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And speaking of minds, mine was elsewhere. True to his word on our first date, as soon as today’s meeting was over, George had arranged a long weekend in Baltimore for an Orioles game at Camden Yards. The game was on Saturday, so we’d spend the rest of our time kicking around the Inner Harbor and environs, indulging our affinity for blue claw crabs.

And, yes, that was going to be fun, but what presently occupied my thoughts was his other proposal – tonight, we’d disappear into some role playing that he’d casually mentioned back in July. Fueling my imagination was a previous adventure, and his twisted version of psychoanalysis. My introduction to bondage had been delightfully eye opening. So, yeah, my mind was roaming and no matter how many times I considered variations to our improvisational performance of “Meeting as Strangers” scenario, there was always a common thread – taking a page from my mom’s book.

The theme for our current production was set in motion two weeks ago, providing ample time to pick appropriate costumes. We packed them in their own garment bags, secreted from each other, adding to the suspense. At the last minute, George advised me the hotel has a pool. “So pack a bikini. You know, the purple one. It’s my favorite.” I had my reservations, but it played nicely into misbehaving while out of town. Nonetheless, I tossed in a cover-up. Currently, everything was locked in the car, baking in the August heat, while we shivered in the building’s stale, over processed air.

By ten-thirty, my paranoia kicked in and I whispered to George, “Do you think keeping us waiting is a tactic?”

“Probably,” he replied in a hushed tone. “Their circus, their monkey. Most likely it will be a lot of the same questions, just asked differently, to see if we’re consistent.”

“Bastards.”

“We can always walk out and forget the whole thing.”

“Not on your great-grandmother’s corset cover. We’ve been through too much crap to stop now.”

“That’s my girl.”

His words didn’t cure my agitation, but they did lend a much-needed boost to my determination.

Ten minutes later, we were finally called in. Separate interviews this time. As if that would change our answers! As luck would have it, I made a stink about the chicken sandwich that masqueraded as lunch. I’m sure that somewhere in my dossier it says, “Hates mayonnaise.”

Mercifully, the interviews concluded around two-thirty. Geroge set the destination in the map program of his phone and we headed for Baltimore. The traffic sucked, but we passed the time comparing notes, the major difference being he was not a known mayo hater.

The traffic was heavy, resulting in the forty-mile trip consuming two hours. We crawled out of D.C., which, per George, was not surprising. Once we’d cleared the beltway, our conversation petered out. George put on some tunes, and I drifted off to sleep, Etta James as my raft.

“Ah,” I shrieked, rudely awakened by the car’s sudden, brake slamming, stop.

“Sorry about that,” George soothed. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just surprised. What happened?”

“A right turn from the left lane. Some people just can’t be bothered going around the block.”

“How much further?” I asked, rubbing my clavicle. Not that I regretted the seatbelt fulfilling its purpose, but still…at least the strap was between my boobs.

“Just a few minutes. We’re almost there.”

“Isn’t that the National Aquarium?” On the passenger window, my finger traced it’s passing.

“Yup. We’ll go there tomorrow.”

A right turn and a roundabout later, George parked on the semicircular drive at the entrance to the hotel.

“The Four Seasons,” I exclaimed. “Are you kidding me?”

“About this, no.”

“Really?”

“You remember our bonus from the Marx Brothers case?” George asked, employing the euphemism we’d concocted. “I said I would set part of it aside for an extravagant indulgence. This is it. Actually, the whole weekend is. However, I could see if there’s a Motel 6 available if that’s what you’d prefer…but then there’d be the matter of the cancellation fee.”

“That would be an extravagant fuck-up,” I said seriously, but couldn’t hide my feelings, switching to high pitched delight. “This is so…it’s such a delightful surprise.”

“That’s not all, either.”

“Like?”

“And spoil it?”

“You know me too well…I love you, George Richter.”

“And I love you too, Linda Huggins. Now let’s get this party started,” he concluded, as one of the staff opened my door.

“Welcome to The Four Seasons.”

While George checked us in, I went to the ladies’ room. I’d been ignorant of the urgency until three steps from the car. Upon my return, George was waiting with a bellman, our luggage on a cart beside them. We exchanged pleasantries as we rode up the elevator, advising him of our plans – at least the Oriole game and tourist attractions.

The bellman opened the door and placed our bags in the room. I was like a kid at Christmas, and, in my opinion, he couldn’t leave fast enough. It was a corner suite with floor to ceiling windows facing the harbor and a balcony on one side. The bath was sumptuous. Although their décor had nothing in common, in a way, it was like not leaving home.

“George, this is incredible. I’ve never stayed anywhere like this,” I said with unbridled excitement.

“Neither have I, but you’re worth it.”

“No, we’re worth it,” I whispered in his ear as I embraced him tightly. My lips sought his. Oh yeah, still a great kisser.

“So, what’s the plan, Stan?” I asked, looking up into those green-brown eyes that had captured me since the moment we’d met.

“I don’t know about you, but I want a shower. Gotta wash off the stench of bureaucracy.”

“I could help you with that,”

“I was hoping you would…but no hanky-panky. Our dinner reservation is at seven and we’ll need the time to get in our…game uni’s, as it were.”

“How’s that going to work? I thought we were going to keep it secret until our meeting at the restaurant.”

“While you wait in the bathroom, I’ll dress in the room and head up to dinner about twenty minutes early.”

“Up?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’re eating here. A place called The Bygone. It’s on the twenty-ninth floor, overlooking the harbor. Supposedly a roaring twenties theme, very swank. Table for two by a window.”

“So fancy!” I mockingly teased.

“Seemed an appropriate locale, just the place for us to be…scandalous. That might be an exaggeration, but you get the idea.”

“Perfect. So, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Before our shower, I’d unpacked hastily. I really didn’t care in which drawer I put things. As was his nature, George was more deliberate, secretive perhaps. I didn’t give it much mind. I just wanted my toiletries – and to lather up with George, the self-imposed limitations looming as a mixed blessing.

Thus, I’m now isolated – and frustrated - behind a closed bathroom door in a complimentary (ha!) white terry robe, applying my makeup, having taken care of my ‘one night only’ hairstyle. George’s grousing was barely audible, but I did discern, “Fucking tie!”

A light tapping preceded, “I’m off, see you at seven.”

“What time is it now?”

“Six-thirty-five. Don’t keep me waiting. Be sure to ask for Professor Richter.

“I won’t, and I will,” I confirmed, my mind swimming. He’s early. Even more anxious than I if that were possible.

