“What would you think about fuckin a black woman honey?”

It was my first visit to a whorehouse. I was eighteen on my first weekend pass after basic training at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Along with my two best buddies, I took the bus from Fort Knox to Louisville. We went to a bar with a sign in the window that said, “G.I.s welcome.” After we had a couple of 3.2% beers Tommy, the oldest at 19, asked the bartender if he knew where any whorehouses were. “They’re all over town son,” he said. “Just jump in a cab outside and tell the driver what you’re looking for. For three bucks apiece he’ll take you to the closest one.” Outside, just in front of the bar, three Yellow Cabs were waiting for a fare. When we got inside the first cab Tommy asked the driver to take us to the closest whorehouse.

“That’ll be three bucks each,” the driver said, “up front.” None of us had ridden in a taxicab before and didn’t know about the meter. He kept the flag down. Without question, we all dug into our pockets, pulled out three bucks, and handed it to the driver. He started the cab, put it into gear, and drove to the traffic light about fifty feet away. When the light turned green, he made a U-turn and headed west to a side street less than a hundred feet from the light. Making a right turn he drove another hundred feet or so and stopped in front of an old two-story house and said, “Just ask for Marva,” he said, “She runs the place.” As we got out, we all felt like suckers but didn’t have the moxie to say anything to the driver for charging us to drive a little over two hundred feet. We didn’t know that the bartender got a dollar apiece for almost every soldier who left the bar, most of whom were looking to get laid for the first time in their lives.

“Howdy boys,” the once attractive middle-aged woman said as she sized us up, “I’m Marva.”

I always looked younger than my age and wasn’t surprised when she asked, “Sure you’re eighteen son?” I said yes but she made me show her my Army I.D. I was embarrassed when she said, “You sure look like a baby, honey.” Pinching my chin, she shook it, chucked my cheek with her fist, and said, “Don’t worry sweetie, you’re a real cutie.” I shrugged my shoulders. “What would you think about fuckin a black woman honey?” She winked and added, “I think Ruby would be just the right girl for you.”

Staring into my eyes like she had thrown some kind of challenge it was like she was waiting for me to change my mind. I stared back. Interestingly, she had asked me about something I had dwelt upon since I was a senior in high school. I had met a black girl at a student council convention and had thought about her obsessively since then. In my dreams, I had made love to that girl, even though I didn’t know how I would have gone about it. To Marva, I said, “I-I think being with a black woman w-would be okay.”

I couldn’t explain why I felt embarrassed about it, but as the corners of Marva’s corners of the lips on Marva’s stern face turned upward her challenging look became warm and friendly. “You’ve made a good choice, kiddo,” she said. “Ruby’s going to take real good care of you.” I sensed that she was relieved that I took her suggestion.

Telling my buddies that she would be right back she took my hand and led me through the multi-colored beads hanging in the doorway into the adjoining parlor where four scantily clad women—three white and one black—were lounging and laughing. “Ruby,” Marva said, “here’s another one for you to break in. I think he’s a nice guy, so treat him good and maybe he’ll come back for more if you make him feel special.” Ruby just raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes as if she were saying why does it always have to be me?

Ruby who stood about 5’6” wore heavy aqua eye shadow. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she wore a flower behind her ear that looked like a Magnolia blossom. She wore a thin scarlet wrap that showed off well on her dark skin. It was low cut showing her cleavage while the thin material highlighted the prominence of her nipples which told me that she wore no bra. Taking my hand from hers she looked at my crotch to see if there was a bulge, which there wasn’t because I was nervous. Her hands were soft, but the way she guided me I knew she was in control. As she led me to the back bedroom she said, “Is this yoah first time for black pussy, white boy?” Her question could have been as if she were talking with someone with a bit of experience. But as I tried to swallow my oversized Adam’s apple, I shyly nodded my head and she said, “Well, yoah is certainly makin’ Ruby’s pussy hanker for yourn,” giggling with playful disrespect.

