1.
Malcolm Weatherby Covington,
possessed of considerable talent, refinement and pride, was a tenured professor
of English at Morningside University in New York and a true Renaissance Man. An
autodidact, he spoke seven languages fluently (two of them dead ones), dabbled
in Flemish perspectival painting, played the viola and had composed a number of
string quartets in the baroque style, several of them having been performed in
public to warm, if not enthusiastic, acclaim.
At fifty-five, he was barely
beginning to gray at the temples and was still elegantly, almost imperially
slim. A paragon of sartorial impeccability, he had all his clothes tailored in
London—suits in Saville Row, shirts and ties (he had a predilection for floppy
velvet bows) in Jermyn Street and he purchased Swiss shoes in the Burlington
Arcade. His socks and underlinen—as he preferred to call it—though not bespoke,
were always of silk. He would not be caught dead buying so much as a
handkerchief at Brooks Brothers in Manhattan.
He was, it almost goes without saying,
an accomplished oenophile, knowing all there was to know about French wines:
give Professor Covington a glass of burgundy and he could name not merely the
year of its vintage, but the village and even the vineyard of its provenance.
He could say as well whether the grapes had come from the north- or
south-facing slope of the vineyard.
No living person knew more than he
about 18th century English literary arcana—he knew the century's
minor poets and its most obscure pamphleteers. He could recite from memory the
contents of the Earl of Sutherland's weekly laundry list for the entire year
1732. Professor Covington was a Force to Be Reckoned With at meetings of the
Modern Language Association, whose presidency he had held—twice—while still
only in his '30's.
Though American-born—in Manhattan,
no less—he concealed his New York origins with a respectable patina of an
English accent. He said "shed-yule" instead of
"schedule" and referred to the final letter of the alphabet as
"zed."
Malcolm Covington was an authentic
polymath with an international reputation, or at least one in the
English-speaking world sufficient to earn him more invitations to lecture in
Edinburgh, Capetown, Toronto, New Delhi, Auckland, Brisbane or Dublin than he
had time or inclination to accept, so he accepted on the basis of the season,
travelling to the southern hemisphere, say, during New York's winter and
generally avoiding equatorial regions (except, of course, if the honorarium ran
into the high three figures). He traveled first class and stayed in the best
suites in the best hotels. Though he was an academic, he managed to live like a
prince.
Having never married and always in
receipt of royalties from numerous textbooks he had written or edited and from
articles he had authored for encyclopedias and magazines, Professor Covington
had amassed considerable assets over the years and had invested them
wisely—speculating in precious metals was another of his manifold talents—so
wisely that he was, unlike many of his fellow academics, exceedingly well-off,
having regularly withdrawn his speculative profits to place them in
triple-tax-free municipal bonds and U. S. Treasuries. Consequently, he lived in
a spacious apartment on Riverside Drive—furnished in Chippendale and hung with
minor Gainsboroughs from Sotheby's—overlooking the Hudson and the Palisades,
not far from the campus on Morningside Heights and so only a short stroll away.
He did not own a car, preferring
taxis when shopping, running errands or going out for the evening. He was a lifetime
member of the Princeton Club—he had earned his doctorate at Princeton—and
played squash there twice a week. He was also, as one might expect, a devotee
of grand opera—he held an annual subscription to a box at the Met. A gourmand
as well, he had a favorite table at La Grenouille, its availability secured in
perpetuity by a handsome emolument provided to the maitre d'hotel each
Christmastime.
If Professor Covington had a
weakness, it was for young women, whose intimate company he sought as often as
he could arrange it, which was, in fact, two or three times a week and
sometimes more often. The Department of English had, for more than two decades,
procured him a ready supply of suitable female English majors and graduate
students who were eager to indulge this particular weakness of his.
The professor, you see, happened to
be well-endowed not only in matters pertaining to the English department, but
in other matters as well—matters of keen interest to certain college girls who
coveted top grades and top recommendations to graduate school but who lacked
the necessary intellectual wherewithal to attain them. Invariably such girls
were reciprocally well-endowed, that is to say, they were particularly
attractive young women. Nor were they above earning a better grade on their
backs than they could hope to earn in a classroom.
Professor Covington was no less than
a highly educated, brilliant and articulate satyr.
But he always delivered, both in
promised grades or recommendations, as well as in the performance of his
extracurricular duties, which, because of his vaunted physical endowments, made
him a sought-after commodity even beyond the confines of the English
department. Although he did not like to admit it, he stooped to the occasional
one-night fling with, say, a pretty history major who happened to be taking one
of his courses. But, as a rule, he generally stuck with the English majors,
finding them to have more, shall we say, depth, not that he talked with
any of them more than was minimally necessary to charm them out of their
clothes and into bed.
A chance pregnancy was, of course,
always a danger, but the professor had solid connections at Morningside
Hospital and always anonymously paid every cent of the bill (putting a thousand
or two each year into the endowment fund as well), with two weeks on St. Croix
and forgiveness of missed exams thrown in as a bonus. So on the dozen-odd
occasions that a girl was found to be with the professor's child (he was never
sure of the exact number, having a quirky memory when it came to such
irrelevant statistics), nothing—literally nothing—ever came of it. One girl, it
is true, had committed suicide after her abortion, but she was considerate
enough to have left no note and so the matter went nowhere.
And that was really the most
remarkable thing about the professor—how skillfully he navigated the perilous
waters of political correctness which had inundated American campuses starting
in the early 1980's and had reached such a flood tide by the late 1990's that
any male professor even suspected of old-fashioned male chauvinism (regardless
of tenure or fame) was subject to censure if not outright termination. Take
Back the Night rallies in condemnation of date rape had become commonplace. And
these were to protest date rape by students. For a male faculty
member even to think about a sexual liaison with a female student
was like playing with nitroglycerine. The Commissars of Political
Correctness—the new Thought Police of the Western world)—would pass sentence on
the basis of intentions alone, intentions which had never even seen the light
of action.
As we said, the professor was as
adept in his navigation of these dangerous waters as he was in the exercise of
his myriad other talents. In fact, he wrote frequent letters to the New York
Times excoriating even the vaguest whiff of sexual inequality. One such
letter proposed the official enshrinement into Standard American English of the
androgynous pseudopronouns "he/she" and "his/her." These
letters were often published and were cut out and posted on campus bulletin
boards. Girls who had slept with the professor had to laugh whenever they read
one, but he had been so good to them—in bed as well as in the matter of getting
them into their preferred graduate school or job of choice—that it was not
really in their interest to blow the whistle, so none of them did.
"Covington's girls" were
scattered throughout the English departments of most of the country's leading
universities and in the editorial offices of some of America's largest
publishing houses. A recommendation from Malcolm Covington carried great weight
with certain of his male counterparts, who knew precisely what they were
getting and were willing to overlook an occasional syntactical gaffe in
exchange for what these young women really excelled at.
Word inevitably leaked out beyond
the tight circle of women who had enjoyed the professor's favors. Yes, word
inevitably leaked out into the politically correct—and unforgiving—world of the
Academic FemiNazis, eventually reaching the upper echelons of The Movement
where actual War Plans for annihilation of the Male Establishment were hatched
and put into action. A dossier on the professor was opened, agents and
informers recruited —and paid—and pretty soon Professor Covington had a rather
thick file.
So the professor had been found out
at last and his halcyon days were numbered. He, of course, had not yet the
slightest suspicion, for the operatives in the exalted upper ranks of The
Movement knew how to be patient and how to plan. Professor Covington was far
too valuable a plum to waste with mere censure or even a publicized firing. No,
The Movement had greater designs for him. It wanted an elegant and
fitting revenge.
Thus was Operation Bow Tie conceived
and born. After holding dozens of interviews, the feminist High Command
recruited the finest Certified Witch it could find, gave her the professor's
dossier and authorized her to use any and all of her powers to bring the
professor to heel. The Command sketched a general strategic outline of what it
wanted accomplished but left tactical details to the witch. It also deposited
$225,000 in a New York bank to the witch's account under the name of Deborah
Vandermeer.
Deborah Vandermeer applied to and
was accepted at Morningside College, where she matriculated as a freshman in
the fall of 1996. In September, 1998 Miss Vandermeer, nominally aged twenty
years (but actually a hundred times older than that), commenced her junior year
and registered for Professor Covington's famous course on The Age of Samuel
Johnson. There were fifty-six students in the class, the majority of them
women.
The trap was baited and waited only
to be sprung.
2.
"Professor, I think you'd
better have a look at this," said Michael Butler, one of Professor
Covington's teaching assistants, on a brisk Thursday morning in December, as he
scaled a student paper over onto the professor's desk. The paper, a thin one,
was entitled "Johnsons Political Philosophy," and bore the name
Deborah Vandermeer at the bottom of the title page.
"Pray give me a single cogent
reason, Michael, why I should sully my fingers reading an undergraduate paper.
