Of Goddesses and Priests
(Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve posted Christi’s ongoing adventures. Been teaching myself… and wishing something like this would happen during my office hours…)
Fall midterms came and went, and the weather got colder. Students reluctantly said goodbye to the pleasures of sunshine and hanging out on patios and sidewalk cafes. Tank tops, spaghetti straps and miniskirts gave way to turtlenecks, sweaters and jeans. Christi reluctantly bowed to necessity and followed the trend. Previously a modest dresser, she had learned from her adventures to love dressing provocatively, love the furtive glances of other students at her bare thighs below the hem of a short skirt, the professors in lecture trying hard not to stare down her deep cleavage when she sat up front and leaned forward. But it was getting cold. She found ways to compensate, picking tight jeans that exhibited her round ass and clingy sweaters with v-neck collars, but still longed for Spring and the return of warmer weather.
The money was adding up. It was hard not to indulge in spending on herself, but she staved off the impulse with little purchases – a pair of shoes here, a skirt there, a few books or an upgrade to her computer — never anything too much. And she still had expenses — Kappa gave her rent-free housing but not food, and she needed to pay for the gas and insurance on her car herself, things like that. “Envelopes” at the Lightning Bean came once a week for her, sometimes twice; Kappa boys more often, but not at a fixed rate — she kept those donations “free-will” in consideration of their letting her live in the house. After eight weeks of selling her body for money, she had five thousand dollars in the bank.
It wasn’t enough. The term was already half done and she would need nine thousand for next semester’s tuition, plus ten more to get back on campus housing when Kappa held rush for new members in January and her room wasn’t free any more. Half the time had passed but she was only a quarter of the way to the goal.
To make things worse, academics were not all going well. On the whole, she continued to be a good student, studying hard, in spite of the temptation to forget it all and explore her sexuality deeper and deeper. Most of her midterm grades came in as A’s or at least high B’s. Except one — statistics. Math had never been Christi’s strong suit, and the deeper she got into the semester, the less and less anything made sense to her. The letters that were supposed to represent numbers just jumbled in random patterns around the page and she couldn’t understand the difference between one equation and the next. Sitting in the stifling, dry, hot lecture hall, her stomach turned to a pit as the lumbering, sweaty Professor Ludovic churned up and down the aisles handing back midterm exam books. She flipped through all the pages, red ink splattered over her gray pencil marks, and found the last page. A fat red F stood there, circled several times. 43/100. And “SEE ME!” in big block letters with several lines under it for emphasis. The blood rushed from Christi’s head and her vision swam. She didn’t hear a thing for the entire lecture. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck I’m going to fail and not graduate and this whole thing will have been for nothing, she thought to herself, over and over and over again.
Clammy with sweat, her mouth dry, she approached Ludovic’s elevated lectern at the end of class, as he stood huffing and erasing the board. “Yes, Christi?” he asked brusquely in his thick eastern European accent.
“Umm… my midterm said I should see you,” she murmured.
“Yes, it does,” he crowed with a pompous sneer. “We need to see how you’re ever going to pass at this stage. Come by my office hours this afternoon.”
“Umm…. I can’t,” Christi explained. “I have anthropology during your office hours. Is there another time I could come?”
He gave her an icy glare, for the temerity of signing up for another class during his office hours. “What time is your anthropology class?”
“Umm… from two to three-fifteen.”
“Be at my office at one-thirty. Good day!”
Christi groaned to herself. 1:30 was guaranteed to be sheer hell.
She consoled herself as she left the lecture hall by focusing on a meeting coming up sooner. She was slated to talk to her anthropology instructor, Professor Hansen, just after lunch. She had to write a research paper for Hansen and he was requiring everyone to meet him after midterm to discuss their proposals. Hansen was smart without being snobbish, a little eccentric, but funny and handsome in an offbeat sort of way, and Christi adored him. She had been dying for an excuse to go to his office and now she finally had one.
After a quick salad, she found her way to Hansen’s office. It was remote, a little cell on the fifth floor of an old Georgian building, with one of the walls sloping in at almost a 45 degree angle because of the slant of the roof. Bookshelves crammed with volumes lined all the remaining walls. His desk was positioned under a gable, so that he could sit with his back to the window in the only part of the space where he wouldn’t have to stoop over. More books and papers littered the floor. A laptop was the only modern device on his desk, the rest being covered with files and odd sculptures and pots and baskets he had brought home from the cultures he studied. The afternoon light shed a warm glow through the window on the whole ivory-tower tableau.