At 70 years of age, I’ve led a great life. After enjoying myself for a few years before getting married I lived with the most wonderful wife I could have ever expected. While never straying from her I have often fantasized about sex with other women, sometimes even when I was having sex with her. It wasn’t until my forties that I realized some women might have considered me rude in the way I looked at them. But I still ogle intently but I’ve honed my peripheral vision to make it harder to read where my eyes are directed. The wisdom I’ve gained from living life has chipped off a lot of rough edges which has allowed me to become a softer, more “rounded” person. Though now a senior citizen, I’m still a fourteen-year-old at heart when it comes to seeing female features such as fabric being amplified by nipples or the puffiness of primary labia when outlined in tight slacks or shorts. Unlike a fourteen-year-old though, I no longer look like a cartoon character whose eyes pop out of my head as my tongue drags the ground when I see the “Holy Grail” of womanhood, a cameltoe.

Throughout my life, my fantasies have included sex with women I have known, like those I have worked with or wives of friends. Often there’s some kind of “kink” that finds its way into my fantasy, like being with two women. Twins are often on my mind or a mother and a daughter. Throughout my life, I suppose there might have been such a thing as bad sex though rarely. But there have never been any bad fantasies. One fantasy has always been prominent though. It was an itch that was scratched long ago at Marva’s whorehouse, sex with a black woman. Even though it was great as far as whorehouse sex goes it was never satisfying in the way I had always hoped for. The itch itself started when I was in high school just outside of Cleveland, Ohio. I attended a student council conference in Cleveland where I met a stunning and intelligent black girl by the name of Chantelle Saunders. Until that time in my life, I had never been exposed to black people face to face. This was in the mid-fifties prior to the Civil Rights Act being passed. When I met Chantelle Saunders though, the pit of my stomach literally hit the floor. I was stunned and giddy.

As luck would have it, I sat beside Chantelle at lunch that day. I can’t explain the mutual admiration that passed between us. It was like we were in a bubble and were both enthralled with the difference between one another and our magnetic attraction. Despite our racial dissimilarity, I’ve often thought that if ever there were two people perfectly suited to one another it was Chantelle and me. Had times been different I would have followed up with her. But interracial dating was virtually unheard of at the time, at least in northern Ohio. At the age of seventy though, Chantelle Saunders still haunts my mind. She has been my constant fantasy, my Queen of Sheba, and the cause of myriad orgasms.

When Ruby led me by the hand through the back bedroom door at Marva’s, I was dumbstruck. Once Inside the room, completely under her spell, I was instructed to take off all my clothes. When she hung them on the hook on the back of the door, she led me to the dresser where she soaped up a washcloth in the basin of warm water and washed my parts before drying them with a towel. Taking my fickle dick into her hand she carefully milked it to make sure I didn’t have the “clap” then took off her red silk wrap, exposing her perfectly toned flawless brown body.

Her breasts were like some I had seen in National Geographic. They were long and pointy (some called them “tube tits”). Her nipples appeared to be the size of dimes, surrounded by areolas that were larger than a silver dollar. But that was only half of it: they we dark purple, almost black. Her bottom was slightly larger than I expected but was smooth and fleshy. I remember thinking of the word “cushiony.” While most black women at the time had tight, curly black hair Ruby’s was soft and brown. Her eyes were jet black, and her sultry smile lit up my universe. As time went by, I recognized what a genius Marva was. Ruby introduced me to Carnal Knowledge 101 in her own special way. On five subsequent visits, she taught me to make love to women in ways few of my contemporaries might have understood. Sitting beside me on the edge of the bed, the heat radiated from her body and warmed me like hot sunlight. I was so nervous that my erection was being delayed, rising and falling in jerky, waggling motions, finally beating its way to questionable stiffness to the throbbing of my heart. I had only been naked in group showers in school with other boys and in the army barracks. But I had never been naked with a woman and was painfully shy.

In her sweet Negro vernacular, the dusky whore spoke of herself in the third person as “Ruby,” and called me, “white boy.” Though I wondered whether she was really complimenting me she seemed to be doing it in such a sweet, motherly way. Taking charge of my cock she gently kneaded it until I was fully erect and seeping. Chuckling she said, “WOO WEE white boy, yoah manhood is stupefyin’ ole Ruby,” which helped harden me with pride. I’d heard stories of black men who were prodigiously endowed. Mine was seven and a half inches long and respectably thick. But I felt intimidated by this woman who had undoubtedly known lots of huge, black cocks. She went on with her praise, “Yoah gwine to make so many wimmens happy with this huge thing a yourn, white boy.” Though her communication was impersonal she still made me feel special. I had no idea that a professional hooker would say the same thing to a man with only a one-inch cock. At the time though it sounded genuine and that was good enough for me.

