I’ve always liked this extended scene

This is parts 19 - 21 of “Tami Beethoven”, told through the eyes of Professor Vanessa Congi (whose name, like several in these stories, is taken from the works of F.E. Campbell, whom I owe a great debt to). In “Tami Beethoven”, Tami has become used to permanent nudity and is constantly pursued by a small army of “TL’s”(Tami Lickers).

   “Sorry to interrupt your work, Tami,” said Assistant Dean for Student Affairs Vanessa Congi.

        “That’s -- uh -- O.K.  I’m -- uh -- almost done anyway.”

        “They put you through your paces, don’t they?” said Dean Congi’s administrative assistant, a quite overweight forty-year-old black woman named Barbara Barlow with a cute face.

        Tami smiled and shrugged.  The two watching women huddled in their heavy coats, hats and scarves on this near freezing, blustery day.  Almost all the snow had melted but spring had not yet brought flowers to the bleak campus.  The biting wind made them shiver despite their coverings.

        And wondered once again how Tami Smithers, her bare body hard and tight and reddened from the cold, could stand it.  She was on the last few minutes of this morning’s grounds crew shift, putting down pebbles for a new pathway across the lawn in front of the Student Union.  She had rolled the full wheelbarrow halfway across campus, which is how Vanessa first saw her from afar, along that long windy path from the physical plant building to San Beueno Hall, and then onto the busy part of campus, a different creature from the many heavily clothed students with backpacks battling the wind on the way to class.

        Now, having dumped the wheelbarrow’s contents next to a tree, she had climbed onto the little mountain of pebbles and was pushing it down flat with her tough bare feet.  An overhead branch came in handy; she reached up to it and pushed up with both hands, increasing the force she could exert downward.  The two administrators watched the cold-tightened breasts jiggling in the wind, rebounding with her motions, the brown nipples seeming as hard as the pebbles, and the concave stomach down below that they both secretly envied (though for Barbara Barlow it was pretty much an impossible dream).  The dusty feet worked the pebbles with what looked like a practiced motion, first pushing down with the heels, then scattering the pebbles with spread toes that were also reddened from the cold.

        Looking at the perfect feet, Vanessa thought: I wish I had feet like that.  Or a body like that.  And she knew she was not alone.  Almost every woman on campus under the age of 50 had similar thoughts.  And felt a little guilty about it, if they knew the price Tami had paid for that body.

        Others stopped and watched the laboring naked girl, then went on with their business.

        Dean Congi fastened her eyes on the pubic hair ruffling in the wind.  Then she wondered how it must feel to have icy wind on one’s pubic lips.  She decided she must make some kind of comment.  “I can’t get over how your hair color matches your labia exactly.  It really looks very nice.”

        Tami, bent arms pushing up against the branch, smiled and then laughed as she worked, her breasts and tummy quaking with each chuckle.  “You’re about -- uh -- the tenth person who’s told me that.  Honest, it was -- just a coincidence.  I didn’t know I was such a -- uhh! -- fashion plate.”

        Congi and Barlow thought about laughing but then stopped themselves.

        Homer Winant rolled by.  “Hello, Homer,” Vanessa Congi said.  Everyone called him Homer so calling him “Mr. Winant” or even “Dean Winant” would sound too offputting.  But her hellos to Homer were always a little forced.

        He rolled up to join the two women in watching the laboring nude.

        “Isn’t this a bit rough on a day like this?” Barbara Barlow said, clenching her gloved hands against the cold.  “Maybe you can get Omar to ease up on her.” Omar had Homer’s old job as grounds crew chief.

        “It’s -- O.K.,” Tami said, pushing one foot far forward to expand the area of pebbles.

        “Nonsense,” Homer agreed.  “This girl is the best crew worker we ever had.  She’s smart, she listends to you, never slacks off, and she’s strong as an ox.  Get a look at her butt cheeks, her muscles are like iron.” Of course, everyone already knew that.  “She should be in the crew worker Hall of Fame.”