“Ah, Christi, come in,” the professor said kindly when she tapped on his door. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the only chair in the room besides his own, a solid black wooden university armchair. It was surprisingly comfortable for something without any cushioning.
“Did you have a chance to look over my proposal, professor?” Christi asked anxiously. “Is it any good?”
“I did, Christi, I did,” Hansen said, shuffling through a folder and pulling her stapled pages out. She saw there were green scribbles in the margins — Hansen used green pens so that the students wouldn’t panic at the sight of red markings. He leafed through the pages, reminding himself of what his comments had been. “Ah… yes. This one.”
Christi gulped. “This one?” What did that mean?
“Is it… is it OK?” she asked nervously.
“It is OK, actually,” Hansen said, taking his glasses off to peer at her. “It’s more than OK, it’s excellent. I wish I’d thought of it. It’s very ambitious though. You say you want to do both a comparative and historical analysis of cultic prostitution from the ancient Middle East to modern India. That’s a huge enterprise and some of the source information is pretty difficult to work with. This would make a good doctoral dissertation or a book but I don’t see how you’d ever get it all into a single undergraduate term paper.”
“Yeah, I realize that,” Christi said. “I guess I kind of hoped I could make it just an orientation, or something to keep it manageable. Would that be OK?”
“Maybe a simple compare-and-contrast of two different cults would be enough. It’s just an introductory class, after all. You could compare the Phoenician material with, say, just one modern tantric group in India. You can save the rest for when you get to graduate school.”
“Graduate school!” Christi blushed. “Do you really think I could go to graduate school?”
Hansen paused and looked her in the eye. “You’re one of the brightest students I’ve seen in a few years,” he said. “I think it would be a crime if you didn’t. I wish Anthropology had scooped you up sooner than senior year. It’s a shame to lose you to English.”
“Thanks!” Christi said, beaming at the compliment.
“Good. Umm, Christi…” Hansen said, and paused. “There is one part of your proposal I wanted to ask you about.”
“OK, what is it?”
“Well, toward the end, you say that in your conclusion, you would like to compare the culture of sacred prostitution in other cultures with modern experience in America. What did you mean by that?”
“Ummm… just like it says, I guess. I’d like to see how spiritual prostitution is today compared to how it was then, or in other parts of the world.”
“Well, that might be interesting, except that there isn’t sacred prostitution in modern America. It’s illegal. I don’t see what you would have to write on for that part.”
“Well, I know there isn’t official institutional prostitution here,” Christi stammered. “I meant more the spirituality of sex in America. How it can become a sacred thing to people.”
Hansen took a deep breath and blew it out. “Wow,” he said. “You are ambitious. To do a study of sexuality and spirituality in America would be a whole other mountain of work. I think that would be too much.”
“No, I didn’t mean to do more research,” Christi blurted out. “I just wanted to compare it to my own experiences.”
“To your OWN experiences?” Hansen was startled.
Christi felt herself blushing deeply. “Well… yeah.”
“Christi -” Hansen was pulling away from her, she could feel it — “I don’t think I can let you write a paper about your own sex life for my class. It isn’t appropriate.”
“But professor – ” Christi started. Her heart was pounding and her stomach was in her throat, but something just forced her to stumble onward. ” — that’s why I wanted to write this paper in the first place. I read in Herodotus, when we were doing the ethnography unit, about how the Phoenician women had to serve in the temple of Ishtar before they were married, and the men of the city would come to them and fuck them—” (Hansen blushed and tried to suppress a snort) “– sorry, um… have sex with them — to worship the goddess, right? And when we read that, I was like, that’s me! That’s my life now! That’s what I’m trying to understand. I CAN’T just treat it like some dry thing that doesn’t have anything to do with me, I HAVE to write about it as something real, because to me it IS!”
The professor was transfixed in his chair, gazing at her as though she were a Martian whose spaceship had just landed in his office.