The extra time was a godsend. I still had to get dressed! Escaping the bathroom, I laid out my clothes on the bed. My pleated Gordon plaid skirt joined a thin weight white round collared blouse, buttoned to my neck. Lace topped bright white ankle socks and glossy patent leather Mary Janes, a navy blazer with a meaningless crest on the chest pocket, and a plain black clutch on a thin strap across my shoulder completed my ensemble. How do I look?

Right, those mirrors in the bath. Oh yes, I thought while pirouetting, the pleats flaring outwards from a few inches above my knees. Wonderfully innocent, contrasting with my face - the black mascara, matched with heavy eyeliner, dusty pink eye shadow and she-devil red lip gloss, which perfectly matched the red ribbons adorning pig tails on either side of my head. Nailed it.

As I made my way out, I checked the time on my phone – good, five minutes to spare. I slipped it into my clutch along with the card key for the room and a thin wallet. Nervously walking to the elevator and relieved to be alone, I exhaled deeply as I pressed UP and buttoned my jacket. The doors opened, revealing a smartly dressed couple. Sixties? Both silver haired, she was in a red cocktail dress, complimenting his dark grey suit and crisp white shirt open at his throat.

“Hi,” I said brightly as I entered, smiling to push aside my uneasiness.

“Good evening,” he mumbled, their expressions morphing from confusion to condescension. I turned to face the closing doors, wondering what expression they might conjure over my lack of underwear. Reaching towards the button for the nineteenth floor with a hidden smile, I stopped midway. The button was already illuminated with a small adjacent brass placard indicating The Bygone.

“Oh, you’re going to the restaurant too,” I noted, adding a giggle for their benefit. Uncomfortable (for them anyway) silence entombed us. At least it was only a few floors.

They were more than happy that I demurred to them as we approached the receiving lectern. Behind it, a tuxedoed man smiled warmly, his slicked back hair too purely black to be natural.

Once he’d handed them off to the hostess in a little black dress - well-tailored, but not overly conforming - his attention then turned to me.

“Good evening. May I help you?” he asked, having eyed me head to toe and back again. Any signs of welcome had drained from his face. He was probably running the dress code in his head, fruitlessly seeking a violation. George's earlier reference to scandalous frolicked in my brain.

“Yes, thank you. Um…I’m meeting someone,” I replied haltingly. C'mon, Linda! Get in character. You can do this. Thankfully, my brain reengaged. “Professor Richter.”

He consulted the tablet tilted upwards on the surface before him, his left index finger briefly scrolling the display.

“Ah, yes. Very well. This way, please,” he said flatly.

He turned. No hostess this time…hmm, curiosity getting the better of you? I followed his serpentine path around the carefully arranged yellow ochre velvet banquettes at the center of the room and tables covered in bright white napery, the silverware and glasses reflecting light from clear glass orbs of the chandeliers. About a third of the tables were occupied, primarily by couples, so no one was seated adjacent to another party. Snippets of subdued conversation caught my ears, while wary eyes followed me, and I couldn’t escape the feeling of being in a poorly attended parade. Well, fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.

As promised, George was seated at a table next to the windows, rising from his chair as we approached, his attire totally incongruous with the man I’d come to know - sporting a slightly ill-fitting brown tweed jacket, charcoal grey slacks and blue oxford cloth shirt, the part in his hair slightly askew. But the real kicker was the navy and brown striped bow tie, knotted just awkwardly enough to lend an eccentric air. I wondered if he’d practiced his appearance as much as I had mine.

“Good evening, Miss…Huggins…so good to finally meet you,” George said haltingly, shaking my hand briefly. But there was no hiding the delight in his eyes.

“Professor Richter, thank you for meeting me on such short notice and, wow, the view from here is spectacular.”

“You’re most welcome. We all must eat, right? Please…” he replied, motioning towards my chair.

After I’d unbuttoned my jacket, the maître d' seated me and said, “Ah, I see you already have menus and water. May I get you something from the bar?”

“Miss Huggins?” George inquired.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic, if that’s okay?”

“Of course. I’ll have a Beefeater martini, up, very dry. No garnish, thank you.”

“Very well, sir. Is Grey Goose acceptable for you, miss?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I replied. Once the maître d' left, I added, “Don’t look right away, but you see that couple by the window, two tables behind me? The woman’s wearing a red dress.”

George lifted the menus, handed one to me. “Yeah, I saw them. She was giving me the stink eye when you were seated.”

“That’s not surprising. I rode up here on the elevator with them. I had the feeling they found my presence upsetting.”

“Your quiet confidence probably scares them. Upending their concepts of propriety.”

“Well, thank you. I also got a similar reaction from the maître d'. When you invited me here, I checked out the restaurant web site and found they have a dress code. No doubt he was looking for a violation.”

“Really?”

“Men are required to wear a jacket. Check. No jeans. Check. No athletic attire. Check. And the Madonna rule...Ladies may not have visible underwear. Double check.”

“Madonna rule…” George grinned, halting as he looked up. Momentarily, a young blonde waitress appeared with our drinks. She was about our age, in matching black slacks and collared shirt, the hotel’s insignia embroidered in white on the pocket, above it, the nametag read Jillian. She gave me a once over, but George continued without missing a beat, “So, Miss Huggins, what are your qualifications?”

“I presume you mean for my thesis proposal?” I asked, establishing my character.

She stifled a laugh, nearly spilling George’s martini, but she recovered nicely. “Sorry,” she said, blushing, as she set the drinks before us. “Are you ready to order, or do you need more time with the menus?”

“We’ll need more time, thank you,” he replied. Making sure the waitress could hear as she slowly departed, he added. “For your master's, yes, and, oh, please order whatever you desire.”

We raised our drinks to one another and took a swallow, our smiling eyes locked in conspiracy above our glasses.

A few sips later, George placed his martini back on the table and opened the menu. I followed his lead.

“I don’t know about you, Miss Huggins, but I’m famished.”

“I’m starving Professor Richter. My lunch was paltry.”

“Mmm,” he said, taking another sip and contemplating the menu. “Oh! Backfin lump crab cocktail. Sold.”

“Sounds yummy, but I’m going with the Old Bay poached shrimp cocktail.”

“Nothing wrong with that either. And for the main course…the ribeye.”

“That’s a bit heavy for me. The Dover sole would be exactly what I need.”

“Like I said Miss Huggins, anything your heart desires.”

George caught the waitress’s eye and in what I found an overly protracted conversation, Jillian recorded our order. My jacket had parted further as ordered and I swear she was trying to ascertain if I was wearing a bra.

