The Professor and the Cheerleder

Lubrican

The Professor and the Cheerleader

by Robert Lubrican

Zbookstore.com Edition

License Notes

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Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

All characters in this book are eighteen years of age or older. In fact, several of them are hundreds of years old.

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Table of Contents

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Chapter One

Professor Robert McFeeley coasted on his bike, listening to the click, click, click as he backpedalled half a rotation. He leaned into a turn and applied the brakes only at the last second, coming to a smooth stop three feet from the door to Albert Hall. Students seemed to know he was there without looking and altered either their stride or direction in a smooth, unspoken coexistence with his vehicle.

He caught a door as it was opened by a student and followed her in, steering his bike into the building. He never left his bike outside. It cost over a grand and the campus police had given up looking for stolen bikes years ago. Pretty much any bike left unlocked and unattended outside had been stolen and either was now abandoned, or soon would be. Then it would be stolen again, in a cycle that ended only when the bike got a flat tire or it was pawned for a few quick bucks.

He admired the shape of the girl's bottom as she walked in front of him. It was a saucy one, undulating beneath a skirt made of some kind of material that was slinky and moved a lot. She turned left at an intersecting hallway and Bob moved straight on, to his office. Watching the coeds was fun, but watching was all he could do. Unfortunately, as chairman of the English Department, there weren't many good looking girls in the classes he taught. For whatever reason, the babes didn't choose to be English majors.

Which is why he faithfully attended all the university football and basketball games, and quite a few of the other sporting events as well. Volleyball was one of his favorites, with its long, lean, leaping girls. It was there that he could feast his eyes on nubile young things in the flower of maidenhood. Assuming there were actually any maidens left these days, by the time a girl got to college age. The transition between scared, recently-graduated-from-high-school girl and confident, burgeoning young woman was something he knew he'd never get tired of watching.

His faithful attendance to these events made him a well known fan of the school teams because he always sat on the front row, where he had an unobstructed view of the action.

What most people didn't know was that the action he was so intent on was of the female variety, particularly if there were cheerleaders involved in the sport.

Bob McFeeley was that guy there would be a photo of in the world where, if you looked up a term, there would be a picture of a person as an example. In Bob's case, it was "Mr. Average." He was of average height, with average looks. He was the kind of guy who, if you saw him on the street, you'd never notice, much less remember. He was the kind of guy witnesses couldn't describe to the police, the kind of guy those witnesses always reported as, "You know ... just an regular guy."

He didn't mind being just the average guy. Not really. His personality fit with that image too. For example, he had a PhD and was entitled to be addressed as "Doctor McFeeley." That was even on the plate attached to his office door. But he never corrected anyone when they called him "Professor." In his mind, being a professor was an honorable and respected profession. He also felt that a man should be known for what he produced, not some inflated title he'd gotten by jumping through a bunch of academic hoops.

He was active as a child, but not on teams other than the kind that form for a game and then break up, never to form again. He could hit a ball, but only at every third or fourth at-bat. He hit about 30% of his shots in basketball. He'd been pretty good in tennis during high school but couldn't find anybody his age to play, because very few people in high school think it's cool to play tennis. In college he'd been the kind of racquetball opponent people liked to hone their skills on, because he could sometimes return the ball but rarely ever won more than six or eight points in a game. And, just as he seemed to drift around in sports, he drifted from major to major, unable to find anything that he felt like he could be good at, or even like.

Until, that is, he took a class on Elizabethan poetry. The musicality, verbal sophistication, and romantic exuberance of the poets and writers who dominated the era that coincided with the reign of Queen Elizabeth I set his imagination on fire. He went on to stay with English, avidly exploring the immense amount of variety the human mind had put on paper over the centuries. Sir Philip Sidney, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Christopher Marlowe were still his favorites, though he didn't let that divert him from becoming an expert in other areas. It had led to his current position and, even more importantly in his opinion, to a grant that was allowing him to collect and catalog material that until now had been in private collections around the globe. He'd gotten the grant, which made the university happy. What made them ecstatic was that they were now known as the up and coming depository for original papers, first drafts, and original manuscripts of authors in the pre-1800 time frame.

Basically, Bob was the perfect professor, as far as the university was concerned. He brought them a little fame and some degree of fortune, and he was too ordinary to become embroiled in scandal.

Or so everyone thought.

Actually, that's what Bob thought too. He was forty-two, unmarried, with no real romantic prospects, about fifteen pounds overweight (though he was losing that slowly now that he rode his bike almost everywhere), and almost nothing out of the ordinary ever happened around him, much less to him.

The collection was his passion. He thought of it as "his" collection, though of course it actually belonged to others. About a quarter of the collection had been purchased outright, but many more were on loan to the university. He was working on a couple of wealthy dowagers, urging them to leave their pieces to the university in their wills, but they spent a lot more time sipping wine in the company of "that nice young fellow from the university" than they did having their attorneys draft things up.

Teaching had, at one time, been his passion, back when he tried to elicit in his young students the same awe for literature that had kindled in his own heart. But the truth of the matter was that the vast majority of his students were there because English credits were required to graduate, and not because they wanted to take the class. Even the English majors seemed to be coasting along, much like he had been doing before he read that first sonnet by Michael Drayton, describing his passion for the woman he could not have.

And, truth be told, that had been the story of his own love life. There were plenty of saucy young women that he'd noticed and longed to have in his life in a romantic way. But, like Drayton's love Anne, the daughter of Sir Henry Goodere, his employer, they always wanted other men than him.

True, there had been a few fellow lovers of literature, young women with whom he had learned the dance of sex. But by and large they were women who sought the attentions of a willing male more to flesh out their own fantasies, than for the purpose of forging lasting relationships. It was surprising how many English majors were also ardent feminists, up in their ivory towers most of the time, coming down to tryst with the male of the species only when lust drove them to it.

As things turned out, those demanding, controlling lovers had done him a favor, though he didn't know it until almost two decades later.

Which brings us back to the present, wherein Bob was sitting in his office on a Monday morning, leafing through the woefully incomplete listings of a shipment of papers from the estate of one Marian Beatrice Eldridge, purchased at auction as lot number 124. She had been a prodigious pack rat. Fortunately - at least Bob hoped so - she'd had an eye for keeping the good stuff and getting rid of the junk. At least there hadn't been any junk at her estate sale.

More importantly, her late husband had been Anthony Eldridge, a man known in the literary circles Bob moved in as an expert on Shakespearean documents. Bob had high hopes that the six old fashioned filing cabinets of "miscellaneous academic papers" contained a treasure trove of either research, or even original documents themselves. And he'd gotten them for a song, fifteen dollars per cabinet in fact, which was little enough that he hadn't even gotten around to doing the paperwork to get reimbursed from the university account the grant funds had been deposited into.

The problem was that it would take hundreds of man hours to sift through them and catalog them all. And for that he'd need an assistant. He'd put up notices around the hallways, worded thusly: "Graduate student wanted: Opportunities for doing original work of a part time nature in the investigation of Shakespearean documents, possibly leading to publication of significant importance."

To his mind, that had it all ... Shakespeare ... part time work ... and the chance to publish. What more could a student ask for?

The problem was that eager grad students weren't battering down his door to get the position.

All that changed, though, when the cheerleader walked through the door, smiled, and said, "You're looking for a research assistant?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He recognized her right away. Her name was Kendra. He'd heard others of her social group call her "Kat" before, but he preferred the more mysterious, less usual "Kendra."

That name was "mysterious" in Bob's mind, primarily because the only other woman he knew of with that moniker was Kendra Jade Rossi, who starred in some 40 or more films of an "adult" nature. Bob had, at one time or another, owned VHS tapes upon which resided pirated copies of three or four of those films. Her name had been different enough that he'd looked it up. The etymology of Kendra was unsettled, but a popular one was, "A most clever but stunning individual. Formally known as the most beautiful woman on the planet. Any man would be lucky to have her even in his dreams." His second favorite was, "A woman who looks and acts like a goddess."

Naturally, when he found out one of the cheerleaders he so loved to watch had that name, he compared her to the woman he'd watched so many times while he stroked a load out onto a hand towel. His initial evaluation determined that this Kendra had strikingly similar facial features to the porn goddess, though her hair was long and blond, while that of the fuck goddess was usually rendered dark in her movies. Eying her critically, he decided the cheerleader was more slightly built, overall, but might have larger breasts. She definitely fit her name. She was incredibly beautiful.

