Chapter 2

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 pony tail. 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 knew something was up.

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

The next time she worked, 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, somehow, 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?"