I haven’t looked at one of those in decades. That's what T. A.'s are
for," Professor Covington drawled, aspirating his "r's" and not
looking up, while he critically examined the less-than-perfect buff on his
nails and reflected it was about time to change manicurists again.
"Well," Michael responded,
"this one's a bit different. It's word for word lifted from your Samuel
Johnson entry in the '95 Britannica. Here, have a look. I brought you
Volume Ten." Butler slid the heavy, black leather-covered tome across the
desk towards the professor.
Professor Covington didn't need the Britannica—he
had a near-photographic memory for the written word, particularly his own. He
recognized the writing as his the instant he opened Vandermeer's paper at
random and read:
"Dr Johnsen skilfuly used these
broadsides as a oportunity to develop his political philosophy he recognized
niether the devine rite of kings nor the naturel rights of common people in
Johnsens view stable goverment and respect for law was esential to a civillized
society…"
He would have read further—always
soothed by the sound of his own voice on paper—but he winced at the egregious
misspellings and grammatical sins. The girl was a rank plagiarist, yet she
could not even copy correctly! He felt his blood begin to boil with the
indignation only a tenured Professor of English can feel whenever the Mother
Tongue is so crudely assaulted.
At that moment, Phoebe Phipps, the
lissome and doe-eyed graduate student whose brains the professor had been
screwing out every Thursday lunchtime, knocked perfunctorily on the door and
entered, bearing a note.
Miss Phipps was clearly disappointed
to see Michael Butler already in the office. The special meaningful smile she
had, in front of the ladies' room mirror, so carefully prepared for the
professor, quickly faded from her haughty and intelligent face. She passed
Professor Covington the note, sniffed once or twice as she lifted her nose into
the air, and, barely able to conceal her petulant irritation at Butler's
presence, began to whine in an up-Eastern drawl:
"There was a Miss … a Miss
Vandermeer to see you, pwofessah. She seemed wahthah anxious, and ahsked me to
give you this note. She left but said she'd wetu'n in ten minutes."
"Thanks, Miss Phipps, that'll
be all," the professor replied, unable to address her as Phoebe in front
of the T. A. and languidly taking the note between his two fingers, as one
holds a cigarette. "Oh, Miss Phipps," he added, "I almost
forgot. Here's the revised reading list for the Johnson course. Burn sixty
copies and have them ready for tomorrow's lecture, won't you? Thanks ever so
much." He handed her the list with a clearly dismissive motion of his free
hand. Miss Phipps, crestfallen, looked as if she were about to cry, and for a
few moments stood motionless with a hurt expression on her patrician features,
undecided whether to speak up or leave.
"And Michael," the
professor crooned, "thanks so much for bringing this other little, ah,
matter to my attention. I'll deal with this Miss Vandermeer when she returns—if
she does," and he made a small sweeping gesture with two of his fingers,
indicating Butler was also to withdraw. Butler retrieved Volume Ten from the
desk, then he and Miss Phipps collided with one another in the doorway,
mutually glared, begged each other's pardon—for Professor Covington's
benefit—and left.
Alone now, Professor Covington
glanced at the folded note, inscribed on the outside, "to proffesor
covington." A little circle with a smiley face surmounted the
"i" of his name. He instinctively sensed an opportunity here, while
subconsciously whiffing danger, but paid it no mind at the moment. He unfolded
the note and read:
"dear proffesor covington I am
afraid I did something real bad and its been bothering me quite a lot if you
can spare a couple minits of you'r time Id like to explain it Debbi
Vandermeer"
Again, the little circle with the
smiley face over the "i's" and no punctuation whatever besides the
superfluous apostrophe.
Professor Covington opened his desk
drawer and withdrew the current college student directory. Fanning through it
to the "V's," he located Deborah Vandermeer and examined her small
color photograph. Pretty enough face—fine features, blue eyes, rather too full
a mouth for his tastes—he preferred thin-lipped Yankee girls of solid Puritan
lineage—with shoulder length, slightly waved honey blonde hair. She was wearing
a soft-looking pastel blue sweater, and from the fall of it (even though the
picture was cropped rather high on the chest), he sensed she was, well, to use
a vulgar but evocative expression—stacked. He returned the directory to its place
and slid the drawer shut.
Next he logged on to his terminal
and punched up the roster for his course on Samuel Johnson's England. It was
updated through yesterday, December 2nd. He scrolled down the
listing of names and found "Vandermeer Deborah." Vandermeer Deborah
had failed to turn in her first paper and on her subsequent three papers had
received a D, an F and a C-minus. Her midterm exam grade was an F; in the
"comments" field he read that she had left 75 per cent of the
questions unanswered.
Professor Covington was a realist
and well knew the depths to which American university admission standards had
sunk by the end of the 20th century, but this seemed a bit
much—fourth-grade elementary school writing was better. And consider the girl's
brazen plagiarism, without even the clumsiest attempt to make the least
alteration! Plagiarism was a hanging offence, so to speak, at any university,
and the girl must surely have known it. How on earth could she have gotten
admitted to Morningside College in the first place, much less to his
junior-level course?
He would have to have words with
Grimshaw, the Dean of Admissions. And with Clemmons, too, his senior T. A., who
supposedly vetted every student's performance and grades before admitting any
of them to an elite course like Samuel Johnson's England! A ringing letter to
the Times about the shameful erosion of academic standards began
composing itself in his head when he heard a light tap at his door, which was
ajar, and he saw the face from the picture in the student directory peek into
his office.
3.
The photo hadn't done
the living girl even the least bit of justice—Vandermeer Deborah was
ravishingly beautiful and batted her large blue eyes at him through the
half-open door. He automatically rose from his chair and invited her to enter,
which she did, quietly closing the door behind her, and continued to blink at
him like a frightened rabbit.
Deborah Vandermeer
resembled a classic 1940's Coca-Cola poster girl: her clean good looks and
fresh face, with its pert, slightly turned-up nose, made Covington agree that
little circles over her "i's" suited her to a "t," and he
chuckled inwardly at his mental pun. She wore nylons and heels, something he
had not seen on a co-ed for years—nowadays, college women favored Desert Storm
fatigues and bright blue Doc Marten's combat boots.
The hint the school
directory picture had given of a prominent décolletage was more than
amply confirmed in the flesh—Deborah Vandermeer was, indeed, stacked. Professor
Covington could barely wrench his eyes from her bosom, and, when he could, they
involuntarily swept downwards to take in her perfect figure, which she took no
pains to conceal, as her rather short beige knit dress was certainly not overly
loose. Her long, nylon-encased legs glistened as she entered the office, which
she instantly filled with an overwhelming female essence which radiated from
her like the blast from a Bessemer converter.
There was nothing
subtle about the girl, but she carried it off with such open-faced innocence that
it was not at all a black mark against her in the professor's book. The
professor preferred willowy aesthetes, ones whose cerebral pretensions flew out
the window almost the moment he got a hand on their legs anywhere above the
knee and who then couldn’t wait to slide off their panties and display their
treasures for the Great Professor to ravish, and whose mouths he more often
than not had to cover with his hand at the moment of their release to stifle
their most un-intellectual screams. Though he preferred such girls precisely
because he loved to strip them of their intellectual pretensions almost as much
as he loved to strip them of their clothing, he instantly forgot them, forgot
that it was almost lunchtime on a Thursday and that the somewhat angular Miss
Phipps, aesthete extraordinaire (and a screamer of the first order),
shortly would be expecting him to summon her in for their weekly Thursday lunch
hour quickie.
Contemplating Miss
Vandermeer, the professor felt a familiar stirring down below like a live bird
in his trousers and he was hooked. Miss Phipps had no chance this week: poor
Phoebe could not possibly compete with a two thousand year old witch.
But we have
ungallantly left poor Deborah Vandermeer standing before the professor, not
knowing how to begin and waiting for him to address her. She continued to blink
like a frightened rabbit. So the professor broke the silence:
"Ah, Miss
Vandermeer….Won’t you please sit down? I've just now read your charming
little, ah, note," he intoned in his best plummy voice, and he felt his
heart pounding as it had not pounded in almost thirty years. Breaking
etiquette, he sat before she did to conceal the burgeoning evidence of his
not-so-very-academic interest in this failing student of his, who must have spent
the semester sitting in the back row of the lecture hall, otherwise he surely
would have noticed her sooner.
Miss Vandermeer sat,
taking no pains to prevent her skirt from riding up as she crossed her nyloned
legs with an audible whiz, permitting a tantalizing flash of a satiny white 'V'
that the professor could not be sure he really had seen, but the impression of
which, real or imagined, hardened him further.
She carried a little
dark blue leather purse, from which, after having placed it on her lap (so that
he could, unhappily, no longer admire the lovely adumbration of her confluent
thighs), she extracted a Kleenex as she simultaneously lowered her face and
began to cry.
"I….I don't know
what to say," she began in a stammer, dabbing her averted eyes. "I
know you've found out about my paper…I mean, your encyclopedia article.