She said to me, “Do ya want a blowjob, white boy, or a fuck, or both?” She had already asked when she was leading me back to the room but was making sure to sell all her wares. We’d settled on a fuck for ten dollars, a huge amount of money at the time, particularly since I figured I was going to cum quickly anyway. She was probably reminding me of other options to drive up the profit for the house like a waiter pushing dessert after dinner.

As she sat on the bed and threw her legs to the middle, I couldn’t believe I was watching this beautiful, brown-skinned woman lying down and getting ready to have sex with me. And when she opened her legs, I was astounded by the stunning contrast of her pink insides framed by her smooth, chocolate flesh and her reddish, curly pubic hair. It was my first view of any woman’s sex and it seemed surreal.

As she looked up into my gawking eyes she smiled. The curly, reddish-brown hair on her chocolate pussy lips framed the pink, pink, pinkness of her parted slot. When her delicate, wafery labia folded open I was stunned—their bright pink color was fringed in a deep purple that made them appear like a colorful Bearded Iris flower. The veil in the Temple had been rent; I was looking at the Holy of Holies. Able to see partially inside it seemed to be bubbling with a sexual oil that was crystal clear. At the upper limit of her slot was a huge node that reminded me of a tiny penis (she introduced to me as her “luv button”). Glistening, it was bright pink peeking out of its dark purple sheath, which reminded me of a foreskin.

Startling me from the reverie that had overtaken me, Ruby said, “Lie down on the bed, white boy, and put yoah knees between Ruby’s legs.” While doing her bidding she grinned, shook her head with a, “tsk, tsk” and confidently grasped my rigid cock, pointing its head to the entrance of the Holy of Holies. “Skootch up so’s we can get ya inside ole Ruby’s pussy, honey.” Doing her bidding, she fitted the tapered head of my cock to the entrance of her hot, mushy hole. “Now just lean fohward and let yoah cock slide inside this black woman’s pussy. When I slid all the way inside, she said, “Now fuck Ruby, honey bunch.”

Though I told her I wasn’t a virgin it was clear that she knew I was. I got the feeling that she wanted me to feel as good about myself as possible. When I walked back to the room with her, I realized that she knew I wouldn’t last long; I think she was happy about it—more clients for her and a better paycheck. I think I made it to seven pokes inside her before I came. She let me lay there for a few moments while my cock shriveled inside her. “First-time white boy?” she said. I told her yes. “Ruby knows that,” she said, “always does. And just like always she feels honored to be yoah first woman.” She gave me a strong, warm hug. “Bless ya, boy.”

Then she said something that surprised me. “So, what do ya think about fuckin a black woman, honey?” Not knowing what to say I blathered, “There were four women to choose from Ruby and I chose you. I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you. And after ... after w-we f-fucked I still do.” I wanted to tell her about Chantelle but thought she might think I was being silly, so I held back. I don’t know why I felt I had to bullshit her that way—Marva literally had to take my hand and put it into Ruby’s. Ruby was Marva’s choice. I was glad she made it for me though.

Going along with the fib it was clear by the way she wrapped her legs tightly around my waist and drew me inside her that she seemed to like that I at least told her that I chose her because she was pretty. It was almost like I could feel a different kind of acceptance in her hug and the way she wrapped her legs around me and rocked me back and forth. It seemed to me that her body was growing warmer. And I felt the distinct squeezing of her pussy muscles around my cock that was starting to grow inside her again. Hugging me tightly to her body she said, “What’s yoah name, white boy?” I told her it was Peter. She said, “Ruby don’t rightly care ‘bout names honey but yoah treating this woman real nice.” Pausing she went on, “Ruby can feels yoah manhood growin’ inside her again he-he. How would ya feel about fuckin Ruby’s black pussy again, Peter?”

“But it’s really pink Ruby,” I said. I wasn’t trying to be funny, but she started laughing. It became funnier for both of us when her howls of laughter ejected my hardened cock from her pussy.

When her laughter died down and she settled she said, “Let’s get that pink thing o yourn back into this black woman’s pink pussy tee-hee-hee. Ruby can show an unsperienced young fella like yoahself some tricks that’ll make it betta for the next woman ya fucks. I thought she was going to try to charge me more money, but she said, “Doan worry ‘bout it, honey ... Momma’ll call you Petey, This one’s on Ruby, Petey. Just enjoy yoahself and do zackly what Ruby tells ya to.”