His fantasies about Kendra the cheerleader had been along the same lines of his fantasies of meeting Kendra Jade Rossi, who had an unaccountable fascination (in his fantasy) with Elizabethan poetry and loved to discuss that with him while she had romantic sex with him (in private, as opposed to business-sex in front of a camera). Kendra, the cheerleader, was the one the other girls tossed up in the air, or who stood on the top of the pyramid before jumping, to be caught effortlessly by her friends or some male cheerleader (who naturally copped a feel in the process of catching her.) So his fantasies about her were of a slightly different nature. His fantasy about her involved the two of them being on "Dancing With The Stars," the only television program Bob ever watched. He never told anyone he liked that program, primarily because in his fantasy, he was the star, and Kendra was his professional dance partner who couldn't help but fall madly in love with him during the show.

Such are the fantasies of middle-aged, lonely men. And what's the harm?

"Professor?" Her voice was clear and sweet, in the high registers. Bob would have bet she sang soprano. He'd heard her shout, and say things to her cohorts, but not in this voice.

He realized he was staring, and jerked his eyes away from the front of her blouse.

"I'm sorry," he said, automatically.

"You have signs up?" she reminded him. "About a job?"

"Oh! Yes!" he said. His mind was trying to catch up. The problem was there was no way he was ready to entertain the idea that this girl might want that job. "I do!" he said.

"Well, I need a job," she said.

"But you're a cheerleader," he said. Somehow he thought cheerleaders didn't need jobs. Didn't they get scholarships or something, like the other athletes?

"You noticed!" She both looked and sounded delighted.

"Of course I noticed," he said before he could think to, perhaps, retain that bit of wisdom in his mind, unsaid.

"I guess that makes sense," she said, moving a step deeper into his office. "You always sit right on the front row. I'd recognize you anywhere, so I guess it's reasonable that you might recognize me too."

If only you knew, he thought to himself.

"So ... you're interested in Shakespeare?" he said, instead.

"Actually, I don't know that much about him," she admitted. "We read Romeo and Juliet in high school," she said, hopefully.

His mind, upon hearing that title, wrested control away from his libido. This was serious business. And she obviously knew next to nothing about Shakespeare.

"I haven't seen you in any of my classes," he offered.

"I took Dr. Poindexter's course on hippy English," she said.

Bob knew the course to which Kendra had alluded. Its formal name was English Literature 101: The effects of the bohemian era in American history on American English. Roger Poindexter had somehow convinced the dean that this course had merit and freshmen flocked to it because it had a reputation for being an easy A and it satisfied the English requirement for most non English majors. As far as Bob was concerned, Roger Poindexter was a putz, whose only goal was to pack his classes with cute young freshmen girls.

"What is your major?" asked Bob.

"Early childhood education," she said. "I want to be a preschool or kindergarten teacher."

He knew, of course, the exact year she had first bounded out on the court.

"You're a senior," he said.

"Yes," she agreed, her eyes widening.

"This is more of a position for a graduate student," he suggested.

"I could learn," she said. "I'm bright. I get good grades. I have to, to stay on cheer. Please, give me a chance. I promise you'll be glad you did."

He thought about the fact that the posters had been up for two weeks now, and she was the first person who had shown even an inkling of interest; not to mention one of the most beautiful young woman he knew of. She was by far his favorite cheerleader and the one he most often fantasized about. Even in the months when the cheerleaders bundled up during football games where snow flurries flew, she managed to look sexy enough to stiffen his dick on a regular basis.

He thought about that, critically. Having her around, even on a part time basis, was going to be hard on him. Literally.

But then again, forming something even on the outskirts of "friendship" with her would give him material for stroke sessions for the rest of his life.

The cartoon character on his left shoulder whispered, "Not a good idea, Bob," while the one on his right shoulder shouted, "Take it! Hire her! And then fuck her little cheerleader socks off!"

"I guess we could give it a trial period," he said.

She jumped up and down, squealing. It was a very cheerleader kind of thing to do. Her breasts bounced gently under her silk blouse.

"Thank you!" she gushed. "I promise you'll be glad you took me on."

"I'll take care of the paperwork," said Bob, somehow turning "took me on" into being on top of her naked body, in his mind's eye. "When can you work?"

"Would evenings be okay?" she asked, suddenly concerned. "I have classes, and cheer practice, but I can work between eight and ten most nights."

"I'll need to supervise you," said Bob, who wondered why he was pointing that out. Wasn't that obvious? And he had nothing better to do between eight and ten on any given night.

"Except for game nights," she said, putting one finger up to her lower lip. "But on those days, maybe I can make up for it on Saturdays."

"Okay!" said Bob, a little too eagerly.

Now he even had something to look forward to on Saturdays!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

For Bob, it was equal measures of something very much like ecstasy and a kind of the slow torture of a prisoner with a life sentence.

The ecstasy part was because Bob was like lots of people who imagine meeting some celebrity and things working out so that the celebrity wants to become friends. Bob had done that with Kendra the porn goddess hundreds of times. His fantasy about that was that he was her secret lover, the one she could turn to for really satisfying companionship and sex, with no complications. He was quite sure in his inner mind that he could actually have that kind of relationship with Kendra Jade if only fate would allow them to meet.

Now he had some inkling of what that might actually be like as his cheerleader came to see him almost daily. Except she didn't fall into his arms ... or bed, as it were ... like Kendra Jade always did in his fantasies. There was the ecstasy of being so close to her that he could tell she used peach scented body lotion and the torture of not being able to touch her ... to explore that ... to see if that body lotion was edible, for instance.

It was comical to his professional mind because he thought of references to couples in literature constantly. When he was in her presence he felt weak, as if she had some kind of magical control over him. On those days she wasn't there all he could think of was what she might be doing. And with whom. He was fully aware that he was acting like a lovesick teenager but he loved that feeling rather than loathing it. His masturbation sessions seemed much more satisfying since she had come into his office.

Granted, nothing had developed between them, in terms of a lusty romance as they sifted through thousands of pages of arcane notes. Bob had to teach her not only what to look for, but how to look through line after line on page after page of mostly handwritten entries. There was anything and everything in those notes, from observations on events in literature that (the author thought) coincided with dates and historical events, to scribbled grocery lists that, somehow, got filed away with everything else.

But, while he taught her how to interpret both the writing itself and the possible importance of what was written, they were physically close. And she was obviously comfortable in his presence. She had that odd capability so many young people have to multi task, chatting about this or that, as her eyes ceaselessly scanned pages and her mind categorized them, while her fingers moved them to the appropriate pile. She looked at him often, though not for long periods of time. And she smiled a lot, a friendly, open, inviting (at least in his mind) smile that always made his nut sack tighten briefly.

His eyes had always drunk her in like fine wine before he "knew" her, and now his nose was assailed with wonderful scents. There was that peach scented body lotion, which he inhaled in deep drafts, but equally sensual was the fragrance of her hair. It didn't matter if it was flowing loose or in a ponytail. Nor could he decide which hair style he preferred most. When it was down, he wanted to run his fingers through it, maybe even brush it. When it was in that bouncy, perky ponytail, he wanted to approach her from behind and ram it to her doggy style, to watch it bounce as her head tossed in pleasure.

As to his preferences in how she dressed, they were both clear and a little surprising to him. Before she came to work for him he'd seen her primarily in her cheerleader uniform, of course. In it she was smoothly compact, her body a series of curves and bulges that hinted at a lush pulchritude that was denied the casual observer because the uniform covered her so securely. She looked happy and healthy and ... well ... just fuckable, as she pranced and posed and flirted with the crowd. He wasn't alone in his observations. Literally hundreds of other men thought about her and the other cheerleaders just like he did. But he was both adult and intelligent enough to understand that he was having fantasies. Even before she had walked into his office, he understood that his fantasies about becoming Kendra Jade's secret lover and his fantasies about Kendra the cheerleader were just that - simple lusty fantasies. Nothing would ever happen with either of them … other than what was in his mind.

Now, though, he got to see her in a multitude of different outfits. Most days she came to work straight from cheerleading practice. But she rarely wore her uniform. That was saved for actual games, or the Friday just prior to a home game. Rather, she wore the kind of thing he imagined dancers might wear as they went to the studio to stretch, and reach, and move gracefully and sensually. She wasn't a fashion slave, meaning that she didn't wear "ensembles" that matched. His favorite outfit was a pair of spandex bottoms that were black and went clear to her ankles, and a pullover top that hung straight down from the tips of her breasts and didn't quite make it to the waistband of the bottoms. When she wore that one he constantly imagined standing behind her with his hands on her hips (as if they were in Dancing With The Stars), and then sliding his hands forward, onto her flat belly, and then upwards, until his hands were filled with warm, naked breasts. In that particular fantasy, she laid her head back on his shoulder and moaned as his fingers found already turgid nipples and squeezed them gently.