There's no excuse, I know, but I just have to get through this course,
or Daddy will kill me. I have three older sisters, they were all Phi
Bate, and I'm supposed to outshine them and I can’t even spell!"
she wailed, and then blew her nose. "I don’t know what to do! I can never
think of anything to write about, I hate college, these have been the
worst two years of my life! I could never tell that to Daddy. Please
don't flunk me, Professor Covington, I'll do anything to pass!"
And she began to
blubber freely.
Professor Covington
wanted to get up and comfort the girl, but didn’t dare because of the majestic
tent in his trousers and he knew that any minute Miss Phipps (not, after all, wholly
forgotten) might burst in on some pretext or other and he had no desire to be
caught in flagrante.
So instead he soothed
her with words.
"Now, now, Miss
Vandermeer, do dry your tears," he crooned. "You're not the first
young lady to have problems in an advanced course like mine. I've had a look at
your grades so far this semester, and, well, as I am sure you're aware, you are
not exactly pulling an "A" in the course. But I am certain there is
something you can do for, ah, extra credit. I've gotten quite a number of, ah,
problem students successfully through my courses, you know. In fact," and
he began at this point to confabulate freely—unctuous confabulation being yet
another one of his talents—"by a remarkable coincidence a number of
students are gathering at my apartment after dinner this evening for a little,
ah, seminar on Dr. Johnson and his politics, the very theme of your, ah, paper.
Why don’t you drop by? It'll be worth a good fifty points towards your final
grade." He tremulously jotted down his address and apartment number on a
notepad, taking pains, despite his excitement, to form the numbers extra
legibly so that she would have no trouble reading them. "It's only a ten
minute walk from the campus. Eight-thirty, over before eleven. What do you
say?"
The girl looked up. A
smile spread over her lovely face just as a rainbow at first barely glows in
the sky then shines forth in spectral resplendence when the sun's rays suddenly
break through the clouds after a July thundershower. Deborah Vandermeer seemed
achingly vulnerable, for tears still trickled in glistening tracts down her
cheeks to either side of her captivating smile.
"Really?"
she asked, sniffling, and her smile spread even further, softening the
professor's heart but having quite the opposite effect elsewhere. "I can
come to your seminar? D'you really mean it?" He nodded, she gave one final
—and dignified—sniff, arose, approached his desk and took the proffered
notesheet, which she glanced at and then stuffed into her purse.
"Thank you,
Professor Covington," she purred, half-closing her eyes, "You have no
idea what this means. I'll be there at eight-thirty sharp." She turned on
her heel and undulated out of the office, closing the door behind her and
leaving the professor, still seated, with his mouth half-open and his manhood
as stiff and as thick as a nightstick, though not quite as long.
As far as Professor
Covington was concerned, eight-thirty could not come too soon. And, best of
all, he still had time for the now-remembered Miss Phipps—just to take his edge
off—for he was aching with lust and needed release. It would make everything so
much better that evening, he thought.
At that very moment,
with perfectly fortuitous timing, the ethereal Miss Phipps tapped at his door.
4.
Tapping the ferrule of his furled
London umbrella on the sidewalk in time with his pace, Professor Covington
walked briskly down the hill West 112th Street makes as it descends
towards the Hudson, which the setting December sun was just beginning to gild a
deep shade of gold. The glow of the water's reflection nicely complemented the
warm image of Miss Phoebe Phipps bent over his desk this noontime, her dress
and slip neatly turned back up over on themselves, exposing her pale and
pantiless rump.
Miss Phipps, in the interests of
sexual efficiency during an always abbreviated Thursday lunch hour, had stopped
off at the ladies' room beforehand to remove her immaculate white cotton panties.
She had retained, however, her black garter belt and Retro seamed nylon
stockings, which she knew titillated the professor, who had, after all, come of
age in the '50's when women still wore real stockings and not pantyhose.
Besides, Miss Phipps shared the professor's view that pantyhose was not
sexually efficient.
As the professor neared the bottom
of the hill and the sun glinted more brightly off the water, the warmth of his
mental image glowed more brightly, too—he recalled how he had taken Miss Phipps
from the rear this time, while both his hands fondled her smallish breasts.
Phoebe Phipps was a little wiry, perhaps, for his tastes, but her nipples could
get unusually firm and she was tight and always wet where it mattered, which
was, after all, precisely what counted for the professor's lunchtime
interludes. He came, she didn't—a frequent inequity which had never once
overburdened his conscience on any occasion during his long sexual career.
As he reached the corner and turned
north on Riverside Drive, Miss Phipps' image dimmed and faded. It was displaced
by a new one, in primary colors, of the smiling and buxom Deborah Vandermeer as
she accepted the note paper with his address written upon it, then turned on
her heel and sashayed from his office. He pictured her luscious derrière
limned by her beige knit dress, and thought he might like to remove her panties
himself, at least the first time, like unwrapping a present.
He next recalled that flash of the
white satiny 'V' as she had sat down and crossed her legs and he imagined the
delectable treasure that satin concealed. He speculated what color hair she had
on her little mound—would it be blonde or a light mousy brown? Kinky or gently
waved? Whatever the color or texture, he hoped that she shaved it over her
labia in the fashion of liberated college women—liberated, that is, from the
interference of any hair whatsoever on their most sensitive skin, for the
professor found girls to be far more responsive when properly shaved.
He glanced at his watch—five to
six—just a little more than two and a half hours and he was reasonably certain
he would not have to speculate much longer on questions of what Deborah
Vandermeer's panties concealed, as he would shortly be in possession of the
actual facts.
Entering Number 438 Riverside Drive,
he noted with approval a new and expensive floral display in the elegant lobby.
Summoning the elevator by pressing the button with the tip of his umbrella, he
ascended to the sixth floor and entered his apartment. Depositing his umbrella,
briefcase and tan kidskin gloves on the stand in the foyer and carefully
hanging his overcoat in the entryway closet, he walked down the hall to his
bedroom, already pulling off his bow tie. He showered, shaved for the second
time that day and hung out his best gray Worsted suit—the one with the
widely-spaced wine-colored pinstripes—on the clotheshorse in his dressing room.
He put on a fancy dress shirt with French cuffs, closing them with cufflinks of
sterling. He tied on a plum velvet bow and donned the elegant suit, expertly
shooting his cuffs. Finally, he slipped into a new pair of black Bally shoes
that his shoemaker had shipped over from London earlier in the week.
He left his apartment and retraced
his steps until he came to his favorite Vietnamese restaurant, the Nouveau
Saigon, on Broadway—expensive, elegant and not frequented by students (heavens
forfend!) because of its prices, and whose waiters all wore white gloves. Tran,
the headwaiter, conducted him to his particular table and, snapping his fingers
twice, caused the professor's usual Thursday before-dinner apéritif to
materialize—a white Dubonnet-and-tonic with an ever-so-thin wedge of lime and
only one cube of ice, if you please.
They exchanged empty pleasantries
for a minute or two, then Tran cocked his head and smiled the ingratiating
smile of a headwaiter. He clasped his hands together at chest level, bowed his
head briefly then glanced inquiringly at the professor, who murmured, "The
usual," signifying that Tran was to lay on whatever dishes the Thursday
chef excelled in—the professor disdained menus in restaurants, preferring an
element of culinary surprise. His lavish tipping habits guaranteed him the
finest dining—always.
After a leisurely dinner, he
strolled back to his place and settled into his library to review his daily
electronic correspondence from all over the world, most of it erudite and
scholarly. This evening there was an unusually large number of messages; he had
barely gotten halfway through them when the door buzzer sounded. He glanced
down at a screen in the little console set into his desk, saw the image of
Deborah Vandermeer in profile, staring up at the ceiling, and buzzed her in. He
shut down his computer, stopped off at his Chippendale highboy and poured out
two snifters of Armagnac '57, which he left on the shelf. By the time he
reached the apartment's entry door, Deborah Vandermeer had already knocked on
it lightly and he admitted her.
"Ah, Miss Vandermeer, I'm so
very glad you could make it. Please do come in," he crooned in his most
mellifluous tones, ushering her inside by her elbow then noiselessly closing
the door. "Here, let me take your wrap," he continued, as he helped
her out of her simple black trench coat. She switched her little dark blue
leather purse from one hand to the other as she extracted each arm from its
sleeve.
"Thank you," she murmured,
and peered about her into the rich interior of the apartment with apparently
innocent wonder. "This is certainly a lovely place y'have here, professor.
It must have set you back a fortune."
"Yes, it did, quite," he
responded, turning from the coat closet to face her, stunned to see how
beautiful she really was. Miss Vandermeer had worn no make-up at their earlier
encounter, but now she had on lipstick, eyeliner and just a hint of blush,
accentuating her naturally radiant cheeks. She wore small, dark blue enameled
disks, gold-rimmed, in the pierced lobes of her ears. He now saw that she never
closed her mouth fully, always leaving her lips slightly parted in apparently
perpetual breathless anticipation.