“Professor,” she said, leaning over the desk toward him, half-rising out of her chair, “haven’t you ever felt — like the secrets of the universe are there somewhere, like — in your body? Like you only need the body of another person to unlock it, and all the mysteries can open up to you? Did you ever feel something like that?”
Professor Hansen watched her in silence as Christi stopped talking. Then, wordlessly, he stood up and browsed the cluttered bookshelves, finally pulling out a tall illustrated volume. He brought it over to Christi and leaned against the desk, facing her. Large ornate letters on the cover read “KHAJURAHO” and Christi realized she didn’t know how to pronounce it. He quietly opened the volume and held the page up for her to see.
The page was filled with a photograph of a temple in India. The façade was entirely covered in sculptures, apparently stories and stories high, level after level. Christi peered closely to see what Professor Hansen was showing her, and then she gasped.
They were fucking. Every which way, statue after statue, in position after position, things Christi had never even heard of. In some places, there were female goddesses, dressed in nothing but jewelry, boldly presenting lush round breasts while the tilt of their hips seemed to sway and invite their lovers. Here there were male gods, no more dressed than the goddesses, muscular and brandishing swords and thrusting thick round cocks no less urgently. She turned the pages. There were couples — a bosomy goddess astride the cross-legged lap of her bearded lover, smiling as she fondled his erect phallus — a pair on a bed in an acrobatic sixty-nine — a woman carried in the strong arms of her standing lover, her legs splayed around his hips as he thrust into her — a standing couple, tenderly kissing, his hand at her chin as hers stroked his lengthening member. A woman on her knees giving a joyful blow job, another bent over double to grasp her ankles as her lover took her from behind. One woman even did a one-handed handstand, her knees over her lover’s shoulders so that he could eat out her pussy while she sucked his cock into her mouth.
Some got even stranger. On another page, two men with bloated cocks were eagerly fucking a donkey. Another woman fell submissively on her knees before a powerful (and well-hung) lion. A third woman seemed to be intertwined with the trunk of an elephant, and Christi remembered the Hindus worshiped an elephant-headed deity called Ganesh.
But for some reason, one image above all captured Christi’s eyes. It was a simple enough scene. A standing male lover; two women flanking him, as though in attendance, or perhaps waiting their turn. But a third woman, hurling herself onto him; his legs were spread wide, but her thighs even wider, splaying her cunt completely and wholly open for him to fuck, her feet hooked behind his knees while she flung her arms around his neck, drinking in the incense of his breath and pressing her massive tits against his smooth chest. More than any porn Christi had ever seen or heard of, it seemed like the purest expression of sheer, unhesitant fucking — the kind that transcended mere pleasure and opened you up to the cosmos.
“That’s me, professor,” she whispered. “That is me. I am the whore of the world.”
She looked up and Professor Hansen was frozen, gazing on her, not knowing what he had released in his office. Christi locked her eyes on his. Then, she settled back in the black wooden chair, kicked her sneakers off, and deliberately loosened her belt and unzipped the fly of her tight jeans. She never stopped staring into his eyes as she peeled the tight denim from her skin, taking the panties with it, and left it in a puddle of cloth on the floor. Then she lifted her bare legs and spread them as wide as she could, catching her knees against the armrests of the chair. Her pussy was aching and open. She reached for it, her breasts pressing against the soft fuzz of her sweater, and began to stroke the smooth folds of flesh.
She didn’t know why she was doing this. She just had to. Something had taken her over.
“Christi…” Professor Hansen said, swallowing and sweat breaking out on his forehead. “You can’t do this. It’s not… you could get in trouble. I could get in trouble. Your grades are fine, you don’t need to…”
“I’m not doing this for a grade, professor,” she said, and her fingers pushed deeper into the lips of her cunt. “I’ve wanted you since the first day of class. I’ve wanted you and been wet for you every single lecture, I have to change my panties in the middle of the day. And I’ve been learning more and more what I am, professor. The people who built that temple understood what I am. I really am the whore of the world. And I worship you. I love your intelligence, your wit, your passion. And now I need you to worship me. I am the goddess of whores. You deserve me. Worship me!”