        Vanessa Congi didn’t know what to think about a comment like that.  Should she be offended? Tami as a beast of burden.  But he did say she was smart.  Tami just smiled.  Then Homer wheeled off.

        The old clock tower over at Old Main struck twelve just as the pebbles appeared have gotten fully spread out into a flat rectangle.

        “There, I’m finished,” Tami said, bringing her arms down from the branch and wiping her hands, then bending down to scuff the dust off her feet and a stray pebble from between her toes.  She parked the wheelbarrow upright against the tree.  “I can get that later.”

        “Like Vanessa said, let’s lunch,” Barbara Barlow said.

        Fifteen minutes later the three women were sitting in the cafe on the second floor of the Union.  Barbara Barlow was a considerable eater but had to take second place to Tami, who had devoured a plate of spaghetti and was working on a double helping of mashed potatoes.  Tami sat at the end of the table, her leg way up, her foot up on the top of the little wall behind them.

        She was spreading her charms for the benefit of Simon, an art student who sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor and did a quick sketch in pencil.  Vanessa watched Simon, a good kid with a lot of talent, who seemed to be doing a good rendition of Tami’s vulva.  Usually he liked to sketch her anus.  Tami never charged for posing.  So long as she had a few minutes, she would pose for any of the many art students who asked.

        The three women “chewed the fat” for a few minutes.  Then Simon left with abundant thanks and Vanessa felt free to approach the subject on her mind.

        “Tami, did you think of a theme for your valedictorian speech?”

        Tami laughed.  “I keep telling you, don’t remind me!” She hated to be reminded that she had, by a good margin, the highest GPA in her class.  “It’s like telling a pitcher that he’s got a no-hitter going.  It’s a jinx.  .  .” She looked up at her foot, still up on the wall despite Simon leaving, and wiggled her still-dusty toes.  Then took a sip of soda.  “I just know I’ll fail a class now.  Or something will happen.  I’ll screw up somehow and get suspended.”

        “Girl, you are talking crazy,” Barbara Barlow said.

        “Seriously, Tami,” Vanessa said, “graduation’s only two and a half months away.  What are your plans?”

        “Well, Rod is still on that project up near Burlington, he’s not sure when he’ll finish.  Professor Hamid told me I could be his grad assistant.”

        “What, a Master’s in Mathematics?”

        “Yes, N-Dimensional.”

        Their conversation was interrupted by Trent and Cyrus who passed by on the way to taking another table.  Vanessa and Barbara were quick to say hi to Trent, a tall, melancholy blonde-haired kid who was the campus’s only “9/11 widow”, so to speak.  Over the past year he had partly gotten out of his funk after losing Jeffrey, at least well enough to hook up with Cyrus, an even taller African-American kid with a shaved head and goatee.

        And now Georgene passed by, bookbag slung over her shoulder, cell phone parked in her hand.  “Hey Tam, whatcha doing later?”

        Tami blushed into her soda and said, “I’ve got Modern Dance II, then I’ll be around.”

        “O.K.”

        After she too had left, Vanessa said, “A master’s program in just math doesn’t seem like enough to occupy your time.”

        Tami brought her foot down and crossed her legs.  Scratched a nipple.  “Well, Mr. Girardo has asked me to .  .  .  um .  .  .”

        Vanessa already knew but she pretended not to.  “To what?”

        “Enter a fashion competition.  I’m flattered but I’m not a fashion major.  It should go to someone else.”

        Vanessa said, “You mean the International? Tami, congratulations!” She smiled broadly.  “That’s great!”

        “What do you think I should do?”

        “You should go for it!”

        Tami remained noncommittal.  Not much else was said through dessert (Barbara: butterscotch sundae; Tami: cheesecake and fruit plate; Vanessa: decaf).