“And how are your drinks?” she asked.

“I probably shouldn’t…” I responded unconvincingly, shifting slightly, offering the opportunity for Jillian to confirm her suspicion.

“Live a little, Miss Huggins,” George countered.

“Okay, sure…why not?”

“Another round then. Thanks.”

“Very well, sir,” she concluded, the hint of a self-conscious smile rising as she turned and walked away. I wondered if she was wise to our game. Subtlety wasn’t in the script.

“So, Miss Huggins, are you aware that the research you will be conducting is experience based? That is, collecting data from subjects directly familiar with the topic.”

“Thank you for clarifying,” I replied, grateful for the direction. “That’s right up my alley, Professor. I’d much rather be out interviewing people than searching the internet or examining dusty volumes in some archive.”

“Ha! That’s for the lazy. Nothing beats field research.”

Jillian arrived with our second round of drinks, pausing so as not to interrupt us.

“So, Miss Huggins, how would you summarize your thesis proposal?”

“Hmm…I'll try my best. Investigate the paradigm that in the current world of group think and internet-enforced conformity, there is an underlying humanity that needs the assertion of self. Whether through the arts, literature, hobbies, or personal interactions, people must discard those conventions and reclaim individuality. Not only is it necessary, but healthy.”

“Bravo! You have done your homework,” George acknowledged, then turned to Jillian. “Sorry for keeping you waiting. She was on a roll.”

“No problem, sir. It sounds fascinating. Your appetizers will be ready momentarily,” she advised, placing our drinks before us and removing the empties. Jillian stepped to the empty table between us and my elevator companions. Jillian occupied herself unnecessarily straightening the silverware, my suspicion being she wanted to eavesdrop. A slight snicker confirmed George equally wary.

“Therefore, Miss Huggins, would your effort establish that people must cease obeying society and indulge their fantasies to maintain mental health?”

“Within reason,” I replied. “I’m not advocating criminal or cruel behavior. It’s more like out-of-character innocent fun, secreted from society’s judgement, that creates moments defining individuality. For instance, moonlighting in amateur theater.”

Jillian decided that she’d dawdled as much as she’d dared and returned to what I presumed was the kitchen.

“Miss Higgins, you are delightful company.”

“Thank you. As are you, Professor.”

“Now, that the thesis is determined,” he began, doing his best to be earnest, “let’s move onto the next point.”

“And that is?”

“Please tell me what your research methodology...” Jillian arrived with our appetizers and paused at the side of our table. “Ah, food, glorious food.”

“Your Old Bay shrimp, miss” Jillian said as she set down the plate before me.

“Mmm, my kryptonite,” I glowed, the seasoning filling my nostrils. “Actually, one of many.”

“And the crab cocktail,” she continued.

“Thank you, Jillian. Looks delicious,” he replied, as she departed amused.

“Oh, yum,” I said at the first bite as he squeezed some lemon on his crab.

“Yum, indeed, Miss Huggins. Seems we both have our kryptonite. Or should I say, kryptonites?”

“I’m sure the plural is appropriate, Professor”

Our hunger overwhelmed the repartee and for a few minutes we silently enjoyed the food between sips of our cocktails and foolish grins.

“Our primal need for food, is powerful, wouldn’t you say Miss Huggins?” asked George with a cocked eyebrow.

“I’d say that primal desires are powerful, regardless of origin. We can’t deny the imperatives of our ancestors.”

“Interesting observation, Miss Huggins. Do you see that as a point worth exploring in your thesis?”

“Hmm, I hadn’t considered it, but…”

“Don’t be shy, Miss Huggins. A little brainstorming is how we gain insight.”

“Okay. If you look at evolution, we’ve gone from addressing our basic needs of food…shelter…procreation,” I replied counting off the items on my fingers. “As civilization advanced, other orders evolved along with it. Our legal and religious systems served as a check on our baser instincts.”

“Interesting. Please continue.”

“The problem is that over time, those orders became overly restrictive. Private behaviors, however harmless, became sinful, at the least, illegal in the extreme. Pile the judgmental aspects of social media, and you’ve created repressive restrictions on the individual,” I posited, followed by a heavy exhale.

“Fascinating, Miss Huggins. And?”

“The pressure builds,” I began, reveling that he wanted me to steer the conversation. “Its release can be catastrophic as in violent acts or mental collapse, possibly leading to suicide. On the other hand, if people find positive ways to assert themselves…It can be outward expression, such as fashion or body art, which may suffice for some, but, in my opinion, that’s only putting window dressing on the soul.”

“Excuse me” Jillian said as she arrived once more. “If you’re finished, I’ll clear these away.”

During our discussion, one of our primal needs had continued to assert itself - both our plates were empty.

“Thank you,” George addressed her, then turned his attention to me. “Soul?”

“Soul, spirit, the self – call it what you will – but our essence as individuals. The soul needs joy, for lack of a better term. For some, the joy is contrary to current mores, and no matter how innocent the activity, its denial damages the soul.”

“I’ll be right back with your entrees,” she advised, beaming her smile at each of us in turn before heading off with our plates.

“So, Miss Huggins, you want to prove that people need to indulge their fantasies?”

“Prove is too absolute, Professor, particularly with respect to any study of human behavior. There would always be outliers. What I’m proposing is that for most it can lead to a healthier mental state.”

“I’m glad you appreciate that we’re dealing with an inexact science.”

“It’s inherently objective and, moreover, subject to the observer’s own preconceptions. I am hoping that we can design appropriate methods to minimize those biases.”

“Have you given any thought to the protocols, Miss Huggins?” George challenged as Jillian arrived with our entrees on a tray.

“Yes, and there are several possibilities,” I stated.

“Dover sole for you, Miss Huggins,” Jillian said, setting it before me. I was delighted that she had joined the game. “And…the prime rib for you Dr. Richter.”

“Thank you, Jillian,” George acknowledged. “Please continue, Miss Huggins.”

“First,” I enumerated, “a questionnaire can be created, provided we can find an appropriate number of participants. The second would be a case study approach, interviewing fewer participants about their experiences, but at a more detailed level.”

“Or,” George countered, “use the questionnaire to filter the pool and then proceed to the interviews.”

“Excuse me,” Jillian said, “Do you need anything else? Drinks okay?”

“I’m good,” I confirmed after George gave me a questioning look.

“Same for me,” he advised, adding to our collective amusement, “Don’t want our thought processes impaired.”

“Very well,” Jillian confirmed, leaving us and trailing a faint laugh.

