After Dorothy had graduated she decided, by way of thanks, to visit her old maths teacher. Whilst she was studying at university he had retired and might actually not have heard her good news. Despite his being strict, intolerant and domineering, once he had spotter her talent he had nurtured it and guided her. It had been he who had set the sparks that had kindled her enthusiasm and then fanned the flames into a roaring passion. Now she had been awarded a first, offered the opportunity to pursue advanced studies in all the right places: stay on, Oxford, MIT, Princeton, Harvard, she could take her pick from the cream of the elite. And if she wanted mere money, well she was being courted by several computer companies to design, develop and extend their capabilities for encrypting data.
At that moment Dorothy was stood on his doorstep in front of his brown front door, its paint beginning to peel in places. The neglect was more than simple genteel decay, the house had a slight air of menace; like Mr. Smith himself, it intimidated. Despite, or possibly because of her slight misgivings Dorothy stiffened her resolve and rang the bell, half wondering whether, and half hoping that, it would not work. It did, and loudly as well.
Nothing happened. Dorothy waited but still nothing happened. She was actually turning to go when she first heard a rather stiff bolt being rocked up and down to work it back. She turned and remounted the step as a second, equally recalcitrant, bolt was withdrawn and was standing bright, smiling and composed by the time the third bolt had been tugged aside. The door even creaked on its hinges as it was opening. Dorothy shivered, partly because it was just a little spooky and partly because she was recalling how Mr. Smith used to creep inside of her head during her night time fantasies.
He was lean as ever, skinny as a rake and ponderously tall. So tall he maintained a permanent slight stoop as if attempting to condescend to level of ordinary humans. "Yes!" he demanded, peering down at her over the tops of his half eyes, "Miss Reed, if I recall correctly. Some talent, wasn't there? Whatever do you want?"
I came to say thank you, Mr. Smith. Sir." She added, the last word reflexly and despite her trying her very best not to.
"To say thank you Miss Reed? Well I can't say that never happened before because it has. But it has been a very rare event. I accept your gratitude young lady but what precisely is it that you are thanking me for?"
"I achieved a first, in pure maths, Sir," she smiled winsomely.
"You went up to Cambridge, didn't you? A year early too. Yes? Well Miss Reed I suppose congratulations are in order?" He posed this as a question: as if there were considerable doubt over whether or not it really was worth congratulating someone over a first in pure mathematics from Cambridge University. Then Mr. Smith did something very rare, he actually smiled, "Welcome, Miss Reed, to the club."
"Sir?"
"Yes Miss Reed I too took a first at Cambridge in pure maths. I too was destined for great things. I undertook post graduate studies that would change the world. But in the end I was sent down for bedding my bedder and was sentenced to teaching ignorant, rude, ungrateful children the rudiments of my craft for the remained of my existence: miserable. Well come in I suppose. I can't manage champagne, not at this sort of notice at any rate, but I can make a nice cup of tea: China, Ceylon or Darjeeling?
It took Dorothy a moment to realise he was asking her to decide what type of tea she preferred. "Uh Ceylon," she ventured at random, "Ceylon, Sir; I mean." She cursed herself inwardly for this addendum but Mr. Smith would never be anything but 'Sir' to her.
Mr. Smith smiled, "you don't have to call me Sir anymore you know? You're not my pupil any longer and, at least on paper, every bit as accomplished as myself."
"No Sir. Sorry Sir. Damn it, it's reflex Sir," and Dorothy burst out laughing. "I'll try not to, Sir," and poor Dorothy dissolved in a paroxysm of giggles at this final faux pas. Calling Mr. Smith Sir was a habit that would be very difficult, if not impossibly, to break herself of.
It was Mr. Smith's turn to laugh, "well if you can't help it girl, you can't help it. There's seed cake too, " he confided. "I have to make it and bake it myself these days. Can't buy the stuff anymore."
Dorothy, who was short and bespectacled, was also very plump and in accordance with her stature accepted the latter offer with alacrity: Dorothy was very fond of cake and simply adored chocolate, though if she over indulged she soon became spotty.
Mr. Smith showed her into a now rather shabby but formerly grand room that was half parlour, half study: in front of the magnificent Victorian fireplace was a leather suite set around a coffee table, the walls were lined with bookcases and below the window was set a vast very cluttered yet still ordered desk. The desk was the only thing in the house that Dorothy had spotted which was cluttered.