        Barbara had to go back to the office but Vanessa walked with Tami downstairs, to Tami’s locker with the combination lock.  It impressed Vanessa that Tami wanted to go unladen as much as possible, going through the world with nothing but her bare body.  “When it’s just me I feel like I can tackle anything,” is how she once put it.  Which must have been true, on that incredible cross-country journey.  But now apparently she needed her bookbag.

        In the Union foyer, Tami waited patiently while Vanessa put on her coat and gloves.  Then Vanessa braced herself for the oncoming wind.  Striding across the bleak concrete, she looked down at her boots clip-clopping next to Tami’s bare feet.  Tami’s feet never seemed to get dirty.

        Vanessa looked up into the wind and found herself yawning.  “I should have had a coffee.  Maybe I’ll get one after my next appointment.”

        “Get me one too,” Tami said.  “If you can, please.”

        “Sure.  What’s next for you?”

        “Modern Dance, then I do my own exercises.  I’ll be at Studio T afterward.”

        “That’ll work out perfect.  I should be done with my thing in an hour and a half.”

        “See you,” Tami said as she was about to walk into the dance building.  She turned to see Vanessa looking at her.  Then, obviously remembering their last hello on Main Street, she opened her legs a bit and spread her labia with her thumbs, holding the strap of the bookbag back with her right shoulder.  “Bye bye!” she said with a smile, making her clit jump twice.

        Vanessa smiled and watched her go in.  She stood there to ponder how at ease Tami was with her body.  That horrible freshman year, during which the girl’s modesty was so sorely tested, all that body consciousness had been obliterated, wiped out.  Surely Vanessa could wish such an ordeal on no one.  But the end result .  .  .  !

        Five minutes later, in the dance building, Vanessa looked in through the little window to Studio K and watched Tami in her Modern Dance class.  The barefoot students, two-thirds female, some in leotards, others in loose shirts and drawstring pants, all facing the big mirror, went through their coordinated warm-up steps, the naked girl on the end keeping pace with the others, distinguished only by her lack of clothing.

        Vanessa wondered what it would be like if all of them were naked.  In spite of everything, Tami had shown that being naked had its advantages.  In fact, a whole lot of them.  “Too many to list”, as she had put it once.

        Vanessa sighed and walked out the building to her appointment.  In an hour, she planned on returning, going to Studio T with two of those wonderful lattes they made at the Java Cafe on the other side of campus.

============

        Assistant Dean for Student Affairs Vanessa Congi, carefully carrying the two “grande” lattes, managed to open the rear door of the dance building with one gloved finger and started up the long corridor.  Studio W, Studio V .  .  .  She couldn’t remember the last time she had been through here.  As she looked into the little windows on the closed doors of the empty rooms, she noted that these studios at the end were a little smaller than the rest but were still fully equipped, with wall-length mirrors, all-around barres on the other three sides, and usually a piano.

        She looked into the window for Studio T, where Tami said she’d be, and saw no one.  But it was a little window and her view was mostly blocked.  Again using a gloved finger, she hooked onto the door latch and opened it and, looking down at the coffees, walked slowly into the room, her boots tacking onto the fine-paneled floor.  She told herself she was probably breaking two rules: bringing in food and wearing street shoes.  She passed a piano and what looked like a freestanding overhead beam apparatus, six feet high, like gymnasts swing from.

        She heard breathing from the corner and imagined Tami must be exerting herself.  But then that odor of --

        OH GOD!

        Tami was under attack! Pinned in the corner, hands stretched out on the barre, legs spread wide, wide apart, as Georgene and Spica hungrily sucked each nipple, someone -- it looked like Myra, from the Afro -- knelt in front and, hands around poor Tami’s butt cheeks, burrowed her face into the naked student’s crotch -- and another woman, cross-legged, her back tucked into the corner under the barre, was assaulting from behind.