“Another yum,” I cooed, taking a bite.

“And the beef is perfect.”

“So, you’re Dr. Richter now?” I asked, as we continued savoring our meals. Not only was it delicious, eating provided welcome pauses to concoct our improvised conversation.

“And you’re Miss Huggins. Seems Jillian has more than a passing interest in your research.”

“That she has, but don’t you get any ideas about making her part of the study.”

“Duly noted, but rest assured, not a chance.”

“That’s good.”

“Really, Miss Huggins, what would ever give you the notion that anything but your thesis is on my mind?”

“Nothing. How silly of me.”

“Actually, it was rather endearing, Miss Huggins.”

“You think so?” I asked, batting my eyes emphatically.

“Most definitely. Now, getting back to your methods, which do you prefer?”

“I believe the interviews would the most effective.”

“Why is that?”

“In a survey, the answers are multiple choice, none of which might be accurate for some people. Whereas, with an interview the answers are more precise, plus you can immediately follow up for clarity or probe deeper for additional insight.”

“How can you trust the answers…make sure they’re factual?”

I swallowed the last bite of my meal, quietly returned the utensils on the plate and finished the remnants of my vodka tonic. Resting my elbows on the table, I interlaced my fingers, steepled above my plate. Slowly leaning forward coaxed my jacket to open further; my blouse stretched against breasts, my nipples resisting the pressure. I perched my chin upon my hands. “Body language.”

“It appears there’s more to you than meets the eye, Miss Huggins,” George replied, letting the words sink in, then followed up. “How did you become a lie detector, Miss Huggins?”

“Much like the machine, I’m not infallible.”

“Are you backpedaling?”

In my current pose, the strain of my blouse against my breasts proved arousing and my nipples stiffened, craving attention. Without realizing it at first, my chest swayed, slowly and imperceptibly. Almost. George squirmed slightly in his chair, my mind picturing his arousal.

“No, but in a human behavior class I took, we spent a couple of classes discussing lying, which led to a presentation on how most people are disinclined to lie. That reluctance can manifest itself in several ways.”

“And those are?”

“This isn’t a complete list, but one or more could indicate it. Eye movement, or more precisely, breaking eye contact, a nervous movement or twitching, sudden emphatic gestures, or other distractive behavior.”

“Are you practicing what you preach?”

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

“One could interpret your posture as distracting, Miss Huggins.”

“Oh? I didn’t realize….” I protested weakly and leaned forward to emphasize my point. Or points, as the case may be. “But I’m not lying.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you were…just an observation.” His matter-of-fact awareness belied by the sparkle in eyes.

“You’re very ob…”

“May I take your plates?” asked Jillian, startling us momentarily. Although I promptly sat back and straightened my blazer, my alluring pose had not escaped her.

“I’m finished,” I replied.

“Me too.”

“Can I interest you in dessert?”

“Not at the moment,” I said to her, then George, “Maybe we could have some dessert later?”

“You must have read my mind, Miss Huggins. In that case Jillian, just the check, please, and put it on my room.”

“As you wish, sir,” confirmed Jillian and followed by obtaining his full name and room number.

“So, as I was saying,” I started as Jillian lifted my plate, “You’re very observant, Professor.”

“Thank you, Miss Huggins.”

“It makes me optimistic about us working together,” I said slyly. Jillian departed once she had gathered George’s plate.

“You realize that a thesis of this scope will require long hours.”

“I’m ready to do what it takes.”

“A commendable attitude, Miss Huggins.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Jillian returned with our check which George signed, adding a generous tip.

“Thank you very much,” she said.

“Most welcome,” he replied. “And now, Miss Huggins, perhaps we could find somewhere more private to continue our discussion of your research techniques and then see about dessert?”

“If I’m not keeping you,” I said with a hint of desperation, as Jilian faded into the dining room.

“It would be my pleasure. My room is a suite with a rather comfortable sitting area, and we wouldn’t have to worry about being disturbed.”

“Well…”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Perhaps I don’t trust myself,” I whispered.

“Then you have nothing to worry about, Miss Huggins,” he assured, then stood and helped me from my chair. “Shall we?”

With my hand gently holding his elbow, he escorted me out as a deliberate pace. I’d conveniently forgotten to button my jacket, so my nipples tauntingly brushed my blouse with each step. Cool air crept up my skirt provoking a memory from the night I met George. The same anticipation, just no anxiety this time – furthered by passing my elevator companions. Although their heads were cocked towards the window, their judgement laden eyes were in the opposite direction.

Just as we exited the restaurant, we heard Jillian, “Wait, I forgot to give you your receipt.”

Catching up to us she handed it to George, and he placed it in his jacket side pocket. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

To my surprise, he removed his phone from his breast pocket and said, “Jillian, would you mind taking a picture of us. I’m sure we’d both like a memento of our evening.”

“What a lovely idea,” I concurred.

We posed in front of The Bygone sign and Jillian took a couple of shots.

“These good?” she asked, passing the phone back to George.

There we were. Us, but not us. Nonetheless, joyous.

“Yes, splendid. Thank you,” he said.

As we headed towards the elevator, Jillian said, “You’re welcome and remember to check your receipt.”

George pressed the down button, withdrew the receipt and snorted.

“What?” I asked.

Without speaking he showed it to me as the doors opened and I burst out laughing.

Thanks for the best shift ever. Good luck with your research! – Jillian.

Below her handwriting she’d drawn a winking smiley face.

“What a delightful note,” George said as he pushed the button for our floor, the doors closed, and the cab descended. “Do you need luck in your research, Miss Huggins?”

“Possibly. The hardest part is getting started, but I’m hoping you can help me.”

“That’s why the University has the thesis mentor program. I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

“I appreciate that, Professor, thank you.”

“Do you have some thoughts on how you’ll get started?”

“Yes. But they’re…” I started as the doors opened to our floor. “…incomplete, lacking a clear direction. Kind if a jumble.”

“Then let’s discuss them. I’m sure we can get the kinks worked out,” George reassured, leading me to the room and withdrawing the key card from his wallet. “Please come in and we’ll get comfortable.”

“Wow, how luxurious!” I remarked as he flipped some switches and led me to the brightly illuminated sitting area. Located at the corner of the room, windows overlooked the harbor. On the right, a sofa opposed a large flat screen TV atop a credenza, flanked by two chairs, all centered on a rectangular glass coffee table. Beyond the furniture and across the water, the Baltimore skyline glowed beneath the evening sky.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m in town to interview multiple candidates for the grad studies program,” he advised.