"Sit, or peruse my little library, please yourself. I'll go and brew some tea for us both and cut some cake." Whilst Mr. Smith was gone Dorothy elected to examine his collection of books. One wall was all 'Sets, Logic and Axiomatic Theories' or 'Vectors, Matrices and Linear Equations.' old, extraordinarily well thumbed, text books. Another was full of paper backs, Fleming, Le Carre, Deighton, ancient spy novels, all tales of daring do, even Rider Haggard and Kipling but nothing new. She had just reached his surprisingly extensive collection of poetry when he returned bearing a tray.
"Come and sit yourself down Miss Reed. Ceylon tea, seed cake and biscuits too, but no chocolate ones I'm afraid, I've already eaten all of those. Ought to have been chocolate for a celebration, but there you go, I'm very partial to chocolate biscuits."
Dorothy sank in to the worn leather chair indicated. "Sorry it took so long but to get the flavour of these delicate teas you need to brew them properly; anything less than five minutes and you might as well drink dish water." Dorothy noticed he strained the tea into the cups, so tea leaves not bags, she ought to have guessed.
He sat and then raised his cup in mock salute, "congratulations Miss Reed, well done indeed," and, for the first time Dorothy had ever known, Mr. Smith actually sounded totally sincere in his praise.
"Well Sir," Dorothy giggled as she realised what she'd just let slip, yet again. "It's all due to you. You realised that I had talent, understood what I was capable of. You pointed me in the right directions, loaned me the right books, marked homework that was set for no one else but me and showed me the tricks and short cuts. That mapping transform, the one you call your epsilon method, the lecturers at University hadn't come across that one before!"
"Oh that," and Mr. Smith actually chortled. "No they wouldn't have, figured it out for myself, that one. That was my thesis when I was sent down. Sad that. But then even old fuddy-duddies like me were young once upon a time you know." Dorothy realised he was not talking to her but to himself, his mind far far away.
"Yes Sir. I'm really grateful. I only wish there were something I could do in return, though I've no idea what."
"I don't expect there is. But that's a very generous offer and one a careful young lady would put strings on when she makes it to an old codger like myself."
Dorothy laughed but she did wonder if he really was simply joking, or was he... Well, was he alluding to something further. Hinting maybe? Despite his stoop, he was actually quite a handsome old devil, lean, carefully brushed silver grey hair, dressed impeccably in a grey slightly worn suit with shoes you could see your face in. Once upon a time she only had to think about him and her tummy felt bubbly and her slot became all juicy and if she fingered herself then she came so quickly. That old feeling in her loins returned suddenly, although Dorothy reflected, perhaps not wholly unexpectedly. She was not on fire but was definitely warming up and quickly too.
Dorothy was aware of her own unattractiveness. She was short and fat. Her hair was mousy brown, long and straight yet still straggly, it framed her heavy glasses and her teeth were crooked; if only her parents had been a little less indulgent when they had suggested she had them straightened. Her breasts were big, which appeared to be a plus but so too was her bum and unless she shaved regularly, which she hated, she soon became ever so hairy between her legs. She was not a virgin, but whilst sex had been pleasant and her partners had certainly appeared to extract much enjoyment from her she had never found it to be that wonderful. Her fingers were more effective and as to her rabbit, well. Peter was such a wonderful pet: efficient, clean and obedient. If only he were just a little quieter, especially now when she was having to live back home with her parents.
Coquettishly she threw back, "I can't imagine Sir that you'd ever ask anything of me that might needed to be wrapped up with string. Anyway I'd gift wrap it for you with pink ribbon and a pretty bow."
"You never know young lady. You never know. Well not until you find out." Then he changed the subject entirely and asked of her studies and how she had found Cambridge. It was only when it was time for her to leave that the hint of playfulness he had exhibited earlier returned. "I enjoyed out little chat Miss Reed. I enjoyed it very much indeed. Perhaps you might even care to return one evening and enjoy that glass of celebratory champagne I alluded to."
Dorothy thought of how her thighs had melted and moistened earlier on and accepted before he had had time to reconsider, "Wednesday evening Sir? About half past seven?"