        “Ohh -- ohh -- eeee -- G - godd -- ”

        Tami crested into orgasm as her eyes burst open in Vanessa’s face, in ecstacy, in embarrassment, in apology, in amusement -- it was hard to tell through Tami’s intense emotional storm but it seemed she was partly laughing at their predicament, the two of them, Vanessa and Tami --

        Vanessa stood there open-mouthed, the lattes in her hands.  The heavy clothes and boots of the attackers were a sharp contrast to Tami’s nakedness.  As Tami’s orgasm ran its course and the attackers continued unabated, it seemed like the four hungry mouths were sucking the life out of her.  Tami’s eyes closed only slightly.  She seemed to be trying to form words.  But then, amazingly, she went up to orgasm again!

        It was too intense to look at.  Vanessa turned and got the hell out of there.  Out in the hall, she heard the door close behind her and wondered what to do.  All her years of activism on sexual assault issues came back to her.  She had helped set up rape crisis centers at other colleges, had done awareness trainings here at Campbell - Frank.  She saw an actual assault once, when she was a student in Boston, late at night on campus, back in the 1970’s.  She had been lucky to find one of those police call boxes nearby and the attacker was arrested.

        Now what??! Should she call 911 on her cell? Or just go back in there and break it up?

        She caught her breath and her brain took over.  This was Tami and her friends.  Doing what they always did.  Or at least that’s what she heard.  But it was always one-on-one.  Again, what she’d heard.  Tami had never been set upon by four women at once.

        “Set upon” was the right phrase.  It didn’t look like this was Tami’s idea.  Not with Tami expecting Vanessa to show up with coffee.  It was clear that Tami had been exercising, doing some stretching exercises at the barre maybe, when her friends came in and took over her bare body.  She found herself imagining Tami bent foward, touching her toes, and Georgene walking in and placing her tongue flat against the wide-exposed anus, and then .  .  .

        “Ohh -- ngghhh -- nghhh -- ”

        Tami’s grunts could be heard through the closed door, here out in the hall.  Vanessa looked both ways.  Nobody else was around.  Still holding the lattes, feeling a bit ridiculous, she decided to go outside and get some air.

        Once outside, she took a sip of her coffee and tried to calm down.  This rear entrance was rarely used, fortunately it was always kept clean.  Like Tami’s, she thought, then she blushed at thinking this.  She looked out at the campus, a few faculty and students walking here and there, a little hurriedly on this raw, cold day.

        More odd thoughts filled her mind.  Right now, Tami Smithers is not 50 feet away from me, having multiple orgasms.  I wonder who the next nearest person is who is having an orgasm right now.  She looked up into the distance, the hill going up to town, the buildings and apartments there.  Maybe someone up over there is having sex right now.

        She looked down at her boots and took a deep breath and brooded.  She judged that maybe ten minutes had passed when she decided to venture inside again.

        The grunting, a little different now, told her the Tami-lickers hadn’t finished.  Hating herself for doing so, she gave the longest possible glance through the window as she walked past the door.  Tami, sweating now, was hanging from the overhead beam, stretched out in an “X”, her hands wide apart as two kneeling women licked her front and rear, Georgene and Myra.  Her feet were stretched way, way apart, and Jeane was sucking her toes on one foot, Spica on the other.  This was kinky.  And Vanessa found herself wondering what it felt like to be sucked and licked that way, on the anus, on the toes.

        She turned around and passed the door again.  Georgene and Myra were alternating licks, bouncing Tami between them as if they were playing tennis and Tami was the ball.  Vanessa remembered something she had read about long ago -- about hanging from the hands stretched out every muscle and made for a full-body orgasm that was more intense.

        And so -- Tami held her breath, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted, her entire body flushed, and now a great jolt nearly knocked Georgene off her knees.  Jolt after jolt shook the entire apparatus as the four lickers held on for dear life, as if they had hooked a huge fish and were determined to reel it in.