Even as strong as that fantasy was, on Saturdays, when she wore plain street clothes, it was just as good. She preferred pullover tops and she liked them loose. He was mildly disappointed that she never went braless, because as he leaned over her shoulder to look at something she wanted him to see he often got a shot of the creamy cleavage her bras exposed. They were nice bras ... lacy, pretty, sexy bras ... but he wished, sometimes, that she would eschew them in search of comfort, or freedom, or whatever it was that made women leave a bra in the drawer.

Yes, when it came to attire, he was surprised to find that he actually preferred her in something other than her cheerleader uniform.

And, as he reflected on the changes in his life since Kendra walked into it, seeking part time employment, he understood for the first time why his original Kendra, Kendra Jade, might have been willing to go on what he had previously thought was that stupid reality show where she sought treatment for sexual addiction.

Bob had always thought "sexual addiction" was an oxymoron. But now he wondered if he wasn't sexually addicted to his little, blond Kendra.

He understood, of course, that nature demands that men be addicted to the thought of true love with, and impregnating the female. That was the basis for perhaps half of the great literature of the world. It was clearly the basis for what was produced between 1558 and 1603, when Elizabeth the First was the queen over a struggling nation beset on all sides by political strife. That literature, in all its forms, had captured the imaginations of countless men and women over the years and no doubt led to equally countless liaisons where insemination took place, and babies resulted.

So his lust for the cheerleader was manageable on an academic level. The problem was that he just couldn't stop thinking about fucking her little cheerleader socks off.

Since applying for her job she had always been chatty. That was how he had learned so much about her. Such as the fact that she had been born at home on the farm in rural Kansas, and that her aunt had been her mother's midwife. She had what, to a city boy like Bob, seemed like a mystical knowledge of plants and animals, and how to raise both. She knew all about hunting and she actually carried a small pistol in her purse. Bob had seen it one day when she dumped it to find some elusive item she was looking for. When he had pointed out that the university prohibited guns on campus she snorted and said she'd rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. She had two older sisters and her favorite food was key lime cheesecake. She mourned the fact that cheesecake was forbidden to her at present, because she had to watch her weight so carefully. Bob almost laughed when she said that. She was in fabulous shape, and the sweat stains visible when she came straight to his office from cheer practice made it obvious that she was working hard.

That she was willing to appear in public with mussed hair and sweat-stained togs and was completely unembarrassed by it, was something that also made his balls tighten. She didn't put on airs. She didn't think she was special. She was just herself and if people liked that, that was fine ... and if they didn't ... well that was okay too. As for Bob, he thought she was gorgeous all the time. He was a tad bit uncomfortable about having had a quick fantasy about licking her salty skin one day when a sweat stain between her breasts caught his imagination. He'd never wanted to lick the sweat off a woman before, but now that seemed like something he wouldn't mind doing.

And, while she had so casually talked about her own background, she had, mysteriously, learned more about him than just about anybody else he could think of. Her innocent questions seemed to come from honest interest, and it was easy to share with her the triumphs and even failures in his life. It didn't seem odd at all. She was just easy to talk to.

And yet, whenever they were talking, there was always a kind of tension in the air. It was like he was sitting on the edge of a cliff, watching a beautiful sunset, but worrying about the cliff crumbling and him falling. He could literally feel this tension sometimes in the tightness of the muscles in his shoulders or back, but he attributed it to the fact that he wanted to know more and more about her but didn't inquire because he had no right to know the kinds of intimate things he wanted to ask about.

One example was when he made what he thought of as a clumsy attempt to find out something about her boyfriend, who she had never mentioned, even once. She had not, in fact, given him any information of any kind about her sex life.

"You don't have to work on Friday nights," he had said on one such night. "Your boyfriend will be angry with me for dominating your time."

She hadn't even looked up from the page she was examining.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said.

"That's insane," he blurted, unable to understand a world in which that could be the case.

"No it's not," she said, still not looking at him. "I'm not really interested in boys."

He had a sudden and horrifying feeling that she was a lesbian. He must have gasped, because she looked up suddenly. Then she laughed.

"You think I'm gay!" she giggled. "That's not what I meant. What I meant was that boys complicate your life. They're insecure, and you have to keep stroking their egos. They want to dominate all your time, and they get jealous if you have a simple friendship with another guy. They want sex, but it's a one way street, because they're no good at it. I just don't have time for all that drama."

He'd been so relieved about the not-being-gay part that he couldn't control his curiosity.

"So what do you do about ...?" He stopped, as his face turned pale. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

"Sex?" She raised both eyebrows, but there was a hint of a smile tugging up the corners of her lips. "Why professor! People will think you're a dirty old man, asking a cheerleader about her sex life."

"I'm sorry!" he gushed. "Really. I don't know why I asked that."

"Because you were curious," she said, as the smile formed fully on her lips. "Don't feel bad. You're normal. Everybody wants to know about the sex life of a cheerleader."

"Yes, but I don't have any right to ask that," he moaned. "It might not even be legal for me to ask that."

She giggled. "I'm not going to make a sexual discrimination complaint, or whatever it is they call that. You haven't hit on me, yet. You're a perfect gentleman."

Of her whole phrase, one word she'd said electrified his brain: "yet." He was a man of words. Words mattered. Words were important. And the way she'd used that word could mean that she had expected something to happen that hadn't happened ... yet. It boggled his mind that she might expect him to actually express the kind of interest that had churned inside his fevered fantasies for ... well ... for a long time, now. He felt like he must be reading something into an otherwise casual, if technically incorrect use of that word.

"Does that happen a lot?" asked his subconscious mind, while his conscious mind was going through all that.

"You mean men hitting on me?" That grin was wide now. "Constantly. Most men think cheerleaders want nothing more than to be pinned to the bed and constantly fertilized."

He had been standing during this particular exchange of information, moving a handful of papers to a box. He sat now as his knees weakened, threatening not to support him any longer. He realized his mouth was hanging open. He was surprised he wasn't drooling. His eyes watched her eyes, above that smiling mouth, as they seemed to peer directly into his most secret thoughts. He closed it and swallowed.

"Did I shock you?" she asked in what, before this, he would have characterized as an innocent voice.

He didn't know what to do. He interacted with young women her age on a daily basis, but they never had these kinds of discussions.

"You're a man," she observed, her eyes still watching him. "Am I wrong?"

Now she was actually asking for him to admit something. This was dangerous territory. As laughingly as she had said she wouldn't make a complaint, if he actually admitted he lusted after her, things could get ugly. He went on the defensive.

"Well," he said, his academic mind churning to life, "if you think about the fact that cheerleading, as far as I can see, is inherently designed to excite the crowd, and that a lot of the moves in your routines are, shall we say, titillating by design, and I might even argue by intent, then it isn't surprising that the men in that crowd might revert to that cave man part of their subconscious that drives them to make a conquest involving something other than the sporting competition going on."

"My goodness that was a mouthful," she said, with a droll voice. "So you're saying we tease men."

"Well don't you?" It seemed obvious to him.

"Some do," she said, quite seriously, seeming to avoid answering his question directly. "For others, though, cheer is very serious business, and sexual titillation isn't the primary objective."

A dozen scenes of her wiggling her hips, or thrusting out her chest as she danced, jumped and cheered flowed through his mind. She was one of the sexiest cheerleaders on the squad. Something made him ask about that.

"So ... and I apologize if this is too personal a question ... which way do you feel about that?"

"It depends," she said, with a wide grin. "Sometimes I want to turn a guy on. I freely admit that. I confess that I've got a little streak of exhibitionist in me. I think you have to, to last on the squad, even if that isn't your primary motivator."

"You said it depends," he insisted. "What does it depend on?"

"Well, if you see a guy you think you'd like, then maybe you give a little extra wiggle his way, or make eye contact and smile at him a lot, or something like that," she said. "But it has more to do with fantasy than actually trying to get the guy to hit on you. Like I said, plenty of guys hit on cheerleaders anyway. You don't really have to encourage them. And if you accepted every advance, you'd end up being that cheerleader all the guys think you are in the first place. I know a few girls who enjoy being sluts, but they're nowhere near being in the majority."

He thought about that. Her answer, on some levels, was still evasive. She hadn't really let herself be tied down.

"Who was the last man you saw in the crowd that you wanted to tease?" he asked, for no reason other than to see if he could figure out what kind of man she liked. "And what did you do about it?"

She dimpled.

"Why, professor McFeeley ... that would be you. If you'll recall, I believe I winked at you."

Then, giggling, she turned back to her work.