“Yes, I’m just glad for the opportunity and I’m grateful you agreed to meet me tonight. My schedule's a bit crazy this week.”

“Miss Huggins, I understand, but we must do all we can to meet with highly qualified candidates. So shall we get started,” he explained, encouraging me to have a seat on the sofa.

“Just one thing, can I use the bathroom first?”

“Of course, I should have offered. My apologies. We passed it on the way in.”

“Thanks.”

The rental on those two vodka tonics was long overdue. Moreover, I needed some time to collect my thoughts and consider some research proposals or even just to catch my breath. Dinner had piqued another appetite. Alright then. Flush. Wash up. Check makeup. Touch up the lip gloss. Wait! Unbutton the blouse. Just enough to reveal some cleavage. Okay, now we can go.

“I’m ready,” I announced. George had been seated and began rising. “Oh please, don’t get up on my account.”

I removed my jacket and laid it on the arm of the sofa. We sat on either end, turned at angles towards each other. George had a pen in hand and a small pad bearing the hotel logo at the top.

“So, Miss Huggins, your thoughts please.”

“First, we need the questionnaire. It must be simple. Keep it yes or no. Did the participant have fantasies? Act on them? Did the acting, or not acting on them affect their lives? Positively or negatively? And some screening questions to weed out extremists…oh, and gender, just to see if there’s any correlation. Age too.”

“That should suffice” he confirmed while jotting some notes, “but we’d also make sure they’d be willing to discuss particulars in a private interview, plus signing a waiver for using anonymous quotes in the final study results, promising to keeping individual information confidential.”

“Of course, but how would we find participants?” I asked.

“That shouldn’t be too difficult. We can place ads in appropriate media. If history is any indicator, people are more willing to participate than you’d think.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“But only the beginning, Miss Huggins. What about the interviews?”

“That’s more complicated. The questions must be carefully crafted for neutrality. We don’t want to bias the results by leading subjects to perceive that there are right answers…for lack of a better term.”

“Precisely. So, what are the questions?”

“That’s where I’d need help.”

“Hmm, Miss Huggins. I’d like to make a suggestion. Let’s say you’re a study subject. How would you answer the survey? Based on your answers, I’ll construct some questions for the interview, just remember the agreement states you’re providing truthful answers.”

“Okay, sounds worth a try. So, for the survey, I’d say yes to fantasies. Acted on them, no. Affected by that decision, no, or at least I don’t believe so…hmm we need to rethink that question. There’s nothing physically or emotionally cruel, age twenty-three and, of course, I’m female.”

“You’re right about refining that one question…ready?”

“I think so. Just a little nervous, Professor.”

“Understandable, but that will help you appreciate how our subjects might feel.”

“Point taken.”

“So, tell me, Miss Huggins, you said it didn’t affect your life, but I sense some doubt, why?”

“Doubt? Not exactly. More like regret.”

“So, you’ve repressed the desire to act?”

“Kind of.”

“More doubt, Miss Huggins?”

“No, I started on it, just haven’t fulfilled it.”

“When was that?”

“Tonight,” I confessed softly. He didn’t respond, just looked at me expectantly, so I blurted, “I didn’t put on any underwear.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Oh, gosh. It’s not just one emotion. Daring…excited…nervous…indulgent even. “

“I see. But why indulgent?”

“As you probably know from my transcript, I ended with a three-point-nine-three GPA for my undergrad degree. I was always the good student, studying hard and completing all assignments on time. Making the dean’s list every semester. I could always be counted on to do the right thing. I wanted to be the bad girl for once.”

“Definitely some repression then. But, on a positive note, the courage to confront it. Looking at the flip side, are the clothes you are wearing part of your fantasy as well?

“Yes, Professor.”

“I know fashion takes many forms these days, but I take it your attire is not your norm?”

“No, it isn’t. Normally, jeans and tee shirt, with my hair down, not much makeup…and underwear, of course. But I kinda like this…umm.”

“Schoolgirl-look?”

I nodded enthusiastically.

“But why now?”

“Given the thesis topic, I was hoping you’d understand.”

“I’ll do my best…Now, does the possibility of someone witnessing your risqué behavior excite you?” he asked.

“Yes, professor, it does,” I confessed softly.

“Someone including me, Miss Huggins?”

“Especially you.”

“Why me?”

“To be honest, in prepping for the interview, I checked your page on the school’s website. You’re a very handsome man, Professor Richter.”

“That presents a dilemma. Didn’t you consider the impropriety of that?”

“Yes, I did, but I wanted to demonstrate my commitment to the study.”

“Interesting point, Miss Huggins. All part of your unfulfilled desire to be the bad girl?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Then for the sake of the study, we’ll make an exception. Show me what you’ve imagined.”

“For the sake of the study…”

Hesitantly, I stood and faced him, my hands slowly pulling the shirttails from my skirt and sighing melodramatically.

“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought. Please continue.” he praised, removing the phone from his pocket, his intent obvious.

“Professor!”

“Did you think documentation would be omitted?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but I’ve never…”

“Remember, everything remains confidential.”

“In that case…” I acquiesced.

With my blouse extricated, I unbuttoned the cuffs. Rather than undoing my shirt, I winked at him, sucking my right index finger between my deep red lips, ensuring he’d captured the moment, while I savored the discomfort his shifting position revealed.

Good! Well, not really, my impulse was to jump his bones, right there and then. But I couldn’t. Keep to the plan.

With slow deliberation, I undid my blouse, pausing at each button, resulting with the inner sides of my breasts capping a crevice of flesh running to top of my skirt.

I carefully parted my blouse, stopping just short of exposing my nipples; the fabric emphasized their stiffness. Our eyes met - desperation, desire, and delight all resident.

I turned away. My over-the-shoulder gaze remained fixed on him. Dipping to my right side, my blouse slid down my arm, stopping momentarily I repeated the process on my other side, and it fluttered to the floor. My naked back to him, arms crossed over my chest - a touch of embarrassment with hesitation at its heels.

“You can’t stop now, Miss Huggins. Give your mind free rein…you must have imagined this before.”

That brought a smile to my face, encouraging my body to turn towards him, my arms drifting leisurely until just my hands covered my breasts. In my palms, nipples clamored for attention, while his expression pleaded for more. Cupping my breasts in my hands, I sighed and my eyes fluttered. Fingers parted, then closed, trapping my nipples. Turning away once more while holding my legs tightly together, my hands slid down my sides, seizing the hem of my skirt as I bent forward. The slick friction of my petals stretching provided an unexpected thrill.