I pumped five times when she said, “Stop honey, take a break. Squeeze that white butt o yourn so hard that you close off them cum muscles.” I rested for a bit while squeezing the cheeks of my ass together. “Now, sees if ya can fuck Ruby’s pussy seven times.” I slammed her seven times, biting my lower lip on the seventh thrust. “MM-MM that feels good, honey,” she said. “Stop fer a bit though and tighten up again.” She wrapped her legs around me again and hugged me to her. “It feels good to have yoah big ole cock inside Ruby, Petey, yoah a real man, ya know? She giggled and said, “Wimmens love swelled-up cocks inside ‘em, SHO do.” She giggled again. Easing her arms and legs from around me she said, “Fuck ole Ruby ten times now, Petey. “Mm. that was good. Ruby loves yoah big cock movin’ inside her.” I fucked her a few more times. “Stop now, honey. Ruby’ll show ya sumpthin’.”

I stopped. She pushed her hand against me coaxing me to pull out and get off. As she swung her legs off the bed and slid to her knees she said, “Sit up Petey, honey.” When I sat up, she took my cock in her hand. It was slippery from her juice and the sperm I’d shot inside her when I was first fucking her. She took me inside her mouth and bobbed on my cock in such an exciting way, her tongue fluttering on the underside between the lobes on the bottom of my head.

Stupid me I almost said, “I only paid for a fuck. Ruby,” but I didn’t want anything to change.

She felt me tightening my glutes and pulled her mouth away. “Lift yoah legs, Honey. Get yoah feets off the floah.” I did what she said. “Pay ‘tenshun now, Petey.” She slipped her hand under my balls, and I felt her fingertip pushing into a soft spot there. “Put your fingertip where Ruby’s finger is.” I did. “Now feel with yoah fingertip for the soft spot.” I moved my finger around the area. Pushing in a little my fingertip sunk in further. “As long as yoah finger keeps pressure where it is, Petey ya cain’t cum. Let Ruby show ya.” She put her finger back in the spot and pressed hard as she took me back inside her mouth and bobbed frantically on my cock while she jacked it fast and hard with her other hand. I stiffened and seemed to let out a little cum but her pressing finger held most of it back. I felt like I was shooting. I got all weak like I did when I shot my wad, but nothing came out. She kept her finger there until I seemed to settle.

“Lie down on the bed now, Petey, and let Ruby ride ya.” I lay down and Ruby threw one knee over my middle and kneeled with the other on the left side of me. She looked up at the ceiling like she was thinking, held the head of my cock against her spongy twat, and let gravity take over as she sank it like a glove over my shaft and settled on my belly. “Now let’s see if we is done any good heah, honey. She leaned forward enough that her breasts hung down and dragged her nipples across my chest. Tightening her pussy, she fucked me slowly at first, for ten pumps. Fighting off the urge to cum I tightened my ass like she’d told me to. I felt proud of myself for holding my load back.

“Yoahs doin’ good, Petey,” she said, chuckling both at the playful name she had used and the effectiveness of her lessons, “Ruby’s gwine to do it faster this time.” She pumped harder but stopped at seven. “How’s Ruby’s baby doin’ now?”

There was a knock on the door and Marva said, “All right Ruby, I know you like that boy, but we have other customers, ya know?”

“DAMN,” she said loudly enough for Marva to hear, “Ruby’s havin’ fun.” She pulled halfway off my cock, put two fingers on her clit, and started grinding it while moving her hips back and forth. She ground for about thirty seconds, breathing hard through her nostrils and grunting in a tense pose. “Ruby wants to cum with ya, baby. She doesn’t do it with many peoples. So, let go the next time ya need’s to, ok? “She started fucking me again, her ass slapping against my legs and abdomen as I bucked up against her.

“I-I’m g-gonna CUM, Ruby,” I said. Twice more she slammed me hard squeezing her nipples and leaning her head way back, moaned loudly in a string of high-pitched words of religious praise, and fell on top of me, flattening her breasts on my chest.

“Oh, MERCY ME,” she said panting. “Ruby thinks that was SO GOOD.” I didn’t realize until later how unusual it was for a prostitute to have an orgasm with a client. But I was still too naïve to understand how unusual it was for a black prostitute to be treated with anything but disdain by a white man south of the Mason-Dixon Line at the time. She was already giving me another treat, sucking my cum-covered, wilting cock (I had never realized just how sensitive to sucking lips a freshly ejaculated cock-head could be). There was a louder banging on the door, “TIME RUBY!”