Chapter Two

He hadn't pressed any further. He thought she was only teasing him, probably as punishment for his inquisitiveness and the fact that he'd gotten personal. He already knew she had a brilliant mind and was capable of humor that came from a wry, witty place that she only seemed to let out in public occasionally. So he knew she was capable of gently punishing him with that wit.

These little, harmless chats did not affect him in little, harmless ways. If you're a man, and you've ever been between girlfriends, then you know what kind of fantasies a man has in that situation. If you're a woman ... well ... suffice it to say you've been ridden hard and left lying drenched in sperm countless times. Only in some man's imagination, of course, but trust me. You have no idea how many men have wanted to bed you.

For Bob, though he didn't actually think about it this way, it followed the script of his fantasy about Kendra Jade. Kendra the cheerleader ("Bradford," she had told him) wasn't famous, of course, at least not outside the confines of the sports world at the university, but she was among the social elite at the school. That didn't have the same kinds of rewards it might have in the commercial world, but she was still had a lifestyle lots of other people envied. So in that sense, she was like Kendra Jade. And as they worked together each night, and traded bits and pieces of personal information, he became her secret friend. Sort of. He wasn't egocentric enough to think of it that way, but it was true.

It was as if she was sharing her secret identity with him, while to others, she appeared only in her "super hero" persona.

Of course he didn't think of it in reverse. He wasn't a hero of any kind, much less "super." All he exposed to her were the indications of where he came from, and possibly why he was the kind of normal, every-day kind of guy he was.

At least that's how he thought about it.

The overall effect was something Bob had never actually been submerged in. She didn't exactly flirt with him, but her acceptance of him as her peer, rather than a stuffy old professor, still communicated some kind of interest he was a little afraid to suggest, lest she laugh at him.

It was a little like jumping in a cold pool on a hot day. It felt wonderful, but it was also a shock to the system.

And then, one day about a month after she'd started working for him ... she came to work braless.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As soon as she walked in the door he could tell she had taken a shower after practice. Her hair was still wet, held back in a damp ponytail. Her face was absolutely clean of makeup, but she was still as beautiful as her namesake. She had a sports bag on a strap slung across her back, and the strap ran between her breasts, which was why he instantly noticed the lack of a bra under her T shirt. The points in the shirt made by her nipples were obvious.

It was such a departure from the norm that he mentioned it without thinking about it first.

"You took a shower." he said.

She stopped, looked at him, and her face showed no emotion.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No," he said, embarrassed that he'd made the comment. "Not at all. It's just that you don't usually do that."

"I don't take showers?" Her right eyebrow arched.

"I meant after practice," he said, his voice urgent. "I mean before you come here." He felt ridiculous, but he also felt like he had to explain himself. He neither understood this urge, or stopped to examine it. "And that's fine. I mean you're fine, sweaty. I don't mind you sweaty at all."

He closed his eyes. How could he have said something like that? She'd probably quit and stomp out. She might even make a complaint.

He was shocked to hear her laugh, and opened his eyes.

"Thanks," she said. "Nobody has ever told me being sweaty was fine."

He just stared at her, unable to believe he'd been forgiven for such a crass comment. She dropped the bag on the floor by the door.

"We had an extra hard workout today, and I just felt icky," she said. "I didn't want to feel icky for the next four hours, so I took a quick shower."

She tilted her head and he felt like he was a new life form of some kind, being examined by an observer.

"Should I stay sweaty in the future?"

His nut sack tightened. She was undeniably flirting with him. It was inconceivable!

"No," he said, initially. Then, again without conscious thought, be babbled on. "I mean not unless you want to."

Her smile was like sunshine after a long rainy period. What his mind concentrated on was how astonishingly forgiving she was. And how lucky he was to have taken her on as his assistant.

"You look nice," he said. He winced internally as soon as he said it.

"Thank you," she said, giving him a curtsy, holding imaginary skirts. "That's one reason I like you. You don't require me to be the prom queen all the time."

"Prom queen?" He blinked.

"You know. Like in high school? If you were popular, you had to put on this act all the time and pretend everything was great and life was perfect. And you had to look perfect all the time too."

"In high school, yes," said Bob. "But surely that doesn't go on in college too."

She laughed again.

"For such a brilliant man, you sometimes say the silliest things. Of course it still goes on in college. You just have all this other stuff you have to do, too."

He was still reflecting on her characterization of him as "brilliant" when she breezed by him, approached the chair she usually sat in, and started her work.

She smelled like peaches

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

His fantasy was alive and well when she left that night, because he was quite sure she knew he habitually looked down her loose shirts, and on this night, when her breasts were bare under the shirt she'd changed into after her sweaty workout, she did nothing to prevent him from looking. In fact, it was possible she'd called him over to her table more frequently than in the past. That might have been a product of his fevered imagination, though, and he acknowledged that.

As to what he'd been graced with during those calls to help her decide how to categorize something, it was enough to make him actually impatient for her to leave, so he could deal with his rampant prick. The irony of that did not escape him.

The first time he got a glimpse of her breasts it had been agonizing, because the shirt had exposed all but the nipples themselves. The mounds he glimpsed were firm and round. They looked incredibly smooth. He could see a tan line, where her bikini had protected some areas and let others get brown. He had no idea of what size she was. In his personal history, bra size had never come up. If a girl bared them, he concentrated on touching them as much as possible, not asking things like, "By the way, what size are your knockers?"

So he didn't know if she was a C cup, or a D cup or a quadruple Q cup, and to be honest, he didn't care. They looked luscious, and firm, and he wanted to rub his nose between them.

Then, the second time she called him over, the nipples were exposed. He was already hard, but seeing those nipples made him leak a little bit.

They were erect, in the first place, standing proudly away from the firm mounds as if advertising for a baby to come suck on them. He could be that baby. He loved sucking on a woman's nipples. It was more fun when they stood out like this, or perhaps easier. He'd known a woman once whose nipples never stood up. She still liked having them touched, licked, and sucked, but in her case, it was like he sucked the whole tip of the breast, and not just the nipple. That was okay, but a good, stiff nipple was better, somehow.

Kendra's were large, too. He'd seen some that were like pencil erasers, but these were fat, like a June Bug. They weren't much darker than the areola each sat on, which weren't much darker than her skin. He imagined them to be pink, but couldn't tell for sure in the relative shadow inside her shirt.

He knew she'd caught him looking that time, because she'd looked up and said, "Professor?" alerting him that he hadn't answered her question. He thought he saw a knowing look in her eyes too, but she neither leaned back or used her hand to press the neck of her shirt closed.

The enormity of it paralyzed him. She let him look! It was like being struck by lightning.

"I'll just put it in the 1600s pile," she said, as if nothing was wrong. "Are you okay?"

He nodded dumbly, and then went to sit down before she saw the bulge in his trousers.

And yet, ten minutes later, she called him over again. She let him look that time too, not "catching" him like she did last time, but droning on about whether it should go in this pile, or that pile, until finally he gruffly gave her an answer.

She let him look half a dozen more times that night before she stood up, stretched, arching her chest so those stiff points were obvious on the front of her shirt, and tossed him a lazy smile.

"This is actually fun. I'm learning a lot. But I have an eight o'clock class in the morning and I haven't finished the reading for it yet, so I'd better go."

"Okay!" he said, eager for her to close the door so he could masturbate right there in the office. He'd never done that in his life, but tonight was going to change that. "Thanks. You do good work."

She giggled, as if she knew what was really going on in his brain at the moment, and yet, somehow, didn't mind. Maybe she was more than a little bit of an exhibitionist, he thought.

He had his zipper down and was reaching to release his cock when the door opened suddenly and she breezed back in.

"Forgot my bag," she said, reaching for the gym bag by the door. "You don't want my stinky clothes smelling the place up. Night."

And, with a wave, she was gone again.

He actually trembled, so glad was he that he'd still been sitting down, and that she hadn't seen what he was doing. It was enough to cool his ardor. He knew he wouldn't get anything else done, though, if he stayed. So he locked up his office and got on his bike to ride home.

It wasn't until he was letting himself into his house that he realized that what she did see, when she came back in, was Professor McFeeley sitting rigidly at his desk ... with both hands under it.

Who sat at a desk like that?

Nobody, that's who.

So she had to know something was up.

All he could hope was that she didn't know what that something was.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next time she came to work she wore a bra.

But the two times after that she came to his office fresh from the shower room ... and with her squeaky clean breasts bare under what could not be described as anything other than a very loose shirt. In one case, it was a tank top, and he could see most of a breast through the arm hole, if her elbow was on the table.

