Student and Teacher

Iris wasn't the only one who liked to dole out good things to her friends.

Damon in fact regarded himself as something of a socialist, and it wasn't long before he felt that the incredible treasure he had stumbled upon must be shared with other deserving gentlemen. It was with that in mind that he asked a question as he and Iris were recovering from an unusually energetic session one night.

"You remember my friend Brad?"

She was resting as usual on his chest and didn't trouble to look up at him. "No."

In fact, she had met none of Damon's friends; for she had hammered it into his head that their relationship had to remain a secret, lest all hell break loose.

"Oh, you must," he said. "He was in your class with me last semester. Big guy, not terribly bright but really keen on pleasing you? Are you sure you don't remember?"

"Okay, I seem to recall . . ." She wasn't at all certain, but Damon was so insistent that she felt the need to appease him.

"He's our starting center fielder. Not actually great in the field, but a real power hitter. Same age as me, a junior. And he likes you a whole lot."

That made Iris uneasy. Without looking up she said, "Does he now?"

"Yeah, you bet! Maybe it's just a crush, maybe more. But I really think you'd like him."

Now she looked up, a little shiver of nervousness coursing through her. "What exactly am I supposed to do with him?"

A broad grin spread over Damon's face. "Oh, anything," he said airily. "Anything you like."

Iris's eyes widened in alarm. "Damon, you haven't—?"

"Haven't what?"

Her voice descended to a whisper. "Haven't told him about us?"

"Um, not really."

That response wasn't encouraging. She raised herself up from his chest, looking him straight in the face. "What do you mean, 'not really'? How many times have I told you—"

"Hey, don't worry, he won't say anything."

"Then you

have

told him? Oh, Damon!"

"No, no! I haven't. Not in the way you mean."

"Then how

do

you mean?"

"Well, here's the thing. He wanted to come over to my rooming house one night, and of course I had to tell him I wasn't living there anymore. When he said, 'Well, then, where

are

you living?' I said I'd shacked up with that cute professor we'd had that great class with last semester."

"Oh, God, Damon, that really wasn't very smart!"

"It's okay. Brad is really kind of dense—not to mention naïve. He probably thinks you're renting a room for me here so you can make some extra money. The guy is really clueless when it comes to women." He added with a chuckle: "I think he's a virgin."

"Oh, come on, Damon, I find that hard to believe. If he's such a great athlete, surely girls are flocking to slip into his bed. Girls of that age always do."

"Maybe, but he wouldn't have the slightest idea what to

do

with them if they did. I tell you, he's really wet behind the ears as far as things like that are concerned."

Now we're getting to it,

Iris thought. "So what do you want me to do?" But she knew full well the answer to that.

"Oh, you know, just show him the ropes."

"In bed, you mean."

"That, and other things. Just how to deal with girls—how to make them like him. I'm telling you, he's a real sweet guy—kind and gentle and very respectful of women. In fact, I think he's a little afraid of women."

"Well, shy guys sometimes are."

"He sure is shy."

She continued to gaze at her lover. "You really want me to—?"

"Sure!" he said enthusiastically, delighted that he had apparently convinced his lover to go along with his plan.

"It won't bother you?"

"Why should it bother me? You, um, farm me out to your lady friends, you know."

"Sure, but . . . Guys can be pretty possessive where things like that are concerned."

"I just think you're so swell that I need to share you with

all

my friends!"

She looked at him sourly. "Maybe one friend at a time, okay?"

"Sure, great!"

*

Damon's discussion of the matter with Brad Young was interesting.

When Damon had told Brad that he had moved into Iris's house ("You know, that cute young professor we took a class with last semester"), Brad had indeed thought it was purely a financial arrangement. In his naïveté he couldn't imagine a student and a professor shacking up for any other purpose. And so, when Damon delicately explained the true state of affairs, Brad was dumbfounded.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me!" he said in his deep baritone voice. Damon was, indeed, something of a prankster, and Brad just assumed his friend of three years was pulling his leg—for what reason, he couldn't imagine.

"It's true, guy," Damon said with a certain smugness.

"You really"—Brad swallowed hard—"sleep with her?"