They remained like that, deadlocked, their breath heavy, chests heaving as they stared at one another and Christi’s fingers pressed and squeezed her pussy. The good professor stared, unbelieving, at the girl who came to his office, so intelligent, so talented, and so horny. She spread her cunt and thrust it open to him and invited him in, her flesh pink and glistening.
He couldn’t take it anymore. Professor Hansen suddenly fell to his knees between her legs and lunged his face into Christi’s sex. She squealed with delight. Some of the Kappa boys liked eating out her pussy, but they hardly knew what they were doing. The clients at the Lightning Bean were more mature, but also more likely see her as a working girl who was there to service them, and only gave minimal attention to giving head to her. Professor Hansen, though, was caught in the spell of the goddess of whores, and showed that he had more experience than many in how to pay her homage.
He knew better than to start by licking her pussy straightaway, however eagerly he thrust his face between her legs. Instead, he breathed in deep, drinking in the rich sultry smell of her moist sex. Then he kissed her, gently, brushing the sensitive skin of her thighs right on the tendon at the joint of her hips. Christi gasped at the lightest of touches there and she felt her cunt beginning to ooze. His lips touched her, the suction of a tender kiss, then the soft pucker of release as he grazed his way across to the other thigh. His breath sighed on her swollen pussy lips as he passed, but he didn’t touch her there yet. Instead, another kiss, sucking harder and turning to a nibble, indeed a tight nip on her blushing skin. Christi moaned.
Oh fuck, she thought. The professor is going to teach me things about my body…
His tongue slid over the soft flesh of her thigh, and traced a meandering damp line over her. He worked inwards… slowly….until his mouth reached her distended labia. Pussy lips bloomed and swelled for him. He kissed one, just one, on one side, then extended his tongue and licked down it from stem to stern, savoring every bit of it.
She moaned as he reached her clit. Professor Hansen’s tongue slid smoothly over the curve of it, then pressed firmly into it, flicking up and down until it exploded and heat coursed through Christi’s veins. Her vision went red and she couldn’t see. She lifted her legs and he dragged his fingernails down her soft sensitive thighs as he continued to massage her bud. Christi shivered and began to writhe under his touch. His tongue slid inside her pussy and she could feel herself dripping over his chin.
Time seemed to stand still. The professor and his student spent an eternity, locked together, as she fed his hungry tongue with her cunt. Waves of heat and energy washed over Christi as Professor Hansen’s tongue wriggled and lapped back and forth along the slick walls of her sex. Her eyes fluttered and soft hissing sounds and squeaks slipped between her lips.
A golden age of pleasure passed as they enjoyed each other, until finally Professor Hansen slipped back on his heels and withdrew his face from between Christi’s legs. She opened her eyelids and looked down at him. It was surprising that he was still dressed in his academic tweed jacket and ugly bookshelf-patterned tie. But she liked those things about him, that rumpled look that spoke of dusty library shelves s and ink-stained fingers scribbling in notebooks. His eyes locked with hers, Professor Hansen stood up and reached to loosen his tie, but Christi grabbed his hand, sitting up in the chair to stop him.
“No,” she said. “Keep it on. I’m not here just to have sex with some guy. I’m here to fuck a professor.”
She took his hand in hers and pulled them to her face, letting him run his fingers over her cheeks and eyes and lips. Then she reached for his belt and loosened it, then his buttoned fly, one button at a time. She smiled as his pants dropped to his ankles. She hooked her fingers over his boxers, still letting his hands caress her face and neck, and pulled them down too. It was a good cock, a man’s cock, thick and half-engorged. She liked the look of it, the feel of it in her hand as she circled her fingers around it and started to stroke him up to his full length. She pushed him gently to lean back against the edge of his desk, and started to suck him.
He grew and stiffened right inside her mouth. Christi loved feeling a man coming to his full erection. He was so hard, so strong, so firm and right in her mouth. She gulped and pulled his whole length inside her mouth while she could, but as he rose up she pulled off and took just the head. She grinned and bared her teeth, biting just gently around his glans, and looked up at him and smiled. Through his steel-rimmed glasses, Professor Hansen’s eyes gazed down in amazement at her, astonished at the sight of this beautiful young student with his dick in her mouth. Then she closed her eyes and twisted her head as she sucked him deep inside her mouth and squished his bulging head back into her throat.