that people who believe in creationism are akin to sub-literate cretins, cavemen carrying clubs to whom science itself is nothing more than an irritating contradiction to their beliefs.

"But he appears to forget that the bible itself is predicated upon the belief that the universe was created by God, thus making all practicing Christians incapable of understanding or espousing science," she said. "Furthermore, other major belief systems also believe in God as the creator, including Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs. My opponent is labeling all of them as unfit to run a university or any other place of higher learning. I remind my opponent that most of the great scientists of history were men of faith. Sir Isaac Newton postulated the theory of gravity despite being an intensely religious man, and even Darwin did not question the essence of biblical teaching.

"Yes, there are contradictions, but our understanding of the world is imperfect. Life is filled with contradictions. I think that our proper position ought to be to put aside judgment until and unless the new chancellor actually does or says something which gives meaning to my opponent's doubts about his abilities. Otherwise we get into the slippery role of judging people's abilities based on their religious beliefs - or lack thereof, and that is not what we, as a people, are all about."

The moderator rang his little bell and Miranda instinctively reached up, brushing aside her hair again, before going over to shake hands with John Steward - the idiot, and pretending he wasn't an idiot, then speaking with the moderator before gathering up her notes.

Few of the members of the debating club were women, and fewer still were freshmen, and she knew she was watched and judged more closely than the others, not merely because of her sex but because of her mother, who was a fairly well known journalist, and feminist writer. She, of course, hoped to one day be the same, and was very careful about the image she presented to the world, and how it saw her.

She was wearing a somewhat mannish blazer and trousers, for example. They were well cut and she thought she looked quite - good - in them. The brilliant dark blue silk blouse softened the masculine nature of the outfit, especially with her hair spilling across the shoulders.

Her hair was her main vanity. She knew she ought to cut it. But then again, it detracted from the clichéd image others might have of her as some kind of mannish lesbian feminist man-hater. She was supposed to wear boots and have short hair and an attitude. Many of the more conservative students seemed to believe that was typical for feminists.

Miranda's hair was well below her shoulders, thick and full and golden, framing a slender face with large blue eyes and high cheekbones, full lips a small, softly tapered nose, and a delicate chin. She knew she was beautiful, and that was both a source of pride - though she told herself it should not be and tried not to be proud of it - and a source of irritation. The world did not see pretty blondes as intelligent, but as sex objects.

Miranda worked hard not to be seen as a sex object. The glasses were one small way. She could have had laser surgery, or used contacts. But her vision problem wasn't very bad, really, and she thought the thin glasses made her look intelligent and intellectual. She also, since a humiliating incident in high school, tried to wear something, like her current blazer, which covered her bottom.

That incident had been when she'd discovered a picture of herself on an unofficial school web site - taken from behind - leaning over a desk at school, with similar pictures of other girls, and the notation she had been voted as having the best ass in school.

Miranda was a studious young woman, quite earnest about her determination to succeed in life and be respected for her intelligence and abilities. The very last thing she wanted was people admiring her for her looks, especially for something as sexist and sexual as the shape of her ass.

Similarly, while she was not a large breasted girl, not one known as busty, she had developed a full, rounded, firm chest which would, in the proper outfit, draw quite interested and appreciative eyes. She therefore ensured she was never seen in such outfits, and while other girls wore push-up bras, she wore minimizer bras, so as to flatten her breasts somewhat and make them less noticeable.

It wasn't that she wasn't happy with her body or her looks; quite the contrary, in fact. There were times she took pride in her appearance, though it made her feel almost immediately guilty. After all, she had been raised as the daughter of an arch-feminist, and what young woman would want to be thought of as some kind of nymphet or sex kitten?

She strode up the hall and then down a cross-corridor headed for her locker, glancing at her watch as she moved. Her back was straight, her stride quick and steady. She was a tall young woman, slender and graceful in the way she moved, but almost masculine in her determination. She dropped off her books, got a few more for studying over the March break, and then headed out to the parking lot.

* * * * *

Michelle gasped as Carol's hand came cracking down on her bare bottom. She cried out weakly, moaning as the woman adjusted the dildo driven deep into her pussy, grinding it sensuously around inside her belly, flicking her fingers lightly across Michelle's swollen clit to produce another crackling burst of pleasure.

"Nasty little girl," Carol purred, her hands running smoothly over Michelle's prone body as the other woman lay, gasping, panting and moaning across her lap.

Michelle was naked, her wrists bound together and lifted high between her shoulder blades, the rope going around her shoulders, around her chest, and encircling her breasts so they were squeezed out taut and hard. Her nipples tingled and throbbed where they were jammed against the sofa next to where Carol sat, and she moaned helplessly as the other woman slid a hand underneath to give her taut, swollen breasts another delicious squeeze.

"Nasty little slut," Carol said, slapping her bottom again, and again, and again.

The blows stung, and Michelle yelped and moaned, then shuddered as Carol slapped lightly and repeatedly against the base of the dildo stuffed deep into her anus. The nose of the dildo jarred against the back wall of her ass and made her grunt repeatedly.

"Are you going to be a good, obedient little bitch?" Carol demanded.

"Y-Yes, Carol!" Michelle moaned helplessly.

Carol's fingers stroked across her clit and Michelle shuddered, her bottom grinding back frantically as the heat threatened to overwhelm her.

"Oh no, slut, you don't get to come yet," Carol purred.

She slapped her bottom sharply several more times, a dozen times, the stinging slaps making Michelle cry out repeatedly, almost bringing tears to her eyes as the pain mounted.

Then she shifted her off her lap, pulling on her blonde hair, forcing her head up and back.

"On your knees, slut," she purred.

She helped the bound woman down onto her knees on the thick Persian rug, spread her own legs, and guided Michelle's mouth onto her sex.

Michelle licked hungrily, passionately, moaning and slurping and sucking expertly as the woman combed her fingers through her hair, pinched and tugged on her nipples, kneaded her breasts, and slapped lightly on the dildo sticking out of her ass.

Her mouth and cheeks were soon moist with her lover's juices as Carol began to pant and groan herself, jamming her face in harder and grinding up against her.

She rolled and corkscrewed her bottom excitedly, then as her heat became almost unbearable, she drew her left foot up, easing her bottom down, jamming her heel against the base of the dildo there and rhythmically jamming herself back.

Carol cried out softly as she came, then, gasping, yanked back roughly on Michelle's hair so the other woman cried out. She bent her head up and back, forcing her to arch her back, and slapped at one taut breast lightly but stingingly.

"Do you want to come, slut? Do you?"

"Yes, Carol!"

"Beg for it, slut."

"Please make me come, Carol!" she half sobbed.

Carol chuckled, her hand still gripping the blonde woman's hair, her other hand sliding down between her legs. She hooked a finger under the base of the dildo, jamming it up as her thumb stroked furiously across Michelle's clit. Michelle shuddered and then began to cry out repeatedly, twisting and jerking, thrashing desperately as the heat and passion mounted to unbearable levels. Her climax tore through her, and she sobbed helplessly, gurgling and moaning and twisting in passion until the orgasm slowly, slowly faded.