Standing so close to him, Deborah
Vandermeer seemed shorter than he recalled, and then he realized she was not
wearing heels, but flats. He briefly wondered why she had so incongruously
dressed down for the evening in this single respect, not suspecting, of course,
the real reason. She wore a pale yellow shantung dress with a full, mid-calf
skirt, which nicely set off the honey tones in her hair, and a dark green sash
round her tiny waist. The bodice was low-cut, but not tight, so one could
glance down the front of her dress at her magnificent cleavage, which was
nestled in a froth of lacy frills.
The professor glanced down, of
course, albeit briefly, then looked up to resume their interrupted conversation
by completing his response to Deborah Vandermeer's opening comment.
"But what's money for if not
for nice things?" he asked, flashing his best toothsome smile, which
resembled a grimace and remained on his face for a fraction of a second too
long.
"I wouldn't really know that,
professor, because I never have any. Money, I mean," she parried, and they
both laughed.
"Actually, I spend every cent
on my clothes," she continued. "D'you like my new dress?" She
unselfconsciously twirled herself before him so that her skirt flared,
revealing a glimpse of her beautiful legs. "It's real silk shantung. It's
from the '50's, and I got it last weekend at a little vintage shop on Amsterdam
Avenue. The rich old ladies in these big Riverside Drive apartments have just tons
of lovely old clothes, and usually in near perfect condition, too. A few weeks
ago I got a '20's beaded dress for only seven dollars!" She smiled and
batted her eyes with the same air of innocence as that afternoon.
"Yes, it's quite, ah, lovely,
really quite lovely," replied the professor, with feigned enthusiasm. He
had scant interest in the outer garments of women. The sooner women
could be gotten out of them, the better, was his motto. He saw the yellow
shantung dress as sort of an enemy to be defeated forthwith; the last thing he
wanted was to have attention drawn to it by making it a topic of conversation.
"Why don’t we go into the
living room," he suggested, and he guided her again by her elbow until
they had entered it.
The living room's west wall was all
window, floor to ceiling, and looked out over the nighttime Hudson. To the
north were the jeweled lights of the George Washington Bridge, draped over its
towers in parallel parabolas. Far to the south stood the wharves on the river,
brightly lighted by the harsh greenish-white glare of mercury vapor as
freighters were being unloaded. Directly to the west above the river's opposite
bank was the pitch-black void of the Palisades, prominent precisely because of
the absence of lights, a gaping black hole amidst the twinkling lights of New
Jersey. Strings of red tail lights and white headlights wove silently up and
down the West Side Highway below them, making a luminous trail in the otherwise
dark expanse of Riverside Park as it ran down to the Hudson. It was one of the
best views the upper west side of Manhattan had to offer.
Deborah Vandermeer set her purse
down on an occasional table, approached the window and stared out at the view.
"This is fantastic," she
murmured, and felt a hand on her shoulder.
The professor was working fast
tonight, but he rarely erred in his instincts and he did not err now. The girl
turned slowly around to find herself looking up into the professor's inquiring
eyes. She blinked several times and smiled seductively.
"Oh, I see," she said
slowly. "So there's no one else here and no one else is coming,
right?"
"Right, Miss Vandermeer. You're
a perceptive young woman. Perhaps it's next Thursday the others are
coming," Professor Covington replied, barely suppressing a smirk. "As
I get older, it seems my memory isn’t quite as good as it used to be. But
everything else is…"
Deborah Vandermeer's smile became
more seductive. "Oh, that's perfectly all right, Professor," she said
nonchalantly. "About no one else being here, I mean. It's much easier that
way, isn't it? We can get on with it tonight instead of putting it off. Maybe I
can't spell and my grammar isn't so hot, but I'm not stupid,
y'know." She gave her honey blonde hair a proud little toss and continued
to smile her agonizingly seductive smile, devoid of all previous innocence.
"I know what extra
credit means, all right," she continued, momentarily knitting her brows
and frowning as if she intended to give a formal speech on the subject,
"I've gotten plenty of it, too, since I arrived here two years ago. Ask
Dr. Grimshaw, the Dean of Admissions—he was the first—or Mr. Clemmons, your
senior T. A.—he was one of the last. How d'you think I ever got into this place
anyway? And into your course?
"Without all this extra credit
my grade-point average would be somewhere near the square root of two—and even I
know that's a pretty small number. But right now I'm carrying a three-point-oh,
and I hope to bring that up to at least three-point-two with your
course, Professor." So saying she reached both hands up high behind her
back and briskly unzipped her dress; as she did so she slipped off her shoes.
"I can't write worth a damn, but there are a few things I can do very
well."
Within seconds the girl stood before
Professor Covington clad in her slip, whose shimmering fabric outlined her
stunning figure to perfection and gave clear hints of her delectable curves and
hollows. In her stockinged feet Deborah Vandermeer stood about five-foot-four.
There was nothing to quibble about regarding her proportions: without boring
the reader with the usual litany of bust, waist and hip measurements (not to
mention cup size), suffice it to say that she was thoroughly voluptuous in
every respect, without any part being excessive—all was in pleasing harmony,
creating a whole that was insanely attractive. Not too many English majors had
bodies like this.
The professor could hardly believe
his good fortune. Why, he didn’t even have to waste any time chatting this one
up beforehand—asking about her background, her parents, her siblings, her taste
in music or movies or what she wanted to do with her life. He certainly
didn’t have to talk with her about Samuel Johnson's England, which was the very
last thing on his mind.
The girl didn’t waste a moment on
subtlety—she got right to the point, yet she did not come across as coarse or
aggressive. He thought her a refreshing change from the ultra-intellectual
English majors, the ones who occasionally required two or three hours of
high-brow verbal foreplay and arch innuendoes before they were ready to
consider shedding even a scrap of clothing.
"Well, then, Miss Vandermeer
—or may I call you, ah, Deborah? Since we understand one another so well at the
outset, I suggest we not beat around the bush and instead retire to the, ah,
bedroom," which they proceeded to do, the professor detouring by way of
the Chippendale highboy in the study to retrieve the two snifters of Armagnac,
one of which he handed to the girl.
"Just call me Debbi," she
replied as he steered her towards his inner sanctum, "I think you'll get
used to it sooner than you imagine." The professor wondered what the girl
meant, whiffing that faint sense of danger again. Did she suppose this was the
start of a prolonged liaison? If she did, well, she had another think coming.
But he did not demur and responded with a simple, "Very well, Debbi."
The professor sat on the bed sipping
his brandy, while Miss Vandermeer stood before him, snifter cradled in both
hands, raised to her face. She regarded him playfully through the distorting
lens of the snifter's amber contents.
"D'you want me to undress for
you or d'you want to undress me?" she teasingly asked, then took a
long sip of brandy, swallowed it slowly, lightly smacking her lips. She raised
her eyebrows interrogatively and ran her little pink tongue over her lower lip
to capture an errant droplet of liquor.
Now, the professor really didn’t
give a tinker's damn how Deborah Vandermeer was undressed, as long as
she was, one way or the other. His own preference was to remain in suit and bow
tie until the girl was down to bra and panties or else completely nude, as this
gave him a feeling of power—being fully clothed while his partner was most
vulnerably not. Using his fingers (he eschewed the use of the tongue for such
matters, reserving it only for the caressing of words), he would then work the
girl up to a fevered pitch of desire, and, when he judged the pitch to be
sufficiently frantic, he would retire to his dressing room to disrobe, then
return in an elegant Viyella dressing gown, slide her panties off her, slide
off his robe, slide into bed and slide—into her. If he played his cards right,
the girl would by then be sufficiently wet to allow a nearly frictionless insertion
of his enormous tool, which always evoked a gasp of pleasurable shock as he
plunged it home, plunged it in as high as the girl's navel or higher, if she
was petite.
But tonight the professor felt
particularly gallant, so he replied, "Whatever suits you, my dear."
Taking her cue, the girl quickly finished her brandy and put the empty snifter
down on the dresser. She then proceeded to perform an excruciatingly slow strip
tease, at last slithering out of her panties, which she picked back up off the
floor with her toes and expertly flung into a far corner of the bedroom with a
practiced flick of her shapely leg. Nude, she gracefully pirouetted several
times for the professor, who, raptly attentive, was silently taking in the
performance.
Now he drew in his breath at the
perfection of the girl's beauty. He saw that the hair on her mound was darkly
blonde, like ripe corn silk, and he beckoned her over for a closer inspection.
Like an apparition, she slowly glided closer and stood so near that he could
feel the heat of her body radiating onto his expectant, almost trembling hands.
Without boring the reader with the
usual details of sexual foreplay, allow me to cut to the chase. Deborah
Vandermeer, having been brought to the verge of climax by the professor's expert
digital attentions, soon appeared ready enough in his experienced judgment for
the real thing, so the professor retired to his dressing room, undressed
(taking his time to hang his suit, meticulously preserving the crease in his
trousers as he draped them over the rod of the hanger), returned to the bedroom
in his dressing gown, removed it and slipped into bed next to the palpitant
girl.