Looking around my left hip at him exposed a hanging breast, while my hands lifted my skirt, presenting my ass, followed by another camera click.

“Do you feel like a bad girl now, Miss Huggins?”

“Yes, Professor,” I confirmed, unable to contain my joy, nor the undeniable yearning between my thighs.

George slid to the center of the sofa and said, “Turn around and do that again.”

Unsure of his intentions, but eager to find out, I leaned over with my right side towards him, my breasts swaying above his knees, reached back and tentatively raised the back of my skirt, holding it in place.

His fingers greeted my nipples with subtle tender caresses, summoning a shuddering sigh from me, as my breasts danced against his fingers.

“Oh!” I gasped in surprise when he suddenly pulled on both nipples. My back stiffened so I wouldn’t careen forward, increasing the tension.

“Do you know what happens to bad girls, Miss Huggins?” he asked, tightening his fingers.

“Ah…no, I don’t Professor,” I stated. But my mind knew there were myriad possibilities.

Releasing nipples, his open left hand circled my ass, clenching at his touch, while his right rested on my back.

“Surely you must have some idea,” he teased.

“They get…spanked?”

No sooner had the words left my lips than George pulled me down over his knees, my breasts hanging beyond one thigh, my hips over the other, closed legs outstretched, toes bracing on the floor. With his right-hand George encircled my wrists, securing them along with my skirt at the small of my back. His left lightly traced up my inner thighs, concluding with circuits over my ass. My hips rolled, vainly attempting to press my crotch against his leg.

“Correct, Miss Huggins,” he proclaimed as each cheek received two slaps.

Even though it was just a slight sting, I playfully kicked up my heels, “Professor, you can’t!”

“I can and I will,” he warned as a series of strikes reigned down, varying the impact’s nexus.

Although George had spanked me before, it had always been intermittent. The unrelenting stream of swats, previously unknown, provided true novelty - the tingling heat that radiated from my ass, fomenting a yearning in my breasts and pussy.

As if to deny my desire, I continued to kick my legs in protest and sob, “Oh, no, Professor. Please stop.”

“But you’ve been a bad girl,” George accused, rubbing his hand around my ass.

Did I feel as radiant to him as his hand did to me? His hard cock, trapped under my ribs, certainly confirmed our mutual arousal that escalated when fingers snaked between my thighs, parting as my greeting.

“A very bad girl,” he repeated softly with ominous depth. “And, what’s this? Is your cunt bald?”

“Lots of girls do it.”

“Lots of bad girls you mean.”

“I guess they do…but is that a problem?”

“No, it’s most alluring, Miss Huggins, as you will soon discover,” he purred, as a finger slid between my dewy petals. “Hmm, wet too.”

Sighing, my hips rose to greet his touch, which, to my dismay, withdrew, only to land two more swats on each cheek.

“Please. Please no more,” I begged, although the slow gyrations of my hips belied my plea.

“So, Miss Huggins, are you a bad girl?”

“Me, Professor?”

“Yes.” Smack. “You!” Smack.

“Yes, I admit it. I’m a bad girl.”

“Can you be a good girl?” Two more quick swats.

“Yes, Professor, I’ll be a good girl.”

“Prove it. Get up on that chair and kneel with you hot ass facing me,” he commanded, pointing to the armchair on his right.

“Yes, Professor,” I replied meekly, slowly rising from his lap and surmounting the chair. On my knees, but otherwise erect, I was confronted by my reflection in the window. My arms rising from the back of the chair, framing my breasts, adorned with erect pink nipples, the chair back blocking any further exposure.

“But…Professor, someone might…”

“What? See you?” he mocked, removing his jacket and tie.

“Yes. It’s…it’s… embarrassing.”

“Come, now, Miss Huggins. That didn’t bother you at dinner, dressed as you were, did it? And now? As if someone on the other side of the harbor is going to see you on the twenty-fourth floor…nor have you attempted to cover yourself.”

“I guess I really am a bad girl,” I acquiesced.

“So, be a good girl. Bend forward and raise your skirt.”

“Yes, Professor.” Pushing my ass back, I flipped up my skirt, rested my forearms atop one another on the chair back and contemplated my translucent reflection, with George behind me, taking one more photo. I wondered if the hue of my cheeks matched the glow I felt.

“Let’s not forget the documentation, Miss Huggins. A lovely view, I might add.”

He casually tossed his phone on the sofa. But, oh my god! Panic rose as he removed the belt from his trousers.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I challenged.

“Nervous, Miss Huggins?” he asked as he folded the belt in half, the ends clutched in his left hand, raised menacingly.

“No! Professor, please no more.” I braced for the blow, my whole body in rigid tension. “I’ll be a good girl…I promise,” I wailed, trembling. Then, nothing…

“Oh god, Professor! You scared me,” I said in relief that I didn’t have to say spaghetti, the safe word we’d created weeks ago in our psychoanalysis/bondage session, so I’m oh-for-two in that regard. Thank goodness.

“This better?” he inquired as he lightly tapped the belt against my pussy.

“Mmm, yes. Much better,” I confirmed at the gratifying wet clapping, my back arching downwards, hoping to bring my clit within range, my fear replaced by longing, while the quivering remained.

“I believe you’re enjoying this, Miss Huggins.”

I merely moaned at the continued tapping, its intensity gradually increasing, my hips moving in small circles. I heard the belt falling to the floor and whimpered from the sudden neglect, then gasped as two quick slaps landed on my ass.

“You promised you’d be a good girl, Miss Huggins. Are you ready to fulfill your oath?”

“Yes, Professor, what must I do?” I asked with a compliant smile as my head turned to him.

“You’ll find out soon enough, Miss Huggins. Straighten up, face the window, and hold up your breasts.”

I rose and again contemplated my reflection. The scintilla of being observed, however slight, rebounded in my mind. At the Four Seasons no less. So delightfully indulgent to cup my breasts, tweaking and pulling on my nipples. George stood directly behind me, removing his clothes, but keeping his eyes focused on my diluted image mirrored in the window. My eyes protested that my body blocked most of his reflection - exquisitely diabolical choreography.

As the last of his clothes flopped on the sofa, he moved behind me, phone in hand, and lightly dragged his hard cockhead between my legs along the length of my succulent petals, trailing the nectar up to my rosebud. My attempt to look at him was summarily dismissed with a swat to my ass.

“Not yet, Miss Huggins,” he reprimanded as the taunting of my cunt resumed. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you cock, Professor,” I pleaded to his reflection.

“Then, close your eyes, Miss Huggins and stand.”