Somehow, though, he came to terms with the fact that, for some unfathomable reason, this girl didn't mind him looking at the little shows she was putting on. That she was putting on those shows was obvious. She caught him looking all the time now, but never said or did anything to stop him.

He imagined that she thought he was harmless, just an older guy who didn't have a girlfriend, and was probably hard up and lonely. Maybe she thought she was throwing him a bone, now and then. Maybe she knew he had some fantasies, but since he hadn't hit on her, he wasn't the kind of guy whose fantasies she needed to worry about.

And all the time she chatted like they were best buddies, telling him how her day had gone, and asking him how his was. She asked him all sorts of questions about what it was like to be a professor, such as how he came up with examination questions, and what kind of students he liked and disliked the most. She was curious about how he built a test, and decided what elements a student's grade would be based on. On another day she gave him a discourse on what it was like to help a cow give birth, and all the things one had to think about during that process. He never knew what she'd talk about next. But it was always entertaining.

It was this casual, easy-going, every-day level of conversation that ambushed him one day. She had arrived frowning (and braless), and sat down to get to work immediately, without any of the usual banter that characterized her arrival.

"What's wrong?" he asked, after about ten minutes. He was mildly astonished that he knew her well enough to sense something was bothering her, and was bold enough to ask about it.

"Oh, I got into a 'discussion' with the grad student that teaches my Social Interactions class, about a test he gave us. He only gave me ten percent on an essay question and it caused my grade on that test to only be a C."

"What was the question?" asked Bob.

"Oh, it was about how girls mature before boys, and how that affects their private development and social interaction in various age groups."

"And what did you say?"

"Well, the part we argued about was that I said the onset of puberty is viewed by society as the onset of interest in sex, but that isn't true at all and kids know that. So they are out of sync with the expectations of adults and understand the attraction of sex long before adults think they do."

"And he didn't like that," said Bob.

"He said I was wrong!" complained Kendra. "He said all the studies show that before puberty, interest in sex is purely academic and children are incapable of feeling sexual desire."

"So what made you give the answer you did?" asked Bob.

"Because I started masturbating when I was eleven and I didn't have a period until I was almost thirteen," she said, heatedly. "And I know at least two guys who say they started before they could actually ejaculate. How old were you when you started?"

The unimaginable boldness she exhibited, asking him a question like that, surprised him so much that he simply answered her question.

"I think I was ten," he said, a little breathlessly.

"And, at ten, there was no way your body produced ejaculate. Am I right?" She was in full argument mode, and the astonishing subject of the current discussion didn't seem to bother her at all.

"Uh ... yeah," he admitted.

"So how old were you before you could actually cum?" she asked.

This was incredible. And she was treating it like they were talking about how old he was when the training wheels came off his first bike!

"Probably two years later," he said, a little breathlessly. Actually, he knew exactly when it was, because the first time something had spurted out of his penis when that fantastic sweet pain came rushing, he'd thought he broke something inside his body, and that he was going to have to ask his parents to take him to the hospital. Luckily, his dad was home and had fielded the question. He'd offered his son a beer after he explained things. Bob hadn't taken more than one sip, because the stuff had tasted awful, but it was a memory he'd never forget.

"My point exactly!" she crowed. "You knew enough to masturbate before puberty, even though your body wasn't ready to have productive sex. And girls do too. But he insisted that his precious studies say otherwise so he docked me points."

Bob was fascinated by this woman. She was so unassuming, so open, so willing to talk to him as if he were her age. He wanted to keep things going.

"I didn't know what I was doing," he said. "I discovered it by accident, and it felt good, so I kept doing it. But I didn't know that what I was doing had anything to do with sex until my dad explained it to me," he confessed.

"You knew your penis had something to do with sex, though, right?" she argued.

"Well ... yes," he admitted.

"And I bet you knew that what a girl has between her legs had something to do with sex too. Is that right?"

"Sure," he said. "But nobody talked about it."

"I bet the boys talked about it when they got together. It might have been in whispers, but they talked about it."

"Okay, but none of us knew what we were talking about. We just repeated things we'd heard from older guys."

"Girls were the same," she agreed. "Did you ever try to look up a girl's dress?"

"Of course," said Bob. "All boys do."

"Aha!" she yipped. "And would they do that if they didn't know it had to do with sex?"

He thought about that.

"You know, I honestly don't know. I remember wanting to look, but not why. Probably because I wasn't supposed to."

"I think kids play 'doctor' because they know those secret parts have something to do with sex, and they're curious about how it all works. Of course nobody will tell them until they're well into puberty. But that initial interest is based on an innate sex drive that I think exists even before puberty kicks in."

"You can probably appeal the grade to the supervising professor," said Bob. "You have a convincing argument."

"I might just do that," she said. "So, tell me, is this essay question thing totally subjective, or what?"

Instead of trying to explain what he'd been taught when he was in college, he demonstrated his formula to her by having her answer one of the essay questions on an exam he had just given. She was delighted when she got a B on that question, even though she hadn't taken the class or read the material.

"So you look for specific things, not just ideas," she said.

"Actually, I look for both," he answered. "If the specific concepts aren't written out, then I evaluate whether the answer expresses a knowledge of them. What I want to see is if the student understands the concepts I was trying to teach."

"That's how it should be," she said. "I'm going to have to take one of your classes."

"You can't," he said, trying to make a joke. "I'd be tempted to give you an A even if you didn't earn it."

She showed him very white teeth.

"I promise, if you give me an A, it will be because I earned it."

Then they had gotten to work. She had a question about ten minutes later, and when he leaned over, there were her lovely breasts, with their eternally stiff nipples. By now, he simply let himself enjoy looking at them. He no longer felt guilty that he got stiff while standing right next to her. He moved things so it wasn't obvious. She trusted him, and he wanted to maintain that trust.

Of course the discussion they'd had put him on pins and needles. Her easy, willing discussion about that aspect of teenage life, and her casual admission that she had masturbated at age eleven, meaning that she probably still masturbated ... meant that she wasn't as innocent as her fresh-faced, girl-next-farm-over appearance presented to the world.

He was reflecting on that when her voice interrupted his chain of thought.

"We need more space," she said as she stood up and leaned to place a page on the far side of her desk. "I was thinking about this last night, and I think we should expand the categories of documents. He wrote about so many different subjects and authors. I think it would be a good idea if each author had his own pile, so we could locate documents later, based on who they pertain to."

"That would be nice," agreed Bob. "But we don't have the room."

"Isn't there somewhere we could have the room?"

"Space is jealously coveted in this environment," said Bob. "A lot of the available space is considered to be a perk by the administration. The more grant money you get, the more space you get. That sort of thing."

"Well that's stupid," said Kendra. She sat back. "How about your place? You don't have a roommate. How big is your apartment?"

He went momentarily catatonic as a whole slew of fantasies ripped through his brain about her being in his house ... alone with him ... in private.

"You have to stop doing that!" she barked.

"What?" he said, jerking.

"Going off into la-la land. What do you think about when you do that anyway?"

"Nothing," he said, brusquely.

"So ... how big is your apartment?"

"I live in a house, actually," he said, concentrating on the language to avoid imagining Kendra running, squealing through the rooms of his house while he chased her. She was naked in this particular instant fantasy, because he had ripped her clothes off. "I bought it when I got tenure."

"Well that's perfect!" she said. "Wait. Is it one or two bedrooms? I don't want to fill all your living space. That wouldn't be fair to you."

What he thought about was what he wanted to do to her in that living space ... which wouldn't be fair to her.

"Professor!" she said, impatiently.

"Call me Bob," he said, dreamily. In the fantasy, she was moaning, "Stop, Bob! I'll do what you want. I promise. Just let me catch my breath."

"Okay ... Bob," she said. Does your house have one or two bedrooms?"

It was her breath caressing his lips that pulled him out of the mad world he'd been stuck in, however temporarily. She was standing close enough to him that he could actually feel the warmth radiating from her skin. He looked down to see those points on the tips of her breasts almost touching him.

"Two," he sighed.

He saw her hand intrude into the space between them, and her index finger came to press gently under his chin.

"My eyes are up here, Bob," she said, gently.

Her objection stung him. She'd let him look! He knew it! That she could read his mind was finally proven.

"Look, Bob," she said, her voice still gentle. "I know you like looking at The Girls. And I don't mind. Not when it's you. But this is starting to cause problems. You have to get a grip. You need a girlfriend or something. You want me to set you up with one of my friends?"

He swallowed. This was crazy. The mere thought of her getting him a date was intolerable. If he was going on a date with anybody, it would be her!

"No thank you," he said, formally. "I'll be fine. And I won't look again. I promise."

"Hey, don't go all end-of-the-world on me. I told you I don't mind you looking. You're special. But you still have to be able to function. Okay?"