He entered her, from behind, with
his colossal organ, both of them on their sides spooned snugly together. Then
he took her from on top, then she was on all fours, and, when she was perfectly
frantic with pleasure, he allowed her to ride him as he lay on his back and
kept his hands pressed to her breasts as she slid herself up and down on his
shaft, neck extended, eyes lightly closed, her enraptured face turned up
towards the ceiling.
Presently they reached their
simultaneous climax. But something was terribly wrong! The professor could not
fail to notice that his pleasure was more intense than anything he had ever
before known. Instead of dying down right away it went on and on and actually
augmented and he was transported to some other plane of being and he knew that
something awful was going awry, like a flywheel spinning out of control and
about to break up, like a searing rent in the continuum of time and existence,
and his pleasure became exquisitely unbearable, almost painful, like drawing a
razorblade lightly over the web between one's fingers, and he felt a strong
rhythmic rippling in his belly and a soft fleshy implosion, a pulling asunder
of his hips, then a hot pulsating fullness surged upwards through his belly and
into his chest and his skin seemed on fire and his body suddenly seemed less
substantial and the bed began revolving end over end and spiraled down and down
into the depths of an endless black vortex, an astral nebula studded with
billions upon billions of frigid white stars and he heard himself scream in a
shrill, girlish register, then all became wet, warm, open and black as
consciousness fled and was extinguished like the flame of a guttering candle as
it expires with a last soft flare and its final quantum of smoke coils
languidly upwards impelled by hot gases no longer—coils languidly upwards
through the now-cool air, then all is dark and still.
In his last moments of consciousness
Professor Covington thought he was dying.
5.
Malcolm Weatherby
Covington did not, however, die. No, far from it: Operation Bow Tie did not
envision his death. The professor was, in fact, reborn, in a manner of
speaking. His lapse of consciousness had actually lasted only five minutes at
most, though it may as well have been an eternity.
He was summoned back
to consciousness by the slow withdrawal of something long, smooth, cylindrical
and half-soft, half-hard, a withdrawal from his belly—and against his
will—through an appallingly wet aperture between his legs, followed by a warm
trickle that ran slowly down the fissure between his buttocks and onto the bed
where it pooled in a classic wet spot—then cooled off and felt clammy.
His very first
thought was that he was sorry for the withdrawal of this alien but nonetheless
comforting cylindrical object, for its absence left him feeling bereft,
unsolaced and somehow imperfect. Such a disappointing emptiness made his eyes
snap open and he was shocked to see…to see his own face or, rather, the face of
his doppelganger leering down at him. The doppelganger was nude, hairy
and male, and had obviously just finished…well, had just finished servicing
him, that is, had just finished servicing Professor Covington, who was lying on
his back, in his own bed, his white feminine thighs immodestly spread.
Yes, that's right—his
white feminine thighs immodestly spread—for we are constrained to confess that
Professor Covington had become a woman.
If the doppleganger
looked like the professor, then the professor was now a perfect replica of
Deborah Vandermeer, right down to the two moles on his left breast just below
the nipple.
Professor Covington
lifted his pretty head and instantly felt the silky sway of his own long, honey
blonde hair on his shoulders as he shifted position. Looking downwards, he
found his view obstructed by a pair of magnificent breasts—his own—their
nipples still semi-erect and surrounded by broad, dusky red areolas three
inches across. So full were his breasts that to see further down he had to lift
his head considerably higher. He had to half sit up, in fact, and support
himself on his elbows to see over them and even then he had to crane his neck
forwards so far that the ends of his hair brushed his nipples.
He screamed a high,
girlish scream to see what was there—and what was not: a smooth womanbelly set
between broad female hips, a womanbelly ending below in a perfect mons
veneris sparsely covered with fine and wavy darkish blonde hair through
which he could easily see the still-gaping cleft in the dreadful void between
his legs—a vibrantly pink cleft glistening with the spent and copious
secretions of their recent lovemaking.
In shocked disbelief
he extended a hand downwards to confirm what his eyes refused to accept. O,
horrible! His fingers encountered the moist and tender contours of an aperture
all-too-familiar—not some other woman's this time, but his, for it was alive to
his touch. He—it—reciprocally felt his own probing and tentative fingers. There
was no doubt that he was touching his own…. his own…
No! It was
impossible! This was all an insane delusion. He couldn't have a woman's…. a
woman's …. No! He couldn't have one of those! His mind balked at the
word and his fingers at the reality. He jerked his hand away as if he had
touched a hot stove. Then he sucked in his breath to scream again, but the
Doppelganger brought a firm hand up over his mouth, stifling him. Professor
Covington struggled, but he hadn’t half his former strength. The hand remained
firmly in place.
"Ah, welcome
back, Professor," the doppelganger began in the professor's very own rich,
plummy voice, "Why did you scream? Didn't you like what you saw? Perhaps
you don't think it's real? Here, why don't you feel it again?" He forcibly
pulled down the professor's petite hand and pressed it firmly against his new
sex, pushing the transmute's fingers inside. "Tell me: does it feel real
enough now?" he asked, letting go of the professor's hand, which this
time remained where the doppelganger had placed it, fingers still hidden from
view.
Unable to utter a
word, Professor Covington's eyes showed white above, just as the eyes of a
young mare show white when she is put out to stud for the very first time and
she sees the stallion released into her paddock and he snorts through his
dilated nostrils and rears, pawing the air with his hooves. Even so the
professor's eyes showed white and darted wildly about, focussing on everything
and on nothing. He struggled a few moments before the insistent pressure of the
doppelganger's hand over his mouth forced his head back down onto the pillow.
He bit the hand and instantly felt the sharp thwack of the doppelganger's other
as it slapped his cheek smartly. His big, blue eyes overflowed with stinging
tears and he soundlessly sobbed.
"Listen to me,
Professor Covington," resumed the incubus. "Listen carefully. Your
new brain might have some difficulty understanding this, but just listen
anyway.
"You thought I
was Deborah Vandermeer. You thought I was just another pretty co-ed letting you
screw her in exchange for a grade, but I'm not Deborah Vandermeer: You're
Deborah Vandermeer. I'm a witch, a Certified Witch. I was born in Anatolia in
the year 7 and have lived as so many people in so many centuries and in so many
countries that I cannot begin to recall them all. You have just undergone what
we call, in our trade jargon, a, ah, body conversion. This must be my
umpteenth—there's not too much of a challenge in it any more. For me, that is.
As for you, Professor, you'll have to judge for yourself what sort of challenge
it turns out to be. You're going to have lots of time to find out."
Professor Covington
again struggled violently against the doppelganger's restraint, as ineffectually
as before. His eyes seemed to bulge from his pretty head.
"Save your
strength, Professor. Struggling won't change the facts—you're a twenty-two-year
old woman now, and there's not a thing you can do about it. But you're entitled
to an, ah, explanation, at least. We know all about you, you see. By 'we' I
mean the Feminist High Command. We've been watching you for quite some time. I
was hired more than two years ago to bring you precisely to where you find
yourself at this very moment—a young pretty college girl, on her back, having
just been, ah, fucked by her lecherous professor for the sake of a grade."
Professor Covington
was having difficulty enough coming to terms with his sudden transformation,
and so could barely absorb a word of what was being said. He had no choice but
to listen, however, so the witch obligingly continued.
"Our sources
report that you seduced a total of one thousand and two women from 1975 until
the present, not counting me. So that makes one thousand and three. You had sex
with many of these women more than one time. You miraculously managed to get
only sixteen of them pregnant and one of those committed suicide following her
abortion. We think that's a pretty sorry record, professor. A record that
demands a fitting punishment.
"So here's the,
ah, deal: you'll remain Deborah Vandermeer until you've slept with a thousand
and three different men and see how you like it. We think that's a
generous offer.
"As soon as
you've racked up the requisite total, you can change back—if you still want to
and if you still can, because, if you become, ah, pregnant, you see,
you'll remain Deborah Vandermeer forever. Of course, the more you sleep around,
the sooner you'll get back to being yourself, but the more you sleep around,
the greater the chances you'll get knocked up. You'll have to be very
careful."
The doppelganger
paused for a sign that the professor was following this line of reasoning.
Professor Covington's large and frightened blue eyes were unblinkingly fixed on
the doppleganger's, indicating complete comprehension.
"And while
you're working off your sentence on your back," the doppelganger went on,
"I'll be the professor and I'll take care of your career.
You'd better not leave me in charge too long—I'm liable to ruin your
precious, ah, reputation, so you'd better get cracking. Do the math: if you
sleep with someone different every night, you'll be done in a little under
three years, or even sooner if you work extra shifts on the weekends."
The doppelganger
paused again to let this latest twist percolate into the professor's brain for
a few moments. He wasn't quite sure the professor was completely on board, but
he resumed just the same.