In my mind’s eye, I pictured myself topless, in just my skirt, lacy socks and Mary Janes, my head topped in pigtails bound with rich red ribbons. Standing before George, my heavily embellished eyes closed, nervous hands at my sides. More vulnerable than if I were naked.

His fingertips traced over my tummy and circled my breasts. Fingernails dragged across my nipples, transmitting a shiver down my spine.

Taking one of my hands in his, he whispered, “Keep your eyes closed and kneel, Miss Huggins,” adding once I had settled, “Hands behind your back…you may open your eyes.”

His rigid cock greeted me; breathlessly I replied, “Oh my, Professor…you’re smooth like me. So that’s what you meant about discovery.”

“That I did…lots of guys do it…but the question is, Miss Huggins, have you ever sucked cock?”

“Yes, a few, but never one this big.”

“Consider it another challenge of your research. Now suck it and remember to keep your hands down.”

He lifted his cock to my lips. They parted and drew the head between them.

“Look at me, Miss Huggins…Damn, you look so good with your red lips around my cock.”

Initially, I pretended embarrassment as he clicked off a photo.

Switching to the truth, my lips released him. “And I love sucking your cock.”

After another photo, he prodded, “Be a good girl and show me how much you can take.”

“I’ll do my best,” I meekly protested.

My tongue swirled laps around his cockhead before taking him in my mouth, massaging the spongy nob, slowly sinking deeper until it reached the top of my throat. Pausing, the spit welled in my mouth gathered, matched by the copious moisture I felt on my petals.

He tossed the phone on the chair as my mouth slid up until just the tip remained between my lips. Taking a pigtail firmly in each hand, he tilted my head back, his stern expression on full display.

“You can do better than that, Miss Huggins. Let me help you.”

“I…I don’t know if I can,” I pleaded.

“We’ll see about that.”

The steady strain on my pigtails forced me forward. Of course, his cock remained fixed, returning to the top of my throat, seeking entry.

Vocalizing a muffled protest, my hands rose from behind my back and were summarily pushed aside.

“No hands, Miss Huggins.”

His hands returned to my pigtails, reestablishing the demands of his cock. My arms haltingly moved behind me, pleading eyes and a muted whine my reply - replaced by weak resistance and a stifled cough as he pushed forward. Tears formed in futile protest.

“That’s a good girl,” he encouraged as his rubbery knob successfully invaded my throat. Mission accomplished, he pulled my head back, his torrid cock springing from my mouth, trailing a string of spit in its wake. “Too much cock, Miss Huggins?”

Gasping heavily, I managed, “I’ve never done that before, Professor.”

“First time for everything, but bad girls always do.”

“And I want to be a bad girl…teach me,” I pleaded and held my mouth open.

“Oh, you’ll learn, Miss Huggins,” he replied sternly, guiding his cock to my lips, hands coiled around my pigtails and pulling my head forward, unrelenting, as a tear trickled from the corner of my right eye followed by the left and his cock pushed down my throat.

Keeping my nose flattened against his pubic bone until I whined for release, he reined my head back until just the tip remained between my lips, leaving me gasping for air, while my pussy yearned for its turn.

I hadn’t fully recovered when he asked, “Ready for more?”

I could only nod my assent, now willingly sanctioning his return, cycling between gurgles and gasps throughout the primal mission.

“You are a quick learner, Miss Huggins,” he complemented with a mocking smile, knowing full well I couldn’t reply.

But damn, my jaws ached – the opposite of the empty anguish in my pussy. I just wanted to him to fuck me with the same fervor.

Panting with saliva dripping from my chin, I held up one hand as a stop sign.

“Yes?”

Slowly, between ragged breaths, I implored, “Please Professor…I need you in me.”

“But you have, Miss Huggins.”

“Not like that,” I sighed, placing my hands on the floor behind me, I leaned back, pushed out my chest and spread my knees as far as I could, my skirt bunched around my waist, looking at him with intense, demanding eyes.

“Hold that pose,” he advised as he reached for his phone and captured my wanton pose. “It’s nesmerizing…is there something else you want?”

“I told you,” I replied softly with a tint of embarrassment.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Miss Huggins. How would a bad girl ask?”

“I want you to fuck me…please.”

“And where do you want me to fuck you?”

“In my…pussy.”

“Wrong answer, Miss Huggins. Bad girls don’t have pussies, they have cunts…” he declared, trailing off expectantly.

“Oh,” I said in shock, with the remaining words seemingly burning my lips, “…in my cunt.”

“You can do better. You must be the bad girl.”

“You mean like this?” I asked as I reclined onto my back. Pressing my soles to the floor, I drew them towards my ass, splaying my knees – and my smooth lips. “Fuck my cunt, Professor. Make me your bad girl.”

“How could I refuse such an inviting offer? Now, Miss Huggins, on your feet,” he said, taking another picture and extending his hand to help me up, but leaving me confused.

As he led me to the window, I halted and protested, “Professor…really?”

“Do you need another spanking, Miss Huggins?”

“No…I’ll be good.”

“Actually, I’m looking forward to you being bad,” he countered, tugging my hand and bringing us to stand with him behind me, looking out over the harbor.

“I hope no one sees us, Professor,” I fretted as I contemplated my reflection, merely inches from the window, yet the thrill was undeniable.

“On the contrary, Miss Huggins, you’re intoxicated by it, showing the world that you can be a bad girl.”

After he rested the phone on the floor, I moaned as his hands circled in front of me, squeezing my breasts, then suddenly pinching my nipples and aggressively extending them outwards.

“Ah!” I cried as my nipples throbbed.

“Isn’t that right, Miss Huggins?”

I whined softly, refusing to reply.

He released his grip and two hard swats landed on my ass. Reflexively I attempted to turn away.

“None of that!” he ordered as one arm circled around my chest, trapping my arms and compelling me to face the window while his hard cock pressed between the cleft of my ass. Coaxing my head back with light pull on a pig tail, he hissed in my ear “Answer me!”

“Yes,” I whimpered, “I’m want to be seen.”

“And what does that make you?”

“A bad girl.”

“Do you still want to be one?”

“Yes.”

“That’s better,” he whispered. With a gentle touch, his hands rested upon my shoulders, urging me to kneel, accompanying me on the journey, his hard cock dragging along my thighs as we descended.

“Hands and knees, Miss Huggins.”

With my face just inches from the glass. I looked out over the harbor. Nothing but points of light from dimly illuminated windows on the far side - bright spots interrupting my alluring reflection and overcoming my reluctance.

