My slut wife and the grad student
- 2 years ago
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Lipstick On A Grad Student free porn video
A knocking on my apartment door woke me up. I looked over at my bedside
clock and saw the it was 7:30 AM. This had better be good.
I drew myself out of bed, pulled a shirt from my dirty laundry on over
my boxers, and stumbled over to the front door. Just before I went for
the knob, another round of knocking assaulted my ears.
I opened the door, and on the other side stood a girl. College age.
Probably maybe two or three years younger than me. I couldn't decide
whether she looked Asian or Middle-Eastern, her olive skin and long,
straight, jet black hair really could have gone either way. She was
pretty tall, too. Maybe an inch taller than my 5'10", although her
sneakers may have given her an edge over my bare feet.
"Mr. Andrew Pitcairn?" she chirped. I nodded and she continued, "I'm
canvassing for the Student Republicans." That confirmed my age
assessment.
I groaned a bit. "Someone was just by here yesterday from you guys. I
told him I'm voting for Obama."
"I know sir, this is a follow-up."
"I'm still voting for Obama," I said with a bit of finality, then moved
to close the door.
She managed to wedge half her torso inside before my not-entirely-awake
reflexes could get the door entirely closed, and something fell out of
her side bag and onto my floor. Instinctively I bent down to pick it up
for her, and she took the opportunity to barge all the way in.
Lipstick? I stood up to give it back to her, and met the smile of a
Cheshire cat. She took it, but instead of putting it back in her bag,
she opened it and said "You know how a hockey mom is just a pit bull
with lipstick?"
Internally I rolled my eyes, but externally I just said, "Yeah," as I
tried to maneuver myself so she couldn't get further inside.
"Well," she said just as I took a step towards her, "imagine what it
does to a grad student." And with that her hand shot at my face. I
closed my eyes and flinched, but instead of any pain, I just felt a waxy
sensation over my lips.
I opened my eyes and the girl was right in my face, her smile somehow
even wider, but her face slowly taking on a somewhat predatory
expression. Not entirely in control of my wits, I took a step backwards
into my apartment. She followed and I took another step back. She
closed the door behind herself and said, "Why don't you take a seat, Mr.
Pitcairn?"
I realized I had backed up to right in front of my sofa, but I didn't
move any further. So she took another step forward and pushed me back,
then sat down next to me. As she sat down more items fell from her side
bag. Magazines spilled onto my lap. Fashion magazines. The covers all
had gaudy-looking models with big hair. My eye caught the date on one:
September 22nd, 1985. I was an infant when this came out. How could it
be in such good condition? I marveled at the glossy covers for a
second, but my thoughts were interrupted.
"You want hair like that?" the girl asked.
My eyes didn't move from the top magazine cover, a headshot of a
brunette with bangs that curled over her eyes, and hair that poofed out
as wide as her shoulders, but my mouth, heavy with lipstick, formed
words almost on its own, "Oh, god no. That's like what my mom used to
do to her hair."
But then a strange thought occurred to me. Weren't all the girls
wearing their hair like that when I was in high school?
"Oh, come on," the girl cooed, "wouldn't it be cool to try it out?"
And without any response from me she started fingering my bed-hair,
making it smooth and even. Fussing with it like she was my mother. For
a split second I thought I might have even seen her lick her thumb to
get a lock of hair to lie down, but I had to be imagining that.
I'm not sure why I let her. I guess I was just so transfixed. The
second magazine was from June, 3rd, 1985. It was in perfect condition,
too.
As I flipped through the pages, I felt a sort of deja-vu. I could
remember seeing this magazine before. Even buying it. I saw a page
with an advertisement for a Swatch watch and I somehow knew the next
page would have an Oil of Olay ad. Page after page. Each one made me
feel like I was in high school again.
But why would a magazine that was out when I was a baby remind me of
high school?
My thoughts were broken again as she picked up the small stack of
magazines and gently started rubbing my bare thigh, saying "Mr.
Pitcairn, you should probably make yourself more decent."
I looked down at myself and noticed I was only wearing briefs. I could
have sworn I went to sleep in boxers last night. She was right.
Besides I shouldn't be wearing a dirty shirt for company. I stood up
and walked into my bedroom, the girl following behind me.
At first I turned to her, as if to say, "Shoo," but before I could say
anything she told me, "Mr. Pitcairn, there's no reason to be
embarrassed," and I couldn't think of a logical answer to that. She sat
down on my bed as I opened my closet and took a pair of jeans off the
shelf.
As I turned I caught myself in the mirror on the closet door. My lips
were covered in a perfect coat of dark red lipstick and my bangs curled
over to just above my eyebrows. It was the same style as the brunette
from the magazine, only a bit shorter. The rest of my hair was in a
cute pixie cut. Something seemed wrong about that. I don't normally
wear lipstick. I glanced over at the girl sitting on my bed. Oh,
that's right. Normally I don't wear lipstick and normally my hair
doesn't look this nice, but she came over this morning to... My mind
clouded back over. It didn't matter, really.