"Now, I'll take
my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream. And don’t bite me again.
Do you promise?"
The doppelganger
awaited another sign from the professor, who nodded his pretty head
affirmatively. The doppelganger removed his hand.
The professor began
to sputter and fume. "You… you… you can't do this to me," he
squeaked in Deborah Vandermeer's light contralto, "You…you'll never get
away with it!"
"Oh, won't I?
Are you going to turn me in as an imposter? Or as a seducer of students? Even
if someone believed you, you would only be hurting yourself, don’t you
see? And you don't suppose you can go on being a professor of English as
Deborah Vandermeer, now, do you? You'll always remember who and what you were
(that's part of the punishment), but in an hour or two you won't know a damned
thing about 18th century English literature anymore—you've probably
forgotten most of it already. Here, let me show you: name me Dr. Johnson's
biographer. Everyone knows that. Go ahead, tell me who it is."
The incubus sat back,
folded his arms and waited. The professor looked up at the ceiling and thought
as hard as he could, which, as you might expect, was not terribly hard.
"Dr. Johnson….
um, is he the one who invented baby powder? Why would he have a
biographer?" asked the professor, looking genuinely perplexed, his eyes
wide with innocent simplicity.
"Wrong Johnson,
Professor. The answer is Boswell, whose name you don’t even recognize. You see,
Professor, you have Deborah Vandermeer's mind now, not just her body. Try
writing the simplest paragraph—see how you spell and what your syntax is like.
You can’t write your way out of a paper bag any more. And when you sign your
name, it's going to come out 'Debbi Vandermeer,' with a little smiley face over
the 'i,' because that's who you really are now. And you're becoming more
like her by the minute."
The professor
returned a blank look, so the doppelganger rephrased his question:
"Do you have any
idea what I'm talking about?"
The professor bit his
lower lip and, knitting his delicate eyebrows, pursing his lips and nodding his
head in a series of quick, little jerks, answered, "Um, I think so!
I'm you and you're me, or something like that."
"Good girl,
Professor!" exclaimed the doppelganger. "You're a clever little
thing!"
The professor's
pretty face registered as much consternation as it was capable of showing,
which is to say, not very much. Then his expression became pained; he shifted
his legs uncomfortably and also shifted the subject.
"I have to
pee," he said, in a small, rather petulant voice, "But I'm not sure I
know how."
The doppelganger
laughed. "Sure you do, honey," he said. "The bathroom's in the
same place as always. You just have to remember to sit down, that's all. Don’t
worry, professor, you really do know how. Go ahead, give it a try. It's
easier than you think. Then take a good look at yourself in the mirror. But
don't stay in there too long. Hurry back: we have other important business to
settle. I'll give you five minutes—he glanced at his Rolex. "Any longer
than that and I'll come and get you. You can lock the door if it'll make you
feel any better, but locks don’t stop me."
Impelled by an
inexorable call of nature, the professor arose lightly from the bed, all five
feet four inches of him. He urgently minced off to the bathroom, his hips
swaying nicely and his full, unrestrained breasts swinging in time to his
surprisingly graceful feminine gait. Less than halfway across the room he
hesitated, stopped, looked down and gasped, for the flow of secretions had
begun trickling down the insides of his milky white thighs. Placing a tiny hand
between his legs and blushing intensely, he entered the bathroom and closed the
door behind him, not locking it.
6.
Once inside his
bathroom, Professor Covington made straight for the toilet and promptly sat
down, only to pop back right up like a jack-in-the-box the instant he felt the
cold porcelain rim of the bowl against his broad bottom. Flustered, he lowered
the seat and sat down again, clasping his hands tightly between his knees. The
doppelganger was right—he did know how to go, though the abrupt, high
pitched sound of his feminine rill startled him.
He carefully wiped
himself, duly impressed by the exquisitely delicate softness of his new
tissues, then arose and approached the washbasin, wetted one of his monogrammed
washcloths with warm water, and, stretching it over two of his tapered little
fingers, squatted slightly and carefully cleaned himself out. He needed to
rinse and wring out the washcloth several times before he had absorbed all the
sticky fluids remaining inside him. The thought of what he was actually doing
revolted him—for he was by nature quite a fastidious fellow—but he did it
anyway and he did it efficiently, too, not roughly and without hurting himself
with his long fingernails.
His intimate
ablutions complete, only then did he turn to the full-length mirror on the back
of the door to regard himself—with utter and open-mouthed awe. Yes, Deborah
Vandermeer was every bit as gorgeous as he had remembered seeing her when she
first stepped out of her panties a hundred years ago (or so it seemed). As he
turned before the mirror—oh, no! it was really true! he saw his
reflection turn, too!—he had no doubt whatever that he and Deborah Vandermeer
were now one and the same.
We have already
described Deborah Vandermeer's attractions in some detail, hence we need not do
so again as the professor reaffirmed them for himself in the mirror, except to
note that he appeared mesmerized by the blunt-edged cleft which began at his
womanmound and descended an inch or so before vanishing between his thighs. It
was plainly visible through the blonde hair of his thatch and he could not tear
his incredulous gaze from this stark evidence of his penetrability.
Though alone and
unobserved, he flushed a deep shade of crimson when the realization finally
struck him that he was shaved precisely to his own specifications. His hand
shot downwards for tactile verification. Oh! How smooth and soft he was! His
labia felt softer by far than those of the girls he had remembered stroking,
not realizing that he was no softer than any other girl. It was simply that he
had never touched girlflesh with feminine fingers before.
He was not, of
course, unmindful of the delectable thrill his light touch induced, but he was
afraid of the doppelganger and remembered his admonition to return without too
much delay, so he proceeded apace with his hasty inspection. He placed two
fingers of one hand on his labia and gingerly spread them, while at the same
time squatting down in a most unladylike way to induce them to part, which they
did, revealing his pink penetralia, its folds glistening as he spread his labia
further.
At this sight his jaw
dropped. He shook his head slowly in wordless denial and gasped, then squealed
as he removed his fingers and hurriedly straightened up—the soft pad of his
index finger had inadvertently grazed the little bud at the commissure of his
inner lips—the diminutive anlage of what he no longer possessed—and he could
not deny that it felt delicious. So delicious, in fact, that, despite the
doppelganger's admonition, he tentatively touched himself there again, and then
several times more for good measure —no longer tentatively but already with
passably decent finesse.
He next cupped and
hefted his breasts; they felt huge in his little hands. He was astonished at
their weight and consistency and how they jiggled and settled when he abruptly
released them. He was about to repeat this maneuver when he heard the
doppelganger clear his throat—no doubt a reminder that his presence was
required in the bedroom. So the professor reluctantly curtailed his inspection
and hurried back to the bedroom, the movement of the cool air over his delicate
skin causing it to break out in gooseflesh.
The doppelganger was
semi-recumbent on the bed, clad in Professor Covington's Viyella dressing gown.
He had his half-glasses on and was reading a manuscript. He appeared completely
absorbed and did not even glance up. The professor stood for a moment at the
foot of the bed and glared at him, feeling somehow slighted and thinking he
should be indignant, but he couldn’t think of anything to say besides,
"I'm cold now," which the doppelganger appeared not to hear, so he
crept in under the covers, pulled them up almost over his head, lay on his
side, drew up his knees and began to shiver. He kept his back towards the
doppelganger.
After several minutes
of reading in silence the doppelganger sat straight up, removed his glasses and
turned his face in the professor's direction.
"I say,
Professor," he began, "this is a deucedly fascinating paper you're
writing. It looks like an editorial for a scholarly journal. Am I right? Shall
I read you a bit? I know you just love to hear your own writing read
aloud,." He glanced over at the slight form lying curled up under the
bedclothes beside him.
"I'm cold,"
whimpered the professor again, "I don't want to hear any editorial. I just
want to warm up." His teeth chattered audibly.
"Oh, is that
all?" replied the doppelganger, depositing the manuscript on the bed
table. "Well, let's warm you up then! I think I know a good way." The
doppelganger removed his robe, but the professor, his back turned and his head
buried under the covers, did not see him do it.
To his shocked
indignation, the curled-up professor felt the bedclothes drawn off him and a
hand—not his—slide between his legs from the rear and cup his new sex. His
whole body gave a twitch, and he turned his face around over his shoulder to
see the doppelganger only a few inches away, leering at him.
"No,
please…" protested the professor, squirming as if to escape. But the hand,
conforming to his love-mound and labia, cupped him firmly and held him in
place. He meant to protest again, but instead gave a little moan of pleasure as
the doppelganger's finger entered him and began to probe his sensitive tissues,
which almost instantly began to moisten again. "Oooohhh, that does feel
good," he moaned, drawing his knees further up until they were compressing
his breasts; he simultaneously thrust his shapely derrière towards the
doppelganger, granting him readier access. He simply could not help himself!