        “Zhhhoohh -- zhhhohhh -- zhhhohhh -- ” Tami’s grunts were shouts now and Vanessa looked up and down the hall again.  A horrifying thought occurred to her.  What if a faculty person passed by? One of the Department heads? The head of the Dance Conservatory was Dr. Lena Yevgeny, an old Russian ballet type who struck her as being very conservative.  If any of those people passed by here there would be an incident.  Disciplinary action, certainly.

        Vanessa sat in a nearby alcove and sipped, and put Tami’s latte onto the bench.  She felt soiled, like a voyeur, like one of several male faculty who had gotten in trouble over the years for peeping on female students.  What creeps.  And she -- ?

        She waited a few minutes and hoped it was over.  From Studio T there was silence, then sounds of things sliding around on the floor.  She got up again and walked uncertainly toward the little window.

        She was almost there when she heard Tami’s grunts again.  Jesus, will this never end? Tami was on the floor now, face up, legs wrapped around Georgene’s head, her toes flexing.  Spica and Jeane were sucking her nipples, Maya cradling Tami’s head in her lap, massaging her plum-colored hair.  Tami’s eyes were wide open, looking up at Maya -- in agony, supplication, amazement? It was so hard to tell.

        Now came a slow, rolling orgasm, with full-body waves accompanied low moans.  The three lickers worked as a team, like rowers on that crew team she was on at her undergraduate school, sucking together in a decreasing tempo, and Tami’s contractions slowed down too which seemed to be their aim.  By now Vanessa could look at the scene clinically.  That’s interesting -- they can slow the orgasm down like that, extend it.  It must have taken a lot of practice.

        It was five minutes later when the Assistant Dean of Students felt it safe to re-enter Studio T.  She found the four clothed women in a big circle, surrounding their naked friend who lay snoozing in their midst, on her stomach, her head on its side, her arms and legs sprawled crazily in all directions.

        Vanessa sat down cross-legged with the others.  “Hello all,” she said, setting the coffees in front of her.  “Tami and I were going to have a couple of lattes.”

        Her mind was a mass of conflicting emotions but she focused and knew she had to be stern.  Like any skilled administrator, she knew how to use silence.  Then she broke it.  “I think you realize that if the wrong person came down the hall, you would have gotten into quite a bit of trouble.  You would have gotten Tami into trouble too.”  She was going to say “poor Tami” but stopped herself.

        After a few seconds, Georgene said, “Sorry, Ms. Congi.”  Usually everyone called her Vanessa.

        “You’ve got to be discreet,” she further advised.  Not that she could stop it entirely.  After all, the college was to blame for Tami’s hyperized sexual hunger in the first place and could hardly object to it being satisfied.

        “Sorry,” Myra said.

        Then Tami turned onto her back, legs stretched out, arms out too.  Her plum-colored pubic hair parted a bit to show the cleft between her lower lips.  Her bare feet, which never seemed to get dirty, pointed outward.  Then she started snoring, really loud.  It echoed off the bare walls.

        A couple of the students giggled.  Vanessa couldn’t help but smile.  It was like a buzzsaw.

        “It’s just that it’s so much fun to do,” Spica said.  “I like making her come and come and come.”

        “It gets spiritual at times,” Georgene said.

        “The hell with that,” Spica said, punky and irreverent as always.  “I like seeing her get off and get off.  Maybe I’m sadistic.  I’d like to see how many times I can make her come.”

        Well, Vanessa knew the answer to that.  She had seen the Chalfont report: 136 orgasms during four hours of what must have been the strangest torture any woman had ever experienced.  And that was just the final session of a semester filled with similar tortures.  Like the other well-meaning people who had unwittingly enabled Henry Ross’s evil plans that year, it took Vanessa a long time to stop blaming herself for having been so dense, and to get over her guilt for being complicit.

        “I don’t think you can break any records in Studio T,” Vanessa said, being stern again.

        Jeane said, missing Vanessa’s point, “It was only six times this time.  They were good strong ones though.”