"It's a lot more than that, but that about sums it up."

Brad shook his head in disbelief. "I think you're crazy, man. If people find out, you could get expelled—and what would happen to her?"

"Look, Brad," Damon said with incredible earnestness, "you don't get it. I don't just, um, occupy her bed. I

love

her, man! I really do!"

"Oh, come on! That isn't right. She's way older than you."

"What difference does that make? She's smart and beautiful and kind and caring and sensitive and wonderful in every way. I can't imagine any guy

not

falling in love with her."

Brad fell silent. He obviously didn't know Iris as well as Damon did, but he too had fallen under Iris's spell during that class. He had done everything he could to get the teacher to notice him, and he worked extra hard to turn in papers, quizzes, and exams that would make her proud of him. He'd not had a lot of experience with women—okay, let's face it, he'd had virtually

no

experience with women (or girls, for that matter)—but he sensed intuitively that what he felt for Iris, nebulous as it may have been, was more than a silly schoolboy crush.

Damon sensed Brad's train of thought, so he went on quickly. "And she wants to get to know

you,

guy."

"Me?"

Brad exploded. "She doesn't give a damn about me. She hardly noticed me in that class."

"Sure she did," Damon said with some exaggeration. "She thinks a lot of you."

Brad blushed like—well, like a schoolgirl. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. And she wants to help you."

"Help me how?"

"I think you know."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Help you with girls," Damon said with emphatic precision.

Brad thought he might faint. "Wh-what do you mean? How? Why?"

"As for why, well, that's because she likes me a lot and wants to help out my pals. As for how—well, you just meet her and she'll show you."

The fact that Damon had said "show you" rather than "tell you" struck him as awesomely significant. "You really mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"Damon," Brad said with a kind of desperate urgency, "you'd better not be teasing me. I think she—she's the best."

"She

is

the best. And I wouldn't tease you about something like this. So you come on over tomorrow evening around eight p.m., and we'll see what happens."

Brad didn't know how he managed to get through the next day and a half. He seemed to be living in a dream, and he was so preoccupied that several professors chided him for being a space cadet in class. He could hardly eat anything, but managed to wolf down a substantial meal at the cafeteria just before going over to Iris's house, to make sure he had the strength to do—whatever was necessary.

With a shaking hand he knocked on the door of the house. Damon opened it and let him in.

"Hi, guy," he said affably. "You're a tad early, but that's okay."

He ushered his friend into the living room, which Brad took in as if it were the Palace of Versailles. Iris was tidying up in the kitchen, and she stalked out into the living room, hastily wiping her hands on her apron before extending one hand in Brad's direction.

"You must be Brad," she said.

"Yeah, I must be," Brad said idiotically, causing Damon to roll his eyes.

The figure Iris saw before her was undeniably impressive. Brad Young was about six foot two with a massive barrel chest and thighs and calves to match. His tousled blond hair always seemed to be untidy, lending him a kind of Huck Finn air to his countenance. But Iris felt that his face was one of the most honest and open she had ever seen: here was a young man entirely incapable of guile, and she found that immediately heartwarming. There was a tenderness in his soft blue eyes that mellowed his almost craggy nose and chin, and she would soon find that on occasion Brad would burst forth with an infectious smile that she felt no woman could find anything but endearing.

So how has this rough-hewn Adonis not found a girl to cuddle up with?

She strongly doubted Damon's assertion that Brad was a virgin (how would he know? and why would any young man admit to such a thing, even to his best friend?), but she could sense that his shyness and general unworldliness may have made it difficult for him to put his best foot forward with girls and young women who wanted the suave, cavalier, sophisticated type. But to her understanding, such types often treated women badly, thinking the female of the species was their private property to do with as they wished. The ingenuousness of Brad's demeanor promised a very different attitude.

Damon interrupted the silent thoughts of both his friend and his lover by saying, "Okay, guys, I'm heading out."

"Heading out?"

Brad said, petrified. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"Oh," Damon said casually, "I'll just be walking around the block a few times."

Maybe a lot of times.

"You're here to get acquainted with Iris—so go to it."

