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18.03.2010 College Daze By Skywatcher
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09.03.2010 Old Town Upskirt Story
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16.02.2010 Windblown Upskirt Embarrassment
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College Daze By Skywatcher

While I was at university, I needed two years of a foreign language in order to meet my requirements. Though I have always been good with words and with foreign vocabularies, I found the grammar very daunting. To make matters worse, I did not get along with my French teacher, and I found his style of teaching to be so different from my own style of learning as to admit of no compromise. Fearing that I might fail my language requirements, I decided to switch over to Spanish. After all, I grew up in southern California, and could already understand more than half of what was said to me in that language. But which teacher, I wondered? I mentioned my plight to a friendly Literature teacher, who said, Why don’t you try Mrs. Benson? I knew nothing of Mrs. Benson, but, being desperate, I hurried down to the registrars office, switched classes, and dutifully showed up at Mrs. Benson’s classroom on Monday of next week back in October of 1974. After a bit of a wait, Mrs. Benson walked into the room. My jaw dropped open, my eyes popped out, and my dick stood straight up as it would do faithfully upon Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays for the next two years. Though her married name was Anglo-Saxon, Mrs. Benson was a home-grown Chicana girl from East L.A. I should say woman rather than girl, because she must have been about forty years old. A mane of sable hair topped her head, bouffant style. Her skin was brown and smooth, her lips heavy and pouting. While not precisely fat, she was overly voluptuous, and just a few more pounds would have ruined the effect. Her D-cup breasts strained against her clothing, render the outlines of her bra eternally visible through her crisp white blouses. In terms of tightness and shortness, her skirts rivaled and sometimes even surpassed those of the boldest students. Considering her age and the size of her rear end (which could almost have been classified as a small continent), the effect was remarkably slutty. To make matters even better, she typically wore extremely pointed high heels what the girls used to call come-fuck-me heels. As she paced restlessly up and down the aisles, her big butt and big tits made her seem top-heavy above those pointed heels, as if she were about to topple over. Mrs. Benson paced a great deal, because she seemed to understand that she could scarcely sit down in those skirts with any amount of decency. She was a tall woman, close to 5ft 8?, and with the bouffant hair she towered over her students as she walked the aisles. I nearly came in my shorts whenever she passed me by. I could hear the rustle of her blouse against her bra, hear the rustle of panty-hose against the fabric of her tight skirts, hear the high heels clicking, smell the musky perfume that surrounded her. As she paced on past my desk and headed for the blackboard, I could see her big butt swaying in a hip-grinding walk that looked like something out of a movie. Where once I had skipped my language classes at every opportunity, I now never missed one. Even sickness could not have kept me away. I loved watching Mrs. Benson. She always gave the impression of a vital energy so intense that it made her jumpy, like an in a cage. She would stride around the room like a nervous lioness. But no matter how much she paced, even a lioness must rest now and then. Even Mrs. Benson must occasionally sit down. Sometimes she sat at her desk, but more often she sat on it. I watched with great interest. At first, there was nothing. Her legs were carefully crossed. But after about the second week, an incident occurred. As you all know, one can see nothing if a woman keeps her legs very tightly crossed. But if the upper leg relaxes just a bit or slides just a little, a triangle of panties will be produced. And so it happened! Mrs. Benson’s upper leg relaxed and slid to one side, and I found myself gazing at a perfect white triangle, a view so perfect and clear that I could see the seam of her pantyhose. The upskirt magic lasted for less than a minute, but was magical all the same. Over the course of time, I realized that this was common practice with Mrs. Benson. She was good for about one upskirt flash a week. Over the next two years, I stayed with her classes like a dog with a rag, from beginning to intermediate to advanced. I had no compunction about altering the rest of my academic schedule to fit Mrs. Benson into my life. I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to say that I saw her flash her panties close to forty times. Almost every other time she sat on her desk, that olive-skinned upper leg would slide, ever so slowly, to one side, and always with predictable results. I saw white nylon panties both conventional and lacy, and every now and then some bright red satin ones. She never seemed to be aware of that sliding leg except once, and I mention the incident because it was just glorious, as most men here will appreciate. It was late May or early June of 1975, and unseasonably hot. Those tight skirts and pantyhose would probably have been uncomfortably warm for Mrs. Benson, so she appeared in a loose black skirt, also very short, and in bare legs with flat shoes. When she sat on her desk, she revealed an absolutely stunning white triangle, the largest I had yet seen. I could hear someone gulp, and hear one of the girls clear her throat. But their efforts to attract her attention went unnoticed, because Mrs. Benson was already coaching us in our lessons. You all know how language teachers do it they speak the phrase, then lift their hands to signal their students to repeat it. They do it again and again and again, till the students all get it right. Therefore the classroom is noisy, because either the teacher is speaking loudly, or else the students are answering loudly. Mrs. Benson didn’t hear the coughs or chuckles for several minutes, until her recitation was finished. By that time, a few more guys were chuckling and a few more girls raising their eyebrows and clearing their throats. Mrs. Benson appeared to become aware of the commotion and closed her legs. But she just kept on teaching as if nothing had happened. I have always wondered how could she have been unaware? A woman who dresses to flaunt her sexuality is typically keenly aware of all such matters. Was she doing it deliberately? She certainly could not have gotten away with it in any American university today. The guardians of political correctness and the shrill-voiced feminist dislikers of sexuality would have dragged her up in front of the administration in a hot minute and took her into sweat pants, earth shoes and unisex hair in order to keep her job. But this occurred from 1974 to 1976, and things were different then. The 1960s antagonism between teachers and students had ended, and many teachers were now hip. The sexual revolution was still going on, and had yet to reach its bacchanalian apex during the decadent disco days from 1975 until about 1979. The feminists were only beginning to stop burning bras and start bashing men, but this was not much in evidence among the girls at our school. In other words, Mrs. Benson was in a perfect position to get away with such antics if she really wanted to. I will never know the answer to that one, but I do know that I am eternally grateful to Mrs. Benson. I eventually graduated magna cum laude, thanks partly to my good grades in Spanish. I never, ever missed a class!