        “Only” six times! Vanessa herself, age 47, had never had more than three orgasms at one time.  Once again she felt jealous and once again she told herself she shouldn’t dare feel that way.  For a few seconds they watched Tami’s breathing, the rise and fall of the firm breasts with the big, brown nipples, erect even as she slept, the hip bones setting off the concave tummy.

        Vanessa cleared her throat and changed the topic.  “I think we’re all violating the rule.  You see the sign.  Let’s take our boots off.”

        Having left their boots by the door, the five women sat down in a circle again.  Jeane had a hole in her sock showing her big toe which obviously embarrassed her.  She tucked that leg underneath.

        Tami’s toes wiggled a bit.  Her eyelids twitched, then her nose.

        “I wonder what she dreams about,” Myra said.

        Everyone thought: clothes.  But no one said it.

        “Mmmmm .  .  .”  Tami lazily turned onto her stomach again and drew her knees under her.  She was facing away from Vanessa and her knees parted and she stretched her arms out on the floor in front.  Her trim butt cheeks separated and Vanessa was treated to a wide-open view of her anus.  Which now winked.

        “Hmmm .  .  .”  Tami’s eyes opened.

        “Hi Tami,” said Georgene, who was sitting next to Vanessa.  Tami responded to this voice behind her by winking her anus again, an unspoken “hi”.  Vanessa knew about Tami’s twice-daily enemas but had never seen this before.  She was fascinated by the aperture that opened widely twice, the dark cavity within.  Practically public parkland to her legion of admirers.

        Uncomfortable, Vanessa got up and padded over to the other side and placed a latte next to Tami’s face.

        “Mmmmmm.  Latte.  Thanks, Dean,” she said.  The latte was lukewarm by this time but she obviously didn’t mind.  She now sat up cross-legged in the middle of the little circle, sipping.

        “Sorry about what happened, Ms. Congi, I mean Vanessa,” Tami said, still groggy.  “I tried to apologize but I couldn’t get the words out.”

        “No, it’s our fault,” Georgene said.

        “You were great as always, Tam.  Your ass ring grabbed my finger like death,” Spica said enthusiastically, which brought a blush to the coffee-sipper in their midst.

        “Strongest anus in the Eastern Conference,” said Myra with a laugh.

        Jeane, after looking around with a conspiratorial grin, brought something out of her bag and rolled it in Tami’s direction.

        “Oh God, not here,” Georgene said, half embarrassed.

        It was hard rubber and round.  In fact it was an orange lacrosse ball, with a six-foot-long nylon rope threaded through a drilled hole.  Vanessa was totally puzzled.

        Tami sipped her coffee, looking at the encouraging glances of Spica and Jeane and Myra and finally Georgene.  “Ta - mi! Ta - mi!” Spica chanted, a chant taken up by the others.  Finally Tami stood up and said, “Well, O.K.”

        Jeane threw Tami a small tube and a tissue.  To Vanessa’s astonishment Tami wiped the ball off, lubricated it, then squatted down.  She closed her eyes and grunted.  She stood up and looked around, the rope hanging from between her butt cheeks, like a long tail.

        “Me! Me!” Spica said, like a kid asking for a turn at a piggy-back ride.

        Spica padded over behind Tami, then pushed back her heavy coat and sat down.  She put her gloves on and held the slack rope securely with both hands.  Tami stood upright, took a deep breath, then the muscles in her concave tummy flexed and she took a careful stride with a flexed bare foot on the smooth, polished wood floor.  The next stride followed and the rope went taut.  Now Tami was pulling Spica in a big circle around the periphery of Studio T without using her hands, and now to the accompaniment of applause, and Spica’s shouts of “woo - hoo!”

        Vanessa was stunned, her mouth hanging open.  She thought she had seen everything remarkable about this amazing young woman but she kept getting surprised.  Then she found herself laughing.  She imagined Tami on her grounds crew assignment, pulling the wheelbarrow full of pebbles via a rope coming out her butt, as no doubt Omar found other things for her to carry with her arms.   And Tami casually conversing with friends as she carried and pulled across campus.  Vanessa’s laughs turned into giggles, the vision was so ridiculous.

