Unseen
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Sight Unseen free porn video
Sight Unseen
By Cal Y. Pygia
"People do not see that at which they look."
Professor Emile had just projected a series of ten young female nudes
upon the screen. Asking us to study them carefully, he'd left each
enlarged photograph on display for three minutes, treating us, for half
an hour, to these magnificent images of feminine pulchritude.
"You'd be surprised at how much a person, in looking, overlooks," he
contended now, as he distributed a timed multiple-choice quiz, consisting
of ten questions, each of which was worth a possible ten points,
concerning the last image he'd projected onto the screen, the one he'd
just clicked past so that, now, a redheaded young woman was displayed in
place of the blonde whose photograph had occupied the place of honor a
mere few moments ago. We'd have five minutes to complete the quiz, he
informed us, whereupon he'd call "Time!" and we were to set our pencils
aside.
I wrote my name, "Arthur Huggins," in the quiz's upper left corner and
smiled as I read the first question: "What color is the model's hair?"
There were four choices, identified by the letters "A" through "D":
"Black," "Blonde," "Brown," and "Red," respectively. What an absurdly
simple quiz! I thought
I circled "B" and read the second question: "What color are the clouds?"
Clouds? Who the hell had been worried about clouds when a naked woman
filled up a screen ten feet tall by six feet wide? I studied the
choices: "A. Black. B. Pink. C. White. D. Yellow." Fuck! I
couldn't even remember whether there had been any clouds, but,
apparently, there had been, because the "D" distracter didn't exclude
them with a "None of the above" option. My pen, poised over "A,"
hesitated, wavered. Inwardly, I shrugged, circling "C" as the most
likely possibility.
The third question was even harder: "For the sake of contrast, the model
is placed beside which texture?" None of the four choices stood out, but
I had to decide among these alternatives: "A. Brick wall. B.
Outstretched striped towel. C. Tree bark. D. Wooden Fence." Damn! I
couldn't remember whether there'd been a wall, a towel, a tree, or a
fucking fence in the picture! If Professor Emile would stick to
questions about the model, I'd have no problems answering his questions,
I thought, as I circled "D," choosing "Wooden fence" for no reason other
than that I'd already circled a "B" and a "C" and, somehow, "Brick wall"
didn't seem right. It would be hard not to remember a brick wall, I
thought, although, really, why would it be any less difficult to recall
any of the other objects listed as possible answers to the question? It
was unfair of Professor Emile to ask about anything but the naked woman
in the photograph, I thought. Hell, what did he expect us to be gawking
at, clouds and architectural or landscape features? If he'd stick to the
chick, I could score a 100 percent on his asinine quiz, I told myself.
Glancing at the quiz, I sighed with relief as I saw that the next
question did concern the model.
I remembered Professor Emile's declaration. "People do not see that at
which they look." It seemed like a challenge.
Well, if it was a challenge, I was ready to meet it, now that he was
focusing on the naked woman in the picture instead of the photograph's
peripheral clutter.
The fourth question asked, "What is the model wearing in her hair? A.
Barrett. B. Beads. C. Bow. D. Comb." With confidence, I circled
"A."
The fifth question was even easier, I thought, drawing a circle around
the letter "D": "Which word best describes the model's nipples? A.
Inverted. B. Large. C. Puffy. D. Small."
Question six asked, "Which response most accurately summarizes the
model's physique? A. Muscular. B. Short and stocky. C. Tall and
slender. D. Top-heavy." I grinned, circling "D." The model had large
breasts and narrow hips, so this question was a gimme!
I read question seven twice. "Where are the model's hands placed, or
positioned? A. In the air. B. At her sides. C. On her hips. D.
Over her crotch." I felt a tiny flicker of panic. I couldn't remember
where her hands were. I hadn't been studying her freaking hands. I
closed my eyes, recalling the image of the beautiful blonde. She was
seated. Wasn't she? Or crouching? Could she have been kneeling? By
remembering her attitude, or pose, I thought I might also recall the
position of her hands, but it was all a blur. Most distinctly, I
remembered her magnificent breasts. I'm a tit man, okay? The rest--face
and cunt and ass and legs--are sweet, too, but there's nothing finer
about a woman than her boobs. I guess I was studying the model's tits
more than any other of her charms. I certainly hadn't been focusing on
her hands and feet. Feet are Tom O'Malley's fetish. I decided to choose
"D," because hands "over her crotch" seemed the sexiest alternative.