Pulling her mouth off my cock she quickly stood and reached for her robe, “We gots to go, baby,” she said, handing me my underwear and pants. “Don’t tarry, Petey, Marva is gittin’ techy.” Once I was dressed, she hugged me close and said, “Come see me agin, Petey, Ruby really likes ya ... a lot.” Then she did something I learned was almost taboo among prostitutes, she kissed the tip of her index finger and pressed it against my lips. When we both walked out Marva said to me, “Thank you, son, come see us again.” To Ruby, she said, “You’re fallin’ behind sweetie, better get movin’.” I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed that Marva treated Ruby with a little more deference than the rest of the whores.

I felt a touch of jealousy when Ruby said, “Hi Charlie,” obviously a client she knew well enough to call by name.

During the next three months, I visited Ruby five more times. Marva made me give her the money, rather than me giving it to Ruby. I had to pay full price for a fuck and a blowjob. But Ruby always found a way to do something extra and continue my sexual education, for which I always left her a five-dollar tip which at that time was substantial. These visits took almost all my Army pay.

Just before I finally left Fort Knox, on my final visit to Marva’s, Ruby hugged me tightly and said, “I’s gwine to miss ya my sweet, Petey.”

It was a strange relationship I suppose, having strong feelings for a prostitute. But to me, she was more than that. In five visits she had given me the equivalent of a college degree in sex. I never visited another prostitute before I got married but had sex with enough women before my marriage to claim a master’s degree. In our nearly forty years of marriage, I never felt the need for a woman other than my wife. Together we could probably say we earned a Ph.D. in marital bliss. I remember Ruby saying before I left from that last visit in Louisville, “I has teached ya all ya needs to know ‘bout makin’ wimmens happy. Petey. Treat ‘em all special like ya’s treated ole Ruby and you’ll always have happy wimmens.”

It’s been a good life. I went to college and became a history professor. My wife was a music professor at the University also. We bought an old home near the college and through the years became a well-liked couple, visited by our students and revisited by numerous alumni. When we retired, we liked to sit on our front porch and watch the students go to and from classes ... some of them got to be friends while we were there and a few of them became our dinner guests. Two couples met at our home and married.

It was in our 39^th year of marriage when Doris got cancer. Too far advanced, I lost her just before our 40^th anniversary. Though I never had anything but happiness in my marriage, which includes an adventurous sex life that the two of us shared, the memory of two women never dimmed nor faded in my heart. The first was Chantelle Saunders whom I knew for only one day. I had always wished that I could have at least dated her and gotten an idea of why my feelings were so strong for her. The second was Ruby—I never knew her last name. One was a Christian girl, the other a prostitute, and a Christian woman. Both were black.

While I was teaching, I felt friendly toward some of my black students but could never actually call them friends. In retirement though, we met two students on separate occasions. It was during our porch-sitting times, and it happened on separate evenings. The first was a black student by the name of Sharon Sowell. Both of us were attracted to the almost imperial way she walked. I was the one who called out “Hello.” She stopped. Her smile held a world of happiness. A long conversation ensued. I couldn’t get the feeling out of my mind that she was the representation of Chantelle Saunders. We quickly became friendly, and I invited her to dinner once. We became friends. Along the way, she and Doris became dear and tight friends. She became a frequent Sunday guest of ours and met Ash Balfour, another such student friend. They married and had a child who received a full scholarship to Stanford.

I went through a difficult year of mourning after Doris’ passing. Then about three months into my second year without her I met an art professor who was at least twenty years my junior. It was a nice relationship that lasted over six months. But she accepted the post of Department Head at a large Florida University and moved away. I missed the sex, the best I’d had since Doris.

One night when I was just finishing the dishes the phone rang. “Peter?” the voice on the phone said, “This is Sharon Balfour.” The image of my former student and friend flooded my mind. She was a stunning black girl from Kenya. I had never met a queen or princess from Kenya but if there were one Sharon Sowell Balfour would have been it. As a child, she lost her family and had been displaced during the devastating tribal wars in her country. She was rescued by a Methodist minister by the name of Balfour and his wife, adopted by them, and taken back to Baltimore where she grew up. She was 5’8”, and slender. The last time I had seen her—twenty-two years ago—she had a gorgeous, wasp-like figure. She had clear hazel eyes on the yellow side—the kind you might see on a lion. Though slender her proportions were normal for her size. She moved like a primal being but elegantly, like some kind of primitive royalty.