He wanted to yell, to let out a primal scream of frustration. He couldn't do that because her face was still within ten inches of his.

"I don't understand," he said, finally.

She stepped back, and he felt a palpable relief wash over him. He felt his shoulders relax.

"Well, then, why don't we go somewhere and have some coffee and talk about it until you do understand," she said.

"Coffee," he repeated.

"Do you drink coffee?" she asked. "No? Okay, then, tea, or a coke, or maybe a couple of fingers of scotch. You choose."

"Is this a date?" he asked, and then winced, visibly. He saw that lifting of the edges of her lush lips that meant she was amused.

"Do you want it to be?" she asked.

"Of course not," he snapped, as frustration built in him again.

He couldn't ask her out on a date. The very concept was ridiculous, and the university would not approve, even if she wasn't in any of his classes. He saw her eyes widen in what had to be shock, and realized his tone of voice had been harsh.

"Wait!" he yelped. "Yes! But I can't say that. I can't want that. Don't be hurt."

He saw her relax and her finger came toward his chin again. This time, though, it pressed against his lips.

"Scotch, I think," she said. "You need to calm down. All is not lost. You have done nothing wrong. Let's go to your place and just have a drink and talk. I think we can resolve this situation in an amicable manner. Okay? And I can see if there's room there for us to expand into."

Her finger was still on his lips, so he just nodded gently. She let her hand fall and went to pick up her gym bag. She stood and looked at him.

"You ride and I'll jog. Can you ride slowly?"

He was impressed that she'd used the correct form of "slow" and nodded again.

"You do have a bottle of Scotch at your house ... right?" she asked.

He gave her another nod as he wondered how she knew he liked single malt. It hadn't come up in conversation before. He knew she was twenty-one. She'd celebrated her birthday two weeks before coming to work for him. His house was in one of the neighborhoods that surrounded the campus. The neighbor on one side was a seventy-year-old woman named Maude whom he rarely saw unless she was in her garden. On the other side of him there lived a young couple with kids in soccer, T-ball, Taekwondo and who knew what else. They were too busy to have anything to do with him.

The bottom line was that he could take her home with him, and nobody would even notice.

He was stone cold sober now, as he strapped her gym bag on the carrier behind his seat and she did a few stretches. There were no fantasies now. He felt it was clear that she had objected to him staring at her breasts. And now she wanted to "talk about things." He wasn't worried, in the sense that he was in any real trouble. She didn't have a vindictive bone in her body. And she wasn't in any of his classes, so she could have no ulterior motive for ... anything. And things had been unmanageable, since she started coming to work without a bra on. She was doing the majority of the work, while he sat there and dreamed.

This would be good. The air would be cleared. He would apologize and try to, as she had characterized it, "get a grip."

He mounted his bike and pushed off as she spurted ahead, in a strong, long stride that wasn't even remotely connected to the word "jog."

As he caught up, though, his memory threw up some of the things she'd said.

"Do you want it to be?"

"I told you I don't mind you looking. You're special."

"All is not lost. You have done nothing wrong."

She'd said something else too, but that phrase was confusing.

"I know you like looking at the girls. And I don't mind. Not when it's you."

What girls? And why would she feel like she could approve of him looking at them? That was puzzling.

She ran with a vigor that made him jealous. Her ponytail bobbed and swung. He wished he was in front of her, because he knew those breasts were bouncing around. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he wondered if it hurt when they did that. Hadn't he heard somewhere that bouncing breasts caused pain? The thought of those beautiful breasts being in pain made him wince.

About that time she looked over her shoulder and called back, "Where are we going?"

He caught up to her, but didn't look at her chest.

"You don't have to run that fast," he suggested.

"Reduces stress," she said. "I'll slow down. How far is it?"

"Maple Street," he said, glancing at her breasts, unable to stop himself.

They were, indeed, bobbing gently up and down. The nipples were, as usual, stiff.

"You're hopeless. You know that?"

He looked up to find that half smile on her lips. She'd caught him, once again.

"You're impossible not to look at," he said, finally telling her some of the truth.

"Well don't you have a silver tongue," she said, not at all offended.

"I earned a PhD to get that tongue," he said, unable to think of anything clever.

"An educated tongue," she said. "We'll see about that."

"We will?" He was confused.

"Oh yes, we most certainly will," she said, looking straight ahead.

Chapter Three

He still didn't understand. There was so much he didn't understand. But they were going to his house, and they would talk, and then, maybe, he'd finally comprehend things.

He lived almost exactly one and a half miles from the university. She did not slow down. If anything, she lengthened her stride as he rode easily along beside and slightly behind her. He pedaled at a constant sixty revolutions per minute, changing gears to maintain that rate, as was his habit. He watched her legs and her hips as her arms pumped effortlessly. This girl could run!

He passed her as they approached his house, and leaned into a fast turn that let him shoot through the open gate into the back yard. He parked his bike in its usual place and turned to mount the back steps as she pounded into the back yard at a sprint. She staggered to a fast walk and went in circles, her lungs heaving as she caught her breath. She looked athletic. Fit. Gorgeous.

"You sure you like sweaty women?" she asked, walking toward him. He noticed she was limping.

"I don't think that's quite how I characterized it," he said. "Are you okay? You're limping."

"I think I strained something during my sprint," she said.

She followed him into the kitchen and he stopped.

"I forgot your bag," he said. "It's still on the bike."

"We can get it later," she said. "What's in it is as bad as what I'm wearing."

"Why did you run so hard?" he asked.

"I told you, it reduces stress," she said.

"I'm sorry if I caused you stress," he said.

She looked at him askance.

"You can stop apologizing. I told you I'm not mad at you."

"Actually, you told me I hadn't done anything wrong. And what girls, by the way?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You said it was okay for me to look at girls, because I'm special. Or something like that."

"Oh." She laughed. "You mean The Girls."

"What girls?" he insisted.

She cupped her breasts, which were now cradled by damp cotton in the form of her sweaty shirt.

"These are The Girls. That's what I call them."

"Oh." It was all he could say. She seemed to understand he was shocked.

"You don't have to call them that, of course. You can call them my breasts, or boobs, or even my tits. But please don't call them knockers or fun bags. I hate those terms."

He swallowed. "Fun bags?" he said, his voice dry. "Surely you jest."

"I jest not, my king," she said. "Some guy actually asked me if he could play with my fun bags one time. I wanted to smack him."

"Why do I get to call them anything at all?" he asked.

"Ahhh, we're going to get right to the talking part," she said.

"Isn't that what we came here for?" He blinked.

"Of course," she said. "But I believe Scotch was mentioned. And as much as you like sweaty girls, I need to take another shower. I assume you have a shower. How about a shirt I could borrow? I really don't want to put this back on." She pinched her damp shirt and pulled it away from her breasts. It was easy for him to imagine them in there, not touching anything at the moment.

"Um ... sure," he said. His life seemed surreal, at the moment. He had always been in charge of it, unremarkable as it had always seemed to be. Now this girl, this temptress ... this woman who was the incarnation of her name, had come into his life and, suddenly, it wasn't ordinary anymore. He didn't know quite what it was. But he no longer felt in control.

"I'll just find the bathroom on my own," she said, with that half smile on her face. "You get the Scotch out. You need a drink, and I want one. I like mine with just two ice cubes in it."

With that she walked into the dining room, and then deeper into the house until she disappeared from view.

He took a deep breath. Scotch. Ice cubes. He needed something to keep from dwelling on the fact that Kendra - the real Kendra, and not some fantasy porn actress - was in his house ... in his bathroom ... in his shower ... naked.

He was so rattled, that he forgot completely about the shirt.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He was on his second Scotch. She was right. He did need a drink. Or had. He'd gulped those first couple of ounces, and on an empty stomach to boot. So he was feeling pretty mellow right now. But it was fine. Now he could savor the sips he took.

He was sitting there in his recliner, feeling proud of himself for successfully resisting the urge to try to peek in on her, when she appeared and destroyed all traces of that pride. She had two of his shirts with her, one in each hand. In the right hand was his Rolling Stones shirt, with the huge red tongue logo on it. He'd gotten it at a concert when he was seventeen, but never wore it anywhere these days. He thought of it as his "wild" shirt. In the other hand was one of his white dress shirts.

Her hair was wrapped up in one towel, and another one was wrapped around her body. The towel covering her hair was doing fine, but the one wrapped around her body was barely big enough for the challenge. It had been tucked in on one side, but the tuck looked very tenuous and her hip below the tuck was exposed.

"Which of these do you think I should wear?" she asked, her voice calm and as normal as pie.