That peremptory order was not likely to lessen Brad's nervousness, and it didn't. Iris too was a little alarmed.

But there was no stopping Damon. With a hasty wave he turned his back on the pair and strode out of the house.

Brad stood in the middle of the living room, the picture of irresolute embarrassment. Iris searched for a way to put him at his ease.

"Um," she said, "would you like something to drink?"

"I don't drink, ma'am," he muttered. "Alcohol, I mean."

Iris inwardly sighed.

Another guy either too young or too inexperienced to appreciate the soothing qualities of liquor.

"How about a soft drink?" she said.

"Sure!" Brad replied with excessive enthusiasm. "Do you have root beer?"

"Uh, no," she said, feeling suddenly like a mother trying to make friends with her son's awkward friend. "How about ginger ale?"

"Great. That would be great."

After she got him the drink, she settled him down on the sofa and asked him to tell her a little bit about himself.

With his natural humility, he said, "Oh, there's not much to tell." She was at least grateful that he hadn't begun by saying "Aw, shucks." But she did coax him to spill a little of his life story. He had been born and raised in Roanoke, where he had excelled in sports but not so much at schoolwork. But with diligence and constant urging from his parents he had managed to get tolerably good grades and thereby get into Westminster. By late in his freshman year he was already the starting center fielder on the varsity baseball team.

"Do you think you'll play in the Major Leagues someday?" she said, infusing her voice with a bit of awe to signal her admiration of his athletic achievements.

"No way," he said deprecatingly. "I'm not

that

good."

"Oh, I think you're too modest."

"No, ma'am. It's really, really hard to make it in the pros. Maybe I could make it in Double-A, even Triple-A, but that'll probably be about it."

Iris didn't exactly know what Brad was talking about, but she was duly impressed.

"Well, I think you must be splendid on the field. All the pitchers must be terrified of you."

Brad looked away from her, turning crimson and sipping his drink. "Thank you, ma'am."

"So," she said slowly, "what about girls?"

His expression turned lugubrious. "What about them?"

"They must be hanging all over you, a big strong guy like you."

"No, ma'am," he said with such profound melancholy that Iris's heart was wrung.

"Oh, come on!" she said. "Girls love athletes like you! You're telling me—?" She didn't feel it appropriate to continue:

You're telling me you've never taken a girl to bed?

"I guess I just don't appeal to most girls," he said.

"Not in high school?"

"No."

"Nor here?"

"No."

"Well," Iris said in businesslike fashion, "that's not right. I think you just need some training."

Brad's eyes widened at that. A little tremor overtook him.

"Girls aren't so hard to approach, you know," she went on. "You just have to take an interest in what

they're

interested in. Establish some common ground. Make friends with them before you make them your . . ."

Your bedmates.

"I don't know how to do that," Brad said into his drink.

"It isn't as hard as you think it is," she said. Making him put down his glass, she got up from the sofa and ordered, "Stand up."

He did as he was told.

She's a teacher, after all.

He seemed to be slouching a bit, perhaps in order to minimize his significant difference in height and build from her.

She noticed that. "Stand up straight," she said sharply. He whipped his shoulders back as if instructed by a drill sergeant.

"Let's say," she went on, "you've just spent a nice time with a girl—taken her out to a nice meal at a restaurant, really hit it off, found a lot of things you have in common. There's a real chemistry there, and both of you can sense it. So now it's time to take her home and say goodbye. What would you do?"

"I don't know," he said miserably.

"Sure you do—this isn't rocket science, Brad. Take me in your arms."

"What?"

he said, unnerved.

"Take me in your arms," she repeated almost angrily.

He extended his arms like a robot, then suddenly seized Iris by the waist and pressed her almost violently against his chest.

"Oof!" she cried. "No, no, no, Brad! Not like that!"

"What? What did I do?"

"You don't manhandle a girl you've just met! In fact, you should

never

manhandle a girl. I mean, let's face it: you're a lot stronger than any girl or woman you're ever likely to meet, and you have to remember that. Very few women could stand up to you if you have a mind to . . ."