The questions, it seems, were becoming a bit more challenging, but, as
long as Professor Emile continued to restrict himself to the naked woman
and didn't start asking about background and peripheral objects in the
photograph, I was confident I'd score at least an 80 percent on his quiz.
"Which part of the model is not shown in the photograph?" question eight
asked, allowing these four choices: "A. Back. B. Buttocks. C. Feet.
D. All of the above." Easy! I thought, circling "D."
Question nine was also a giveaway: "Which item of jewelry does the model
wear? A. Necklace. B. Bracelet. C. Ring. D. All of the above."
Again, I chose "D" and thought, Hell, I may get my 80 percent after all.
Finally, I'd reached the last question on the quiz: "Which answer best
describes the model's penis? A. Fully erect. B. Fully flaccid. C.
Semi-erect. D. Non-existent (women don't have male genitals)."
Penis?
Had I read the fucking question right? I reread it. Twice. Sure
enough, the word was there. I snickered. What the hell was this, a
trick question? I wondered. If so, Professor Emile sure as hell wasn't
going to trick me with it. Confidently, I circled "D," imagining its
parenthetical extension to read "chicks don't have dicks" rather than
"women don't have male genitals."
"Time!" Professor Emile called.
Like the rest of the art students, I set my pencil aside, and we passed
our completed quizzes forward.
After he'd collected them, Professor Emile said, "So you don't die from
the suspense of wondering how good--or how poor--an observer you are,
let's refresh our memories by taking another look at the model." He
clicked the remote-control device in his hand, and the projector cast the
image of the blonde bombshell we'd studied prior to the quiz.
Tit man that I am, I stared immediately at her breasts.
As he read the quiz questions aloud, Professor Emile used a laser pointer
to point out the correct answers, in the flesh, as it were. "1. What
color is the model's hair?" A yellow dot, surrounded by a crimson
areola, projected from the pointer, appeared alongside the model's hair.
It was blonde, just as I'd indicated. Score ten points for me, I
thought.
"2. What color are the clouds?" The yellow dot indicated the wisps of
vapor stretched against the azure sky. I'd gone with "white" as the
answer, but the clouds were pink. Minus ten. I was at a grand total of
zero.
Well, my score could only improve, I thought. I'd still manage, before
all was said and done, to snag a 70 or 80 percent.
"3. For the sake of contrast, the model is placed beside which texture?"
I'd indicated a wooden fence, but the laser pointer indicated tree bark.
The model was standing beside a tree, and, so smitten had I been with her
beauty--especially the beauty of her beautiful boobs--that I literally
hadn't seen (or at least didn't remember seeing) the tree for the
pulchritude. My score? A minus ten!
The laser beam pointed again as Professor Emile read the next question:
"4. What is the model wearing in her hair?" I'd answered by circling
the letter beside "Barrett," and I closed by eyes with gratitude as I saw
the yellow dot appear alongside the pink barrette in milady's blonde
locks. I was back to zero. Already, I'd blown all hope of achieving
either an 80 or a 70 percent cumulative score, and, with only six
questions left to go, I'd need to answer all the rest of them correctly
to score a passing grade.
"5. Which word best describes the model's nipples?" Tits! I thought.
We were back to my area of expertise! I'd get this one right for cure!
True enough, as the laser beam pointed out the model's nipples, Professor
Emile said, "I think we'd all agree that the model's nipples are best
described as 'small,' rather than as 'large,' 'inverted,' or 'puffy.'" I
certainly had, which brought the sum total of my score to exactly ten. I
must admit, I felt a bit embarrassed at having made such a poor showing,
especially with regard to a quiz concerning the charms of a beautiful,
naked woman! The outcome of the quiz suddenly took on much greater
significance than I'd accorded it previously, now that I saw the chance
that I might not pass. A sixty percent success would be awkward; failure
would be downright mortifying!
I'd become so intent upon the question as to whether I'd pass the
freaking quiz that I couldn't remember the fucking questions. I recalled
them only as Professor Emile read them aloud, using the laser pointer to
indicate their correct responses.
Professor Emile continued: "6. Which response most accurately
summarizes the model's physique?" To say I was relieved when the
pointer's dot of yellow light paused beside the model's breasts before
moving to her hips to pause again as Professor Emile said, "Large bust
and narrow hips a top-heavy figure makes." I was up to twenty points.