After too short a
time the hand was withdrawn and he felt the doppelganger nestle up next to him and
slide his huge member between his thighs from behind, not penetrating him yet,
but sliding it slowly forward along the length of his labia and over his
excruciatingly sensitive little bud, so far forward that its tip, and more,
protruded between his thighs in front and he, to his horror, found that he
actually grasped it, grasped it in his tiny hand. The professor was
astonished—and dismayed—to feel the full caliber of the organ, as he could not
quite close his little fingers completely around it.
Well, why, indeed
should he have been at all astonished or dismayed? Surely, he must have
been well acquainted with its length and circumference after all these years!
Ah, yes, he was, of course, but never quite from this…well, from this novel
perspective. So he was duly astonished to find just how enormous he really had
been. And he was dismayed because he felt so soft and delicate now—he feared
he'd be maimed taking something so large and so hard into himself, quite
overlooking the remarkable elasticity of his vagina, an elasticity which he was
not yet acquainted with but was very shortly to learn a lot more about.
The doppelganger drew
back, paused—forever, it seemed to the fearful professor—and this time, as he
slowly thrust forward, he entered the professor from behind, distending his
labia until they formed a perfect pink circle, then plunged it in as far as the
professor's female anatomy allowed, which is to say, exceedingly deep—to the
professor's breathtaking surprise.
How humiliating! How
divine! Professor Covington's big blue eyes opened wide as the doppelganger
wriggled his cock that final half inch into him. The professor felt his vaginal
musculature involuntarily grasp the huge shaft as if to pull it in even deeper.
He squealed in a mixture of outrage and pleasure.
The doppelganger
paused and inquired, "Did I hurt you? Do you want me to stop?"
Disappointment
clouded the professor's pretty features. To his astonishment —but not to the
doppelganger's—he heard his womanvoice start to plead, "Oh no please don’t
stop don't stop just do it!"
The doppelganger,
however, did indeed stop —and withdrew, but it was only to roll the professor
over onto his back. The professor's thighs fell willingly open as the
doppelganger mounted and entered him, and his heels involuntarily rose a foot
or two into the air. The professor pushed the flat of one little hand, fingers
splayed, deep into his soft tummy, just below his navel, deep enough so that
his fingers could feel the doppelganger's tool moving in and out of him.
The professor began
to roll his hips in time to the doppelganger's thrusting. He was terminally
open and vast and wet, riding the crest of a delicious wave. He went suddenly
rigid for a moment, then his orgasm swept over and through him like hot surf.
"Unh! Unh! Unh! Unnnhhhh!" he grunted, his limbs flailing wildly
about, his breasts jouncing crazily. He was dimly aware of slow, rhythmic jets
of hot semen impinging on his cervix as the doppelganger simultaneously came.
7.
The professor lay
placidly on his back, no longer cold, except for the now-to-be-commonplace wet
spot under his shapely bottom, a spot upon which he would find himself
struggling to fall asleep for countless nights into the future. But the wet
spot did not concern him at the moment—eyes half-closed, he lay spent and
relaxed and content and his fine, glowing skin glistened with girlsweat. He
had, without question, enjoyed being ravished, and was now basking in feminine
afterglow.
Alas, the professor's
serenity was short-lived, for it was suddenly shattered when he remembered who
he really was and the awful sentence upon him. The hideous thought flashed
through his mind: "Only a thousand and two to go!" and he began to
weep freely, as much for the intense sexual release he had just now gone
through as for the impossible reality of his future, not to mention the
frightening prospect of pregnancy. O, how his tender womanheart froze when he
realized that he just now might have been impregnated! He wept quietly in self pity.
His tears, of course,
were one of the goals of Operation Bow Tie, for Professor Covington, though
incarcerated in the body, and controlled by the brain (and potent hormones) of
a voluptuous twenty-two-year old woman, and though bereft of his vast intellectual
powers, still had his male identity within, never to be fully annihilated,
merely to be thrust far into the background on many occasions, of which his
frantic lovemaking with the doppelganger had been only the first. No matter
that he had been transformed into a buxom and vapid female: he could never
forget what he had been and would be reminded of it many times each day, but
particularly after each of his mandatory couplings.
And that was the
perverse beauty of Professor Covington's punishment: he would be completely
captive to his female body and its irresistible impulses and would have to obey
and enjoy them, but in between his moments of sexual rapture, the essential
core of his psyche would remain male. As soon as he remembered his maleness, however
wistfully, he would be abruptly dragged off again, in one direction or another,
by the bittersweet female needs and desires that would utterly dominate him for
the term of his sentence.
The tension between
this new and indescribably wonderful sexual pleasure and the tyranny of his
subjugation to it would often bring him to tears in the future just as it had
brought him to tears even now, for being a passive receptacle to gratify male
lust was horribly repugnant to the professor, even as his female self craved
penetration.
To make matters
worse, his hormonal clock had already been set to Deborah Vandermeer's cycle:
in a week his breasts would become sore. He would suffer the emotional ups and
downs of his first premenstrual syndrome and be referred to by one and all as
'"that bitch." Then he would have cramps and bleed for five days.
He'd soon learn all the brands and absorbencies of tampons and pantiliners.
Like any girl, despite the best precautions, he'd still have to launder his
undies in the bathroom sink to get out the bloodstains. He'd learn not to wear
his best panties during his period. He'd endure every possible female
embarrassment and inconvenience. Even so, he would constantly pine to be
fucked.
It was really a
brutal sentence. The Feminist High Command was getting its money's worth.
These additional
indignities were still in the future, however. Lying on the clammy wet spot was
humiliation enough for the present, and Professor Covington wept bitterly as he
reflected upon his fate. His reflection was suddenly interrupted by the
doppelganger's poking him sharply in the ribs.
"Time to get up
and leave, Professor," he said. "It's way past eleven and pretty
young ladies shouldn’t be out on the streets alone late at night in Morningside
Heights—so close to, ah, Harlem. Naturally, I can't be seen walking you
back to the dorm. I'm afraid I've left you short of cash, so you can't take a
cab—you'll just have to walk home on your own.
"So go pick up
your clothes—don’t forget, your dress and shoes are in the living room and
you'll find your panties in the corner over there," he gestured with a
flip of his hand to where he, as Deborah Vandermeer, had flicked them during
her little introductory strip tease earlier in the evening. "And you'd
better, ah, clean yourself up again, too, or else you'll have a rather, ah,
soggy walk home, if you know what I mean. So, come on, it's getting
late, and I need to finish my correspondence. It's time to get moving,
Professor dear."
"What d'you
mean, 'leave'?" Professor Covington squeaked in protest. "I live
here!"
"Wrong again,
Professor. I live here. You live in one of the dorms, Pettigrew
Hall, room 1127, to be exact,. The room key's in your purse. Here, I've brought
it for you," he said, handing the professor his little dark blue leather
purse as if it were a grenade with the pin pulled. The doppelganger sat back
expectantly to enjoy what was about to transpire.
Instantly captivated
by the idea that he now had a purse, Professor Covington forgot about who lived
where. He accepted his purse, snapped it open and began rummaging through its
contents, pulling out one item after another and holding each up in scrutiny—a
lipstick, a small hairbrush, a compact, a calculator, a small bottle of nail
polish, a door key bearing the stamped number '1127.' Then his hand came out
clutching several little O.B. tampons in cellophane wrappers. He gazed
quizzically at them, opened his pretty mouth and was about to ask what they
were for when the doppelganger, anticipating his question, said, "Those
are, ah, tampons professor, the kind modern girls favor. Put them back—you
won’t need them for about a week, if memory serves. Or the pantiliners in the
side pocket."
The professor was
aghast at the thought that he would start menstruating in the not-too-distant
future. He blanched, dropped the tampons back into his purse as if they were
scorching his fingers, and resumed his rummaging, while the doppelganger
proceeded.
"Oh, that's your
driver's license, but, of course, you don’t have a car. In fact, Professor, you
don't have much of anything except your good looks. Ah, you've found
your checkbook, I see."
The professor had
already opened it and was studying its slovenly entries with a genuinely blank
expression on his face as if he had never seen a column of numbers before.
"That running
balance is wrong, so don't get your hopes up."
The professor hadn't
gotten any hopes up at all, not having comprehended the purpose of the little
ledger in the first place—it's the checks that count, right? Besides,
the matter of money had already evaporated from his one-channel mind, for he
had discovered a half-consumed roll of Life Savers which fully absorbed his
attention. With an enameled fingernail he pried off the green one at the end of
the roll and popped it into his mouth. Then he turned to the doppelganger and
smiled Deborah Vandermeer's perfectly innocent and crazily seductive smile.
"Mmmm! These are
good!" he declared, "D'you want one? The next one's a red!" And
he proffered the roll.