============

        That night Vanessa’s husband’s voice came to her out of the darkness.

        “Can’t sleep again?”

        “No.”

        “Let me guess.  Tami Smithers.”

        “Ricardo . . . how can I not think about her? And those -- followers of hers.”

        “Ah yes.  The Tami Lickers.”

        “I wish you wouldn’t call them that.”

        “Sounds like the obvious choice for a name.”

        “It’s just that they...  they devote themselves so.  It’s all about her pleasure, not theirs.  It reminds me of the bad old days, when it was a woman’s duty to give a man pleasure.”

        “There you go with that Women’s Studies bit again.  Honestly, you feminists talk so much about the ‘bad old days’ that sometimes I think you miss them.  Say,” he said, grabbing her breasts, “I hear you feminist chicks really put out!”

        This was one of their old gags: “Ricardo’s Guide to Making It with Feminists”.  Vanessa smiled but wasn’t in the mood.  “All they care about is Tami’s pleasure, not their own.”

        “What’s wrong with that?”

        “It doesn’t sound very equal.  I don’t understand how you can do that without making yourself subservient.”

        “Well I, for one, understand it.  Any man can understand that, perfectly well.”

        “Really?”

        “Of course.  Bringing a woman to orgasm is the most satisfying thing a man can do.  And it’s not about ego, showing you’re a stud.  At least not for a man who’s mature.  It’s about love.”

        Vanessa thought and thought.  Ricardo gave up massaging her breasts.

        “They bust in on her while she was exercising, and dragged her around that studio like she was a dummy, or a mannequin.  And spread her legs, put her up on a high bar, dragged her across the floor, just so they could force orgasms out of her.”

        “Now you’re saying she’s subservient?”

        “It just didn’t seem right.  When I broke in on them and saw them attacking her, it reminded me of rape.”

        “Oh come on . . . ”

        “Well, it did.  It kind of messed me up.  I’m reminded of Liz.”

        “Who?”

        “A teenager I counseled at the center at Boston College.  She got raped and in the process of him thrusting, she got her first-ever orgasm.  It messed her up for quite a while.”

        “I suppose it would...  This was not Tami’s first, though.  From what you say, you probably broke in on orgasm number 35,467.”

        Vanessa sighed.  “Yes . . . She triggers such conflicting emotions.”

        “I think you should just let her live her life.  I think she’s quite fine.”

        “Oh really?” She reached down and placed her hands firmly around her naked husband’s testicles, as if threatening to squeeze.  Another old gag of theirs.

        “I keep telling you,” Ricardo said in mock agony.  “I imagine it’s YOU who’s always naked.”

        That seemed natural enough.  To see a woman always naked was the most basic male desire.  But...  “I can’t just let her live her life.  I’m the Assistant Dean for Students.”

        “So . . . Did you have lunch with her? Did she tell you what her plans were?”

        “No, she cagily avoided that, like always.  She’s a shoo-in for a grad assistantship.  She says she’s thinking about Hamid in math but that seems like a cop-out.”

        “Think she suspects what’s up?”

        “I highly doubt it.  Oh Ric, if she only knew...  I feel sorry for Tony Noyes sometimes.  What a decision.”

        “Wow.  Sympathy for that old coot.  That’s new.”

        “Well, he’s not a creep, at least.  Not like that old crowd that Jorgon and Ross kept so pacified.”

        Vanessa repeated, “If that poor naked girl only knew...  what awaits her.  Life has been so unfair to her.”  It was pitch dark in the bedroom but Ricardo could tell her eyes were wide open.

        “There’s only one thing to do,” he said, sliding his head down under the covers.  “I’m a Vanessa Licker.  I’m going to -- damn you woman, must you wear panties to bed! I’m going to lick you for a solid half hour and make you come, maybe twice.  And then me and my unused dick will go to sleep.  Happily.”