Again, I felt a little flutter of panic as the next question was read,
because I hadn't been sure of the correct answer and had responded by
hazarding a wild guess. If I missed this question, I'd fail the quiz,
scoring a humiliating 50 percent. "7. Where are the model's hands
placed, or positioned?" I actually felt tears well up in my eyes as the
yellow dot illuminated the model's hands, which were clasped, very
demurely, I thought, over her crotch, hiding all but a few of the
swirling strands of her pubic hair. I'd scored yet another correct
response, and my score was now thirty points.
Professor Emile read the next question: "8. Which part of the model is
not shown in the photograph?" The model, standing next to a rough-barked
tree, beneath an azure sky in which pink wisps of clouds were stretched
thin, like pulled cotton candy, showed all of her luscious body except
those listed as the possible answers for this question, so, by circling
"D," for "All of the above," and thereby eliminating her back, buttocks,
and feet in one fell swoop, I'd gained another ten points, making my
grand total, so far, a solid, if not respectable, forty points. With
only two questions left, I could still end up with a dismal 60 percent.
Not good, but passing. At this point, I'd take whatever I could get.
What was the next question? I couldn't recall. The quiz's contents
seemed to have been blotted from my memory by my anxiety about failing
the quiz. Only as Professor Emile read them out loud did I recall the
questions and my answers to them.
The effect was to heighten the suspense to an almost unbearable level. I
didn't know what I'd do--or how I'd face the rest of the class--if I
actually failed a quiz concerning a beautiful, naked female model. I'd
be the laughingstock of the whole fucking Art Department. Were dunce
caps still in use, I'd certainly have had to wear one the rest of the
semester and maybe even for the two years that intervened between now and
my hoped-for graduation date.
I was actually perspiring as Professor Emile read the next question: "9.
Which item of jewelry does the model wear?" The laser pointer pointed at
the necklace, the bracelet, and the ring she wore, and my heart started
beating again as I let out my pent-up breath. I'd answered "D. All of
the above." My score was now fifty percent. With but one question
remaining, I could, if I'd answered it correctly, score a dismal, but
passing, grade.
I closed my eyes with dread, lest I had missed the question, and heard
Professor Emile's voice, seemingly coming from a great distance, through
a fog of sound: "10. Which answer best describes the model's penis?"
As soon as I heard the question, I breathed a great sigh of relief, tears
flowing down my cheeks, for I knew that I'd passed the quiz, after all!
The model was 100 percent woman, and, obviously, as the correct answer
stated, "women don't have male genitals."
I sniggered, thankful for the giveaway question that had saved my ass. I
might still be kidded for my dismal score, but it would be good natured,
not cruel, and it would pass, not last. Hell, maybe a couple of the co-
ed students would even take pity on me and offer to tutor me in the finer
points of femininity. A few after-hours sessions with the likes of
Brenda or Sue would soon give me the expertise that my terrible quiz
score would suggest I lacked.
My joy turned to shocked disbelief, however, when the laser beam's yellow
dot appeared upon the exposed, pink glans of the diminutive penis that
showed, just barely, beneath the long, slender, well-manicured
fingernails of the sleek, delicate hands clasped before the model's
blonde pubic fuzz. The bitch was a fucking transsexual, I realized, with
horror, not a genetic girl--a shemale, instead of a female--and, in
answer to the question as to "which answer best describes the model's
penis," I'd circled "D. Non-existent (women don't have male genitals)"!
As a result, instead of the 60-percent correct score I'd hoped to
achieve, I'd ended up with a total score of only 40 percent correct!
Having failed a simple, ten-item multiple-choice quiz concerning a
beautiful, naked woman--or, actually, a beautiful transwoman--I'd be the
laughingstock, for all time, not only of the students and the faculty of
the university's Art Department, but also of the whole fucking town!
My faint, nervous tittering rose, becoming loud and shrill, and I
guffawed uncontrollably, wildly, laughing the laughter of a madman.
Professor Emile repeated his earlier dictum, "People do not see that at
which they look." Then, as I continued to bray like an ass, he gave me a
sharp look of disapproval, adding, "Apparently, Mr. Huggins has a
dissenting opinion concerning my observation. Hopefully, his quiz score
will prove the truth of his disagreement."
Alessandra
- 20.06.2020
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