“Bad enough for you professor?” I asked, looking back at him, and pushing my ass in his direction.

“It’s a start, Miss Huggins,” he teased while taking another picture. “One more for The Illustrated Biography of a Bad Girl.”

“I hope it will be a limited edition.”

“Very limited,” he agreed conspiratorially, sliding his cock along my glossy petals. “Tell me what you want, Miss Huggins.”

“I want your cock, Professor.”

“And where do you want it?”

“In my pus…er cunt.”

“Then say it!” he exclaimed with a quick swat to my ass.

“I want your cock in my cunt.”

“Prove it. Put it in.”

I hesitated intentionally.

“Do it!” he bellowed. Another swat followed.

Bending further and reaching between my thighs, I directed his cockhead to my entrance, confounded that he did not push forward, making me whine softly.

“Do you want it, Miss Huggins?”

“Yes, but it’s bigger than I’ve ever had…I hope I can take it.”

“Bad girls need big cocks…now fuck my cock with your cunt,” he commanded, one hand at the small of my back, coaxing me towards him.

“So good,” I sighed as he entered, and I slowly eased further back but stopped short, making my best guess that a few inches remained. “But so much.”

“But not too much. Right, Miss Huggins?” he taunted, increasing the pressure of his hand at the base of my spine.

“I hope not, Professor.” I slowly accepted his length, accompanied by a high-pitched moan until my ass joined his hips. “So much cock!” I hissed.

“Good girl,” he cooed, adding after a pause and a swat on my ass, “Now, fuck me like a bad girl.”

Gingerly, I rode up his cock, halted and, sighing, slid back down hesitantly, goading him by with my reluctance.

Seizing my hips with both hands, he bellowed, “That’s not fucking.” Slamming his big cock into my smooth wet cunt deliberately, he added, “This is fucking!”

Establishing a steady rhythm, slowly withdrawing and ramming back in, he growled, “Wouldn’t you say so, Miss Huggins?”

In synch with our collisions, I grunted, “So…much…cock…fuck…me…Pro..fes…sor.”

“Now, there’s the bad girl.”

“Yes, fuck your bad girl!” I cried, my hips banging back to meet his thrusts.

“Take my cock, Miss Huggins!” he commanded.

“Fuck me, Professor,” I begged as my mainspring tightened, desperate to be tripped.

“You like my big cock now, don’t you?” Smack.

“Oh, god, yes!”

His hands slid up my back and took hold of my pig tails, pulling and tipping my head upwards. His intense eyes met mine in our shared reflection.

“Look at yourself, Miss Huggins, the bad girl, getting fucked in front of the window.” Smack.

I moaned my approval, as the image of my tits bouncing with each impact of his hips and our faces locked in passion pushed me over the top. “Oh…oh…yes professor…I’m a bad girl...coming all over your big cock.”

Once he released my hair, my arms wilted and I collapsed onto my chest, my fingernails clawing at the carpet, nipples enflamed by the rough carpet, but never losing sight of the ecstasy in my reflection. Despite my delirium and ragged breathing, I was keenly aware of George’s change to a deliberate and slow pace that accentuated the length of his hard cock.

“Mmm, Professor,” I sighed. “You do have a wonderful cock.”

“And you have a delightful cunt, Miss Huggins,” he praised deeply, then pulled my ass against his hips and stirred within my juicy cunt, smacking my ass. “You want my cum, don’t you?”

“Yes, please give me your cum,” I pleaded, driven by the revolutions within me.

“Then you’ll take it like a bad girl,” he growled, as he unexpectedly withdrew and stood. “Turn around and up on your knees, Miss Huggins. Hands at your side.”

I complied, his glossy hard cock menacing my face.

“Suck it!” he demanded.

“But Prof---” I started, but he forced his cock between my lips, seizing my pig tails. No escape, only acceptance.

“That’s it, Miss Huggins, clean your cunt juice off my cock,” he ordered, pushing into my mouth and down my throat, slowly but undeniably.

All I could offer as protest was a muffled whine as he purposefully cycled, backing off sufficiently for me to gulp some air, while spit ran from his cock, dribbling down my chin and onto my breasts, taunting me as it trickled to my nipples. My hands rose to spread the fluid to acknowledge the yearning.

“So, the bad girl likes sucking my big cock?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And needs to eat my cum?” he asked as he pulled his rod from my lips.

“Yes, Professor,” I panted. “Give me your cum…please.”

“Hold your sexy red lips open…play with your tits and cunt…show me how much you want it.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. My right hand dashed to my cunt, desperately seeking my clit while my other roamed around my slippery breasts, tweaking my nipples. My watering eyes never lost sight of George stroking his big, hard cock, keeping the head resting on my lower lip, greeted by my heavy breaths.

“Give it to me,” I begged, another climax coiling in my core, ready to breech.

“Don’t swallow it, just keep it…in your mouth…oh fuck…here it comes!”

His jets of cum collided with my tongue, pooling at the top of my throat, my fingers frantically circling over my clit…torso twitching, soft squeals emanating from my nose.

“Fuck, yeah…take my cum, Miss Huggins!” he bellowed, locking his lustful eyes on mine, while his cum welled, rising to my lips. Damn, it was a challenge to contain it all as tremors ricocheted within me.

“Ahh…Now hold it, Miss Huggins,” he sighed, picking up his phone. “I’d say smile, but just show me that cum.” Click. “Lovely.” Click. “Now swallow.” Click…click…click”

No doubt, I made peculiar expressions, as ingesting the thick cream wasn’t easy. And let’s face it, it doesn’t taste that great, but soon enough, I opened my mouth wide to confirm the disposal. Click.

Dropping the phone, taking my hands, he eased me upwards, pulled me into his embrace and our lips formed a vacuum, his tongue wrestling with mine. I moaned and massaged his torso with mine, his slippery cock against my belly, my slick breasts mashed to his chest.

“Mmm, Miss Huggins, that was…highly educational.”

“You’re a good teacher, Professor.”

We both sniggered, exchanging self-satisfied grins and mooning eyes.

“Sorry, but I have to say it...Linda, you were great, but that falls so short of what I mean. Now appearing…Miss Huggins as the naughty schoolgirl. All I can say is bravo!”

I stepped back and bowed. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Well, in that case, Miss Huggins, how about some desert?”

“Isn’t that what I just had?”

“Perhaps, but wouldn’t you say a good girl deserves some cookies and ice cream? I can call room service. They’re on the menu.

“Yes, please, Professor. That would be delightful…and then I can interview you.”

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