All he could think of was what it might look like if that towel suddenly fell to the floor.

"Ahhh," he breathed. "Ahhh ... uhhh."

"This one, then," she said, lifting the dress shirt. "I'll go put it on." Her eyes flicked to the glass he'd left on the coffee table in front of the couch for her. The ice cubes were only half as big as they'd been when he first put them in it. She moved to the couch.

"But first ..." Her intent was clear as she lifted the glass and took something more than a sip, but something less than a gulp.

"Ahhhhh," she said, smacking her lips. "I love how it burns as it goes down."

She took another swallow.

"It makes a ball of heat grow right ... here."

She pointed one lacquered fingernail at the front of the too-small towel that, somehow, kept clinging to her body, despite Bob's almost frantic hope that it would suddenly drop. The finger pointed to an area below what seemed like an acre of cleavage that was exposed above it, even though only the tops of her breasts were exposed.

"Be right back," she said, setting the glass down. It still had about an inch of amber fluid in it.

He was thinking seriously about having a third when she returned. She had, in fact, put on the shirt. She had even fastened the three bottom buttons. But she appeared to be wearing nothing else. The tail covered her almost modestly in the front, but then rose to expose both hips in a manner Bob could only characterize as salacious. The smooth, unbroken expanse of skin between her breasts was clearly visible between the edges of the shirt. He looked hard, expecting to see the darkness of her nipples through the thin, white fabric, but was disappointed.

She sat on the edge of the couch cushion, her body demure, knees firmly pressed against each other, reached for the glass and up-ended it, swallowing, taking the ice cubes into her mouth. Bob heard them rattle behind her teeth, and then, as she lowered her chin, the ice cubes tinkled back into the glass. She leaned sideways against the backrest of the couch, facing Bob. The tail of the shirt pulled up, but not quite enough to show what Bob desperately wished he could see. It was tantalizing. It was torture.

"I'm going to want another," she said, "but first, I need to ask a favor of you."

"What?" His interrogative was purely a function of habit.

"I don't think whatever I pulled is serious, but I do think it would benefit from a massage. Could you do that for me?"'

"Massage?"

"Yes," she said. "The hot water in the shower loosened it up a little, but I think it needs to be manipulated. I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important. I can't afford for it to tighten up. I could injure it worse tomorrow at practice, and I don't want to have to miss any games because of an injury."

"No," he agreed, again on auto pilot.

She waited another ten seconds, during which he sat, unable to do anything other than think furiously.

"So could you do that for me?"

Her tone of voice and general behavior were so normal that it helped him act normal too. His mind still raced through lurid scenarios in which things happened that his rock hard prick would be very useful for, but the academic part of him took control of his actions, and returned to him the capability of engaging in simple conversation.

"Sure," he said. "Where does it hurt?"

"It's my thigh," she said. "My right one."

"Your thigh," he breathed, as his brain jittered in his skull. "Wonderful."

"I don't think it's wonderful," she complained. "It hurts."

"Of course," he said, apologetically. "Sorry. I have some Badger Butter. I'll get it."

"Badger butter?" She smiled.

"Comes in a little can," he said. "It's great stuff for sore muscles. It will make things feel better. I promise."

"I was hoping you'd promise to make things feel better," she said, her voice husky.

He blinked. She had just teased him. She was teasing him. It was a very laid back kind of teasing, and he attributed it to the easy, informal relationship they had established, tenuous as it was, but that didn't mean he wasn't affected by it, as a male.

"I'll go get it," he said.

"Where is it?" she asked, bending over to pour herself two more fingers of Scotch.

"I keep it in my bathroom," he said.

"I'll just come with you," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, we can't do this with me standing up," she said, patiently. "I'll need to lie down. If the bathroom to which you are referring is the one I just used, I noticed a nice, big bed in the bedroom said bathroom is attached to. I could lie down on that while you make me feel better."

Again, it was the complete normalcy of her speech patterns that kept him from just melting down and reaching to squeeze his boner. He wondered, idly, if it was showing. He hadn't had enough excess brain capacity to confront that issue yet, but when he stood up, it would definitely show. Suddenly, he didn't care. It was her fault it was there. She could just deal with it.

He stood, almost belligerently, but didn't look at her face to see where her eyes were looking. He fairly stalked off toward his bathroom, assuming she would follow.

He went straight to the medicine cabinet and opened it to look for the flat, round tin that had the picture of the badger on the lid, holding out a little pot of gold, or golden honey, or maybe golden Badger Butter. The words "Sore Muscle Rub" appeared below it. He palmed it and left the bathroom to find her already laid out on his bed. He stopped and stared. She was on her front, with her arms folded under her face, which was turned away from him. Teams of debaters could have argued for days about whether her ass was exposed or not. The backs of her legs looked so long that they gave the impression they'd somehow grown a foot in the last few minutes. Her toes were pointed. Her legs were firmly closed.

"It's the right one," she reminded him.

He moved around to that side of the bed, realizing she had positioned herself in the middle, which meant he'd have to either bend over at an acute angle to reach her, or climb up on the bed too. He knew what his back would feel like if he spent more than a few seconds bent over, but all he could let himself do, initially, was put one knee on the bed, to lessen the angle.

"The back?" he said, his eyes flicking from the creamy skin on the back of her right thigh, to the half of her ass that was exposed.

Her legs moved and her pointed toes were suddenly a foot apart.

"The inside," she said.

He looked at her face. Her eyes were closed. Her voice had been matter-of-fact ... simply conveying information he needed.

He swallowed. All he'd have to do is lean over and look up at the juncture of her legs and he would almost certainly be able to see Nirvana.

He controlled himself, but realized his hands were shaking. He twisted the lid off the can.

"This might be cool," he said, dipping two fingers into the paste inside the can.

"Whatever," she said, carelessly.

He steeled himself and reached for an area of skin maybe six inches above her knee. Her rubbed with the first two fingers of each hand, and the opposing thumbs.

"Mmmm," she said. "That's nice, but you need to go higher." She lifted her head and looked up at him. "And don't be afraid to touch me, Bob. I need a firm touch right now."

He dipped another two fingers of Badger rub and spread it along the back of her thigh, almost touching where, on anybody else, there would be a crease formed, where her butt met her legs. All she had there was a dip. He leaned both hands on the back of her thigh and squeezed.

"It's on the inside," she reminded him, and she spread her feet another foot apart.

Now, it was virtually impossible for him not to see her pussy, should he lean forward even another six inches.

He was so distracted by the view that his hands slipped between her legs, still squeezing and molding the skin.

"That's better," she murmured. "A little higher."

If he went higher, he'd be in no man's land. Or what he wanted desperately to hope was no man's land. Somehow, with his hands on her, and her pussy only inches away, what he hoped most was that no other man had touched her in this manner. He knew that was impossible, of course. He knew she'd had boyfriends, gone on dates, engaged in making out and frottage, at a minimum. None of that mattered as his mind tried to manufacture a scenario in which she was still innocent, and he was the first to touch her.

His hands moved an inch farther up.

She let him rub without comment for another half minute, and then lifted her head again.

"You're just not quite getting where I need you to be," she said. "Maybe you could reach it better if I turned over."

The tone of her voice had changed. Her eyes had changed too. There was undeniable innuendo in her comment.

"Don't tease me, Kendra," he said, his voice low. It just came out. Part of him was horrified that he'd said it, because saying it meant he'd assigned meaning to her actions that might be fictional. If so, she might laugh at him, at best, or be offended, at worst.

She gave a little bounce and, in a completely athletic way, managed to do a 180 degree turn while her body was only an inch off the bed. The shirt moved with her, but the tail wasn't up to the transition. When she bounced back down, her loins were no longer covered at all.

"Who said I'm teasing?" she asked, her voice husky.

To give what seemed to be a rhetorical question more meaning, her fingers flicked at the three buttons she'd fastened, and the shirt fell open to expose all but her shoulders and upper arms. Other than that shirt, she was completely, gloriously, impossibly naked.

His eyes seemed to jitter in his head as they bounced all over her body. He didn't know where to look and, as a result, couldn't actually concentrate on any one thing. Information zinged around in his head, like far off noises he could barely hear. Those zings told him her breasts were much larger than he'd thought, full, heavy orbs, with nipples that, if they had been eyes, would be walleyed, as each looked off in a different direction. That wasn't because her breasts sagged to the sides though. They rose proud and firm from her chest. Another zing told him there was no hair of any kind between her legs. Now tightly closed lips were clearly visible, pale in a way that made it seem impossible they were part of the same skin her much darker legs were associated with. Her waist was thicker than he'd imagined, but still gave her an hour glass shape.