The doppelganger held
up his hand in negation and shook his head, then he smiled too, but
indulgently, clearly pleased at the professor's rather charming vapidity. But
he needed to bring the professor's attention back to the subject of money, so
he resumed:
"After I left your
office at lunchtime, I took the liberty of electronically transferring the bulk
of Debbi Vandermeer's funds to your—I mean to my —checking account. Banks will let anyone
put money into anyone else's account, you know. So your balance is about
$100, maybe less: I probably wrote a few checks and forgot to enter them. I did
that a lot. I hope you know how to balance a checkbook (I certainly
didn't). You might give the bank a ring in the morning to see how much is
really left…
"By Monday or
Tuesday you'll receive a certified letter from the bursar informing you that
your tuition is overdue and because it'll be the third and final notice, the
letter will also regret to inform you that your, ah, career as a Morningside
College co-ed is over and that you'll have to turn in your key and vacate your
room by the end of the week. Don’t count on getting back your security deposit,
either: I left a hot iron on the dresser last week and scorched it rather
badly, so I'm afraid you'll be charged the cost of a new one. And I was fined
fifty dollars for having an iron upstairs in the first place—it's against dorm
rules, you know. The fine comes out of your deposit, too. And…"
The professor
evidently understood the gravity of his predicament clearly enough, for dismay
clouded his pretty features. He interrupted the cataloging of his misfortunes,
and stammered, "B…b…but what am I going to do? Where am I going to live?
Where am I going to get money to live on?"
The doppelganger
chuckled and replied, "Well, Professor, that's hardly my problem
now. But even girls without brains can always find a way to, ah, earn a
living, so long as they're pretty and willing, and you, my dear, are an
absolute, ah, knockout, as you are doubtless aware."
Puzzlement replaced
dismay on Professor Covington's lovely face—he really had no idea at all what
sort of work the doppelganger could possibly be referring to. He thought for a
few seconds, then his large eyes grew wider. He drew in his breath and blushed
beet red as the realization of what the doppelganger was suggesting finally
dawned on him. He felt like slapping the doppelganger's face, but he didn’t
dare.
"No!" he
squealed, horrified, "I know what you're thinking. I'll never do that!
I'd rather die!"
"That's what
they all say at first, every last one of them, but before they know it,
they're, ah, marketing their wares on a regular basis, cash only, please (never
take a check, Professor). You're far too good looking to be a streetwalker—your
roommate Miss Kim, who is earning pin money by, ah, working a few evenings a
month, has excellent connections with a number of upscale midtown agencies that
would be delighted to list you, I'm certain. Gotham Escort might be a good
place to start, but they'll insist on sending you for an exam before taking you
on: they want all their girls to be, ah, healthy. And it's at your cost, so
you'll need your $100."
The doppelganger
paused long enough for the professor to picture himself on an examination
table, feet up in stirrups, the menacing speculum poised for insertion. When
the predictable crimson flush finally came (it was not instantaneous), the
doppelganger smiled again. This was going far better than he had
anticipated. The High Command would doubtless cheer and break open champagne
when they heard all the details—he could almost hear the clinking together of
glasses. Why, there might even be a fat bonus in the offing, for this job
really was a masterpiece of the first magnitude!
Bringing himself back
to the present, the doppelganger resumed:
"You'll get to
see some of the finest hotel rooms in Manhattan, by the way. You'll, ah, meet
lots of interesting men. And you'll possibly get presents, too, like jewelry
and fur coats—if you establish a good reputation and a high-class clientele,
that is. You might even wangle a marriage proposal out of it. That sort of
thing does happen, you know. Of course, a marriage proposal would, ah,
complicate your future enormously."
"I wouldn't have
to be out on the street, you really don't think?" Professor Covington
interrupted, frowning with intense concentration, finger against his cheek,
pursing his lips and raising his eyes towards the ceiling as he weighed the
practicality of the doppelganger's suggestion. "It'd be just the best
hotels? And somebody'd actually give me a mink coat, d'you think?" His
blue eyes began to sparkle at the prospect. "Are you sure?"
"Guaranteed,
Professor, though a looker like you really ought to hold out for sable. Just
please your clients, keep away from drugs, don't, under any
circumstances, get, ah, pregnant and you'll be right back here running the show
in a little less than three years. Now come on! Get your pretty little
ass in gear! It's late."
Cocking his head and
evidently considering his options as seriously as he was now capable of, the
professor again arose from the bed, one hand protectively over his cleft to
prevent any new, embarrassing leakage, and glided off to the bathroom to clean
himself up. He shortly emerged with a bath towel wrapped about himself, tucked
into his cleavage, and scurried around the apartment retrieving his garments,
which he brought back into the bedroom.
The doppelganger, in
the professor's best dressing gown again, reclined on the bed, an amused expression
on his face, his hands clasped behind his head. He watched as the professor
slipped into his panties and pulled them up snugly, releasing the delicate
waistband (a tiny flat satin bow at its center) with a crisp little snap. The
professor skillfully wriggled into and fastened his bra without pinching his
breasts and put on and straightened his garter belt. Sitting on the edge of the
bed and extending each leg in succession, toes high in the air, the professor
smoothly rolled on his nylons, fastened the front garter tabs, stood, and,
twisting his head first over one shoulder, then over the other, secured the
rear ones. Next he put slip and dress on over his head, shimmying a bit to get
them to settle about himself and automatically smoothed down his yellow dress
with the palms of his hands. He tied his dark green sash about his tiny waist.
The moment he slipped
on his shoes Professor Covington understood why Deborah Vandermeer had arrived
in flats: it was an act of kindness (alas, the only one!), because, he
realized, he would never have been able to make it back to the dorm in the
heels she'd been wearing when she'd come to his office.
Now fully dressed, he
tossed his hair in a surprisingly habitual motion, briskly carried his purse
into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later with hair competently
brushed and clothing perfectly straight, but he had wisely deferred trying to
repair his wrecked make-up—with surprisingly good judgement, he had simply
removed it entirely. Neither the absence of make-up nor his mournful expression
diminished the stunning beauty of his face, however.
For the first time
the doppelganger looked surprised—despite months of meticulous planning, this
promising option had been overlooked. Stroking his chin, he considered the professor's
suggestion, then replied:
"That's actually
not a bad idea, Professor, except for the tuna-noodle casserole bit. But you'd
have to do a maid's work and the laundry and ironing, too, of course (don't
forget, I like my underlinen and socks ironed), there'd be no pay in it at all,
and you would have to be, ah, available whenever I wanted you, which, knowing
your, ah, my sexual appetites, might be pretty darn often."
The professor lifted
his face, which had at last assumed a minimally hopeful expression.
"But, anyway,
you can't stay here tonight," the doppelganger continued. "You have
to go back to your dorm—your things are there anyway—and I'll think about it.
No promises. Don't call me—I'll call you."
The professor cast
his face downwards again, nodded dully and offered no objection, saying merely,
"All right then. I guess I'm ready. D'you suppose I can have my coat
now?" He picked up his little blue leather purse from the bed.
The doppelganger
stood and accompanied the professor to the front door of his apartment.
Retrieving his black trench coat from the foyer closet, he helped him into it.
The professor buttoned it up, not even noticing that the buttons were the wrong
way around. Tears glistened in his beautiful blue eyes.
The doppelganger
opened the door for him, handed him his purse, which he had taken from him so
he could get into his coat, and patiently awaited his departure, beaming
avuncularly.
The professor
hesitated for fully a minute. "I guess this is good-bye," he finally
murmured, choking back a sob. He turned and walked off down the hallway—no,
make that undulated—towards the elevator, his little dark blue leather purse
slung over his shoulder and bouncing softly off his hip as he walked.
The doppelganger
waited until the elevator had gone, then he closed the door and headed into his
study for another snifter of brandy. The image of Phoebe Phipp's pale and
pantiless rump rose up before him and he smiled. Perhaps he could squeeze in
Miss Phipps for Friday lunchtimes as well: his Fridays had been free for quite
a while now.
While the professor,
snug in his study, imagined Miss Phipps' intimate treasures and booted up his
computer, Debbi Vandermeer, outside in the cold on Riverside Drive, clutched
her trench coat tightly about her throat against the icy December wind blowing
in off the Hudson. Turning the corner onto 112th Street, she began
to trudge slowly uphill in her flat-heeled shoes, towards Morningside Heights
and towards her life as a girl.
Her life as a girl!
On the one hand, she dreaded the prospect, but, on the other, she reflected, as
a cold gust of wind caught at her legs and swirled up under her dress, a long
sable coat (or even a mink) would be absolutely divine and the mere
contemplation of it warded off the chill. Debbi Vandermeer clutched her coat
even more tightly about herself, then she paused, recalling the cruelty of her
sentence.
"Oh, my
God," she thought, standing stock still. "One thousand and
two!" She hadn’t the least idea how she would manage, but, then
again, ideas were no longer her strong point so she decided not to worry too
much about it. She'd start first thing in the morning, she'd think of something—and she continued up the hill, the
lights of the city shimmering through a veil of self-pitying tears.
-The End-
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