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the Professor’s traveling booth

The professor looked up at the clock and said. “We’ll s - stop here for t - today. Rememb - b - ber, F - fashion C - club meeting at m - my house t - tomorrow night.” She raised a shaky finger. “F - f - free c - c - coffee!” A smile and some amused grunts. Must be an in-joke.

I got up and made my way to the front, fighting the wave of students who were heading out the rear. As I got to the glass enclosure I noticed for the first time a little booth-like section to the side, at the bottom of which was a kind of uphill treadmill, shiny metal with little raised holes. The professor gathered her papers and stepped onto it, flung a lever, and glass (actually it must have been hard clear plastic) came down behind her, missing her trim bare butt cheeks by only a couple of inches. A smooth, well-practiced motion. In a moment she was in the booth and it was moving toward me. She had seen me from the first. Another thing I had been told about, her almost extra-sensory perception, through her cold hard nipples.

I got an uneasy feeling, seeing this huge glass booth approach me, but I was reassured by her blue-lipped smile. “H - how are you? You must be Stephanie?’ She placed her papers in a little well to her side and nodded as she stretched her hands up to push up against two bars on each side, above her head.

I tried not to be distracted by this position, which made her full breasts stick out and made a hollow concavity of her stomach. “Yes, thank you for taking the time -- “

She waved her hand with a dismissive grin then put it back up on the bar. “L - let’s go to my office.”

I walked beside her uncertainly as she proceeded in her movable booth. It fascinated me so much I almost forgot to watch my own step. The booth was about seven feet high, with a metal capsule on top that must be a refrigeration device. It whirred quietly. Looking down I saw the professor’s toned legs, slightly separated, pushing down, one then the other. Further below, her broad feet, with widely-spaced toes, gripped and pulled down the metallic ramp, as if she were walking uphill. Step after step, as her hands pushed up on the bars above so she could exert more force downward. It must take some effort to move this thing on its unseen wheels.

Her body was magnificent. That’s the only word for it, despite the total hairlessness. She didn’t even have eyebrows. But with her arms up like that, one could see every little bit of her nakedness. Her well-muscled arms, her narrow waist, her bolt upright frame . . . the envy of any woman, despite her handicap. I wondered what she looked like from behind and couldn’t help myself, deliberately lagging so that I could see those tight butt cheeks flex and unflex with her treadmill-like motions.

Catching up, I looked down at the metal ramp, flexible enough to pass over the rollers yet strong. The little holes were actually raised, like a cheese grater, for better traction. My tender soles would be cut to ribbons. But of course her feet were tough from years of going barefoot.

A student stopped her. She looked very young. “Professor!” she squeaked. “I love these new boots of yours! They’re so soft and warm!!” She motioned down to her red-clad feet, pointing the toes just so as if showing them off on a runway.

I stole a quick glance at the professor’s purplish bare feet on the freezing, pointy track, then looked up at her face. She smiled, shivering a bit. “Th - thank you,” she said, her breath coming out in thick clouds.

We continued down this hall and turned onto another. To my relief her shivering stopped. The goose bumps seemed to subside. The exertion of pushing this booth was heating her up, a bit.

Everyone said hi as they passed. Her arms up to her sides, her feet pressing down, her breasts wobbling tightly with her steps, she nodded hello. Now, an alcove with a door with her name on it, in big, colorful, construction-paper-fourth-grade-class-project letters that seemed out of place here.

She motioned to jackets hanging on hooks on the wall. I wrapped myself in one and followed her through the door. Her office was like a big refrigerator. No, not that bad. A lot cooler than room temperature, but not freezing. In another well-practiced motion the professor stepped off the little treadmill, opened the back of her booth, and stepped her bare feet into the same air I was in. I felt the subfreezing air dissipate from the booth, making me shiver despite my being fully clothed and with the extra jacket on.

“Now we can say hi properly,” she said, with a big smile. “Tami Smithers.”

“Hi,” I said, clasping her cold, strong hand, making sure my jacket sleeve was pulled back past my wrist. “Stephanie Weingarten, from the Institute.”

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