"So ... we were going to talk. And since you don't seem to be ready to massage my thigh, maybe this is a good time. Shall we talk?" She rolled onto her side so she could stretch and reach for her glass. He hadn't even realized she'd brought it with her, and placed it on the night stand. She took an actual sip, just enough to taste and swallow.

"I have no fucking idea," sighed Bob, completely at a loss.

"Well, perhaps you should get a fucking idea," she said, calmly. "I don't know what else I could do, short of begging you to take me to bed and fuck me until I squeal like a little piggy."

He blinked. Kendra ... his Kendra ... sweet, innocent, wholesome Kendra ... was lying almost naked on his bed, and had just said something about him fucking her.

It was impossible.

"Your problem is that you're a nice guy," she said. "In fact, you're the poster child for nice guys everywhere. It's part of what makes you so attractive to me."

"I'm ... attractive to you?" He blinked. It was actually the other way around, wasn't it?

"You asked me about my boyfriend and I told you I wasn't interested in boys," she reminded him. "That's because I have a little letch for older men, Bob. I like a man who is smart, witty, calm, respectful, talented, patient, who knows how to treat a woman and will take the time to do that. I like a man who is willing to think about his lover's pleasure as much as he thinks about his own. In my experience, it takes an older man to be all those things."

"That's not me," whispered Bob. "I'm not respectful. You don't know the things I've thought about you."

"Did I forget to mention that I like this older man to have a completely nasty, dirty, perverted mind?" She grinned.

"This isn't happening," he sighed. "This is crazy. This even exceeds my fantasies about you!"

"I'd like to hear about those fantasies," she purred. "And this is real. I've had my eye on you for a long time. I think you're the kind of man I need right now. Girls have needs too, you know. You need to get laid, Bob. You're all worked up over me and you need to release all that tension. And I need to get laid too. You have no idea how long it's been since I had a man between my legs. And that works out perfectly."

"But I'm nothing special. You could have any man you want," he said.

"I'm glad you feel that way, because you're the man I want, and since you just said I can have the man I want, that means I get you," she said, patiently.

"I still don't believe it," he said, almost stubbornly. "Things like this don't happen to me."

"Life changes constantly," she said. "For example, before today I only thought about what it might be like to get a massage from you. Today I decided I needed one. And you're not finished, by the way. I need a much more thorough massage than you've given me thus far."

He looked at her pussy.

"You want me to ... touch you?"

"For such a brilliant man, you can be incredibly slow," she sighed. "I've seen you undress me with your eyes dozens of times. And not just before I started working for you. So what's the problem? I decided you deserved to see what you've been dreaming about all this time. Are you disappointed or something?"

"No!" he almost barked.

"Then why the ... reluctance?"

Her question seemed genuine, and that made it easier to give her a genuine answer.

"Girls ... women ... particularly good looking women ... well ... they have just never been really interested in me," he said. "I've been teased plenty of times, but nobody really wanted me. It's easier to just believe it's all an act, so they can laugh about it later."

"I'm not laughing, Bob," she said. "And while I might tease lots of other men, I'm not teasing you."

"I want to believe that," he admitted, uncomfortably, but it was clear he was still resisting that.

"Well, then, how about we work on your belief system by discussing that silver tongue of yours."

"What?" The change of subject messed with his already frenetic mind.

"Your shirt, the other one, reminded me of it. The tongue on that shirt is red, but it's doing what I want your educated tongue to do."

He blinked as she laid back and pulled her heels up to place them beside her hips. It was the kind of thing only a very flexible girl could do, and he was reminded she was a cheerleader, and probably trained to be able to do this very thing. Then he couldn't think of anything else because she let her knees sag outwards.

Where, before, he had been treated with a view of tightly closed, pale pussy lips, now those lips pulled apart, exposing pink inner lips that were flushed looking, and glistened. A string of something sticky bridged the gap and alerted Bob's mind to the fact that she was aroused.

"I want your educated tongue right here," she said, her voice throaty.

She showed him by sliding the same fingertip she'd lifted his chin with, and sealed his lips with, using it now to rub gently right where Bob knew her clitoris was.

"Come eat my pussy, Bob," she whimpered.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was as if he was in a dream.

He was on his knees, on his very own bed, staring at what she was offering him. He hadn't touched her yet, since the "massage." He had moved slowly into position as she used two fingers on one hand to spread those puffy lips at the top, exposing an almost shockingly large clit. The fingers of her other hand pinched one of those big, hard nipples.

"Lick My Pretty, Bob," she panted. "Lick it until I cum. I need to cum, Bob."

The dream lengthened as, in slow motion, he leaned forward. She didn't smell like peaches now. Her scent was of turned-on woman.

He delayed no longer, lest she snap her knees together and laugh at him. If she was playing some sadistic game, he was at least going to have the memory of her taste in his mouth before she executed her ambush. He flicked her bud with the tip of his tongue and she groaned, bucking her hips upward and mashing her pussy into his face.

His hands went to her thighs, which were already flat on the bedspread, and pressed to keep them there.

Then he sucked her pussy like it was an open spigot, and he was a man dying of thirst.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She was very vocal about how much she appreciated his efforts. A less experienced man might have worried, after the first ten minutes of her squirming and moaning, without any evidence that his endeavors had produced the desired orgasm. But those demanding women in Bob's past had taught him that women take longer to reach the pinnacle of sexual satisfaction than men do, so he was patient.

Then, she started chanting.

"Yes! Yes! Yes, Bob, ohhhh, yes!" and he knew she was almost there.

His lips clamped around that big, meaty clit and he sucked, biting it gently while holding her thighs down firmly.

She went off like a bomb and did, in fact, squeal like a little piggy.

He kept going, exploring every millimeter of her sex with his tongue and lips. Her knees overcame the pressure, surprising him with her strength, and she wrapped her legs around his neck.

He continued until she jerked and whined again. Luscious taste filled his mouth as he lapped up her juices.

He hadn't even dreamed of timing her, but it was fully twenty minutes before she released her grip on his head and pushed him away.

"Time for the rest of that massage," she panted.

He misunderstood, and moved up to effortlessly slide his middle finger into her honey pot, pushing deep to locate her cervix and rim it with his fingertip. She groaned, and then laughed as he dropped his lips to suckle at one nipple that was no longer the same color as the rest of her breast. Now it was rosy and even thicker than usual.

"Not that kind of massage, you lovely man. Please tell me you have a condom," she panted.

"You're joking," he said, only breathing deeply. He was hard as stone in his trousers, but all traces of panic and hysteria had left his body as the dream became real to him. "I don't do this."

"I don't either," she gasped. "But I need you in me."

"I thought you needed this," he teased, and lurched back down between her legs to lick her with his flattened tongue, ending with another quick suck on her distended clit.

"You got an A on that little pop quiz," she breathed. "Now it's time for the final exam."

"I'm sorry. I don't have a condom. But I haven't had sex in over ten years. If I had a disease it would have killed me by now."

She gave another barking laugh.

"That's the least of my concerns. The reason I'm so horny right now is because I'm ovulating."

Aren't you on the pill?" He leaned back, astonished. Before this, the idea that she was sexually active wasn't something he could have contemplated easily. But she was sexually active. That much was crystal clear. The taste in his mouth was proof!

"I don't do this either, Bob," she moaned. "Not for the last two years, anyway. I didn't plan for this to happen quite as soon as it did."

"You planned this?" He was agog.

"Ever since I saw you looking at me with those puppy dog eyes at our first home game," she said. "I remembered you from last year. And you were at the next game, too. You were always right there, eating me up with those big, brown eyes. I asked one of the girls who you were. Then I learned whatever I could about you. When you put up those posters I was frantic to get there before anyone else did."

"Well fuck me to tears," sighed Bob, using a phrase he hadn't uttered since he was a teenager.

"I plan to," she purred. "This is your final exam, Bob. I'm going to let you in me without a condom. But I'm only doing that because I believe you have the kind of control only an older man has. I'm going to let you fuck me, but when you cum you have to pull out. I'll suck you then, and drink it down my throat, but you can't get any sperm in my pussy. Can you do that?"

What happened in Bob's brain at that moment was fantastically complicated, and would have put the most powerful super computer to shame. To his credit, his basic intent was honorable. The deficit was that he knew he might not have that kind of control if he got lost in the heat of the moment. And putting his penis in this woman's vagina was going to create that kind of heat. He hadn't felt this kind of lust since ... maybe ever. To his credit, he intended to be careful. To his deficit, he couldn't possibly turn her down, even if it meant he violated her "contract."

The Professor and the Cheerleder

Lubrican

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