“SHARON,” I said in shocked surprise. We had been close when she was in college. My wife Doris had stood up for her as matron of honor at their hastily planned wedding –she was four months pregnant at the time. “I’m thrilled to hear from you.” We corresponded for a while but as life has a way of doing, we grew apart. “How’s Ash?”

“I lost Ash two years ago, Peter; he was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) four years ago.” Her voice was sad and weak as she said, “He just withered away and died Peter ... just withered away. I’m still sad. He was such a great man and a wonderful father to Enoch. But I don’t want to whine about it, I did that for a year and have finally grown to accept it. How’s Doris?”

“I’m not going to whine either, Sharon. Doris died of cancer eighteen months ago.”

“OH, I’m so sorry to hear that, Peter. I loved Doris. Sometimes she was like a mother to me.” A fine daughter I thought, you haven’t stayed connected very well. Then I felt bad about my thoughts. Doris and I let the friendship lapse and apparently didn’t think enough of it to try to rekindle it. “I’m shocked to hear of your loss Peter. I guess I have to say that Ash and I haven’t been very good friends to you and Doris.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Sharon. Even though we wanted to and talked about getting in touch with you and Ash we dropped the ball as well ... just an example of getting caught up in life and letting important people slip through our fingers. What has it been now, twenty-two years?”

“Yes Peter, exactly. I’m forty-three and you’re what, sixty-two?”

I heard a sniffle. “Your news has caught me up so short that I don’t quite know what to say.” She paused then went on, “I’m in town, Peter. I’ve come for a publishing conclave at the university and will be here for a few days. I was hoping to reconnect with you and Doris but...” I heard her sniffle again.

“Are you at the Inn, Sharon? Maybe I can come over for a drink.”

She cleared her voice again. “Yes, a drink.” She sounded distracted. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby for you, Peter. I’ll be the one wearing dark skin. She chuckled then said, “I wanted to see you and Doris so badly. Now I feel like I’m in an almost desperate need of seeing you face to face ... and um talking with you and um ... reconnecting.”

The University Inn is one of my favorite places. It was Doris’s too. As a fixture in the academic town, it exuded an almost womb-like ambiance that nurtured members of the academic family. So much of my life had been conducted there that it served as a social club and a kind of second home. As I walked into the colonial-styled lobby my heart fluttered as I saw the elegant woman of color sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire. Though twenty-two years had gone by since I had seen her the young African princess had morphed into an elegant queen. The angular lines of youth had been fleshed out. The woman in the chair, while not matronly, was pleasingly proportioned in such a way as to make the observer want to touch her smooth mahogany skin and embrace her mature body to savor the ripeness of her fruit. As I continued toward her through the lobby, she watched me walk as if she was trying to piece together the progression of a forty-year-old professor she had once known as a middle-aged friend who had gracefully negotiated the path to sixty-two. Upon completing her assessment, her dazzling white smile verified that she had not only recognized me but approved of the product. As her smile morphed into a grin she stood.

On her feet, she was even more impressive than seated. Dressed in brown slacks and a complimentary ecru sweater, her black hair, now antiqued with palomino streaks looked softer than I remembered, and her ebony eyes seemed to sparkle like black diamonds, which I clearly recalled. Standing in three-inch heels her once wasp-like body was now somewhat thicker but still well defined as an hourglass. In her elegantly chosen sweater her formerly youthful breasts were now slightly larger and rounder but without the appearance of slackness. I was trying to imagine what kind of sheer bra she could be wearing to allow her substantial nipples to be so clearly defined through her sweater. Just as had happened when she had walked into my classes years ago my fickle penis rebelled against any discipline and pressed to attention against the fabric of my silk boxers and trousers. It was spontaneous; our arms opened as before for an enthusiastic embrace. This time though, as we hugged, Sharon pushed her tummy against my hardness. “Professor Billingsly,” she said in her husky voice, “It is so good to see you.” Her familiar, sexy giggle filled my ears as she said, “And I can feel that your enthusiasm is still there.”