I sat down on my bed next to the girl and started to put on the jeans,
but she stopped me. "You don't want to put a clean pair of pants on
over dirty underwear. You should probably go shower. I'll pick out an
outfit for you."
She said it and it sounded like such a good idea. I folded the jeans,
put them down on the bed, and got up to go take a shower. Once under
the water, though, I felt like I had to keep my head dry. I didn't want
to ruin the girl's work. Almost like she could read my thoughts, I
heard her call out, "Don't worry about your hair or lipstick. They're
tough!"
And that was convincing enough. I just went through my shower like
normal, cleaning everything and washing my hair.
When I got out I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped out of the
bathroom, but as I got within view of the girl, my hands shifted, and I
wrapped the towel around my chest. I wasn't sure why, but it just
seemed better. She was sitting next to some folded clothes, and as I
got close, she picked up my jeans to display them.
Only, they weren't my jeans. It was a mid-calf denim skirt. I stopped
and told her, "That's not mine."
"Of course it is, silly. It did come from your closet."
Then it cleared up. Yes, it was mine. I bought it with Kim and Sherry
at Target.
I took the skirt from her and she gave me an odd look. So I turned to
her and said, "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. I
remember buying this skirt with some girlfriends at Wal-Mart." That
seemed to make the girl feel better.
I picked up the pair of underwear that was also on the bed. Something
about it seemed off. Like it was less substantial than the underwear I
normally wore. The material seemed thinner and it felt like there was
less elastic in the waistband than there should be, but that couldn't be
right. I mean, these had come out of my closet and it was just a pair
of regular cotton panties. I admonished myself for being silly and
pulled them up my legs underneath the towel as the girl looked on,
approvingly.
Then I pulled on the skirt, zipping it up from the back side. Something
didn't feel right there, either. I let my hands rest on my butt. The
skirt was too loose. It didn't make sense, but the skirt just wasn't
sitting right. I pulled my hands away and turned around for the girl,
asking her, "Does something look wrong to you?"
"No," she said, "everything looks fine. You *are* a size 16, right?
That skirt should fit you."
As she said that something adjusted and it felt better. I put my hands
on my backside again and smiled in satisfaction as I felt my rump fill
out the skirt like it's supposed to.
The next item on the bed was a training bra. Two conflicting thoughts
entered my head as I looked at it, paralyzing me. First of all, why
would someone my age need a *training* bra, and secondly, why can't I
seem to remember how to put one of these on?
It didn't matter, though. The girl picked it up, stood up, took my
towel off and threaded my arms through it, clasping it in the back.
But why did I think this was a training bra? It was way too loose in
front. I asked the girl, "Hey, could you read the tag for me? I think
this bra's too big."
The girl shrugged. "It says 40 C. You're lucky, I'm tall and skinny."
I was lucky, I thought to myself. I adjusted my breasts in their cups,
then bent down to put on the blouse that was left on the bed.
As I finished buttoning up, the girl started brushing my hair. Teasing
it. Getting it to look just-so. When she was finished, she pulled a
hand mirror out of her side bag and gave it to me. My hair was just
like the girls' from the magazine, except for the shorter bangs.
"Oh, you're so good," I squealed, "I haven't worn my hair like this
since high school. How did you do it? You couldn't have even been
alive yet when this was popular."
"I'm just good like that," she replied, then pointed to the black two-
inch heels on the floor next to my bed. "You should go put your shoes
on."
I sat my generous rear back onto the bed and bent over to put them on,
having a little more difficulty with it than I should have. When I got
up I felt better, just like I always do when I put on heels. Makes me
feel taller. Heck, with these babies on, I was probably only about four
or five inches shorter than the girl who was helping me.
But wait, she wasn't here to help me, I thought. She was here to ask a
question. "I'm sorry, miss, what was it you wanted to ask me again?"
"Oh!" she said, as suddenly remembering herself, "I'm with the Student
Republicans and I just want to know if John McCain can count on your
vote, come election day."
I thought for a moment. "I don't know," I told her, "I don't really
have a head for politics. Let me call my husband."
I picked up the phone and dialed my husband's cell phone, and he picked
up after two rings.
"Alice?" he asked.
"Yeah, Sam, a nice girl is here asking who I'm going to vote for. Which
one was it you wanted me to choose?"
"McCain," he said. "The other one's that nigger terrorist, remember?"
"Oh, that's right. Thanks honey." I hung up the phone and turned to
the girl.
"We're going to vote for McCain."
"Thank you, Mrs. Wurzelbacher," she said with a little gleam in her eye,
"I'm glad we can count on your support."
As I walked her out the door I spied the three magazines she'd left on
the sofa. I didn't even look at the third yet. Casually looking over
it I noticed it was from November 6, 1984. "Huh," I said to myself,
"wasn't there an election that day?"
Mila
- 13.05.2021
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