The Professor and the Cheerleader
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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?"
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 pony tail 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.
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