Brad wasn't so naïve that he didn't understand the implication of Iris's words. "I—I would never do that to any girl!" he almost shouted.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said, trying to regain her own composure. "But you don't know your own strength. Just hold me gently."

He did his best to comply, but Iris still found fault with him.

"Don't touch my bra," she said, "even under my blouse. Not after the first date. And your other hand is a little too close to my, um, bottom."

Brad adjusted his hands accordingly, albeit reluctantly. Images were flooding through his mind—both of the girls and women he had had all manner of crushes on over the past several years, and also of what his best friend must have been doing with this gorgeous woman while under her roof.

If he can do it, why can't I?

But she seemed satisfied with his revised embrace. "Okay, that's fine. Now give me a kiss."

She had turned her face up to her big new acquaintance. But as Brad lowered his face toward hers she brought up a hand between them.

"No need to pucker, Brad," she said. "That's a big misconception. Just bring your lips into contact with mine—softly and gently."

Brad did as instructed—and thought he would expire from happiness.

Iris's lips were everything he had fantasized them to be—moist, delicate, yielding, and somehow scented with the heavenly aroma of her breath and her body. He kept his lips pressed against hers for what seemed like minutes, until she had to push his face away with both hands.

"That's enough!" she said, gasping. "That was a bit too long for a first kiss—in fact, way too long."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he whispered.

"That's all right. But a girl doesn't want to be asphyxiated on her first date. Just give her a little kiss of about two or three seconds and let it go at that."

"That all?" he said, crestfallen.

"That's all. If she wants more, she'll let you know. So let's say she does. Now you can give a longer kiss. But don't bend forward so much: you're forcing me to lean my head back."

Brad did his best to comply with these complicated directions. He felt Iris's arms slither around and hold him around the neck and shoulders, and that made him prolong the kiss far longer than Iris had advised—and it also caused something else that she objected to.

"Hey!" she said, pulling away. "None of that!"

"Wh-what?" he said, as if having been shaken violently out of a dream.

"You, um, pressed your groin against mine."

"I didn't mean to, ma'am. I couldn't help it!"

"I guess you couldn't," she said, feeling sorry for him.

Poor guy—I guess I'm torturing him a little.

As she noticed him breathing heavily and getting flushed, she said, "Okay, let's say you've had several nice dates with the girl. And let's say she's made it pretty clear that she likes you a lot. Now she might let you, um, take some liberties."

"What does that mean, ma'am?"

"Well, you might let your hands roam a bit. Come and hold me again and let's see what you do."

Brad seemed to be staggering in place, but he quickly enfolded Iris in a close embrace. Then he kissed her and placed a shaking hand on her breast.

"No!" she said, pulling away again. "Not that."

"Why?" he said, befuddled.

"That's a little too—forward."

"Then what should I do?"

"Just try slipping a hand onto her bottom. That's a little less daring."

She let herself be held by Brad again, and in a trice he let his hand drift down to Iris's butt. Clothed in a thick skirt as she was, he almost passed out from the firm, cushiony feel of her posterior. He also took occasion to scatter wet kisses all over her face.

"Easy there, Brad," she said. "That's a little too much."

"I can't help it!" he cried.

"Okay, I understand." While he continued to rain kisses on her cheek and neck, she tried to proceed with the tutorial; but her own voice was getting a little shaky. "If the girl allows you to touch her bottom, that means she welcomes your advances. So you can do a little more."

"Do what?" he said breathlessly.

"I guess you could take her blouse off."

At once Brad's hands moved up to Iris's back. Long and thick as his fingers were, they were surprisingly deft at undoing the buttons at the front of her blouse. The hem of it had been tucked into the skirt, and he gently pulled it out and then peeled it off of her, letting it fall flutteringly to the floor.

He gazed in rapture at the bright white bra that now lay exposed to his eyes.

"May I?" he barely managed to say.

"Sure," she said, realizing she was probably driving him crazy with anticipation.

This time Brad wasn't quite so skilled, and he grimaced in frustration as he worked clumsily at the clasps in the back. But at last he released them, and Iris herself shimmied out of her bra and stood proudly topless in front of him.

His mouth dropped as he saw a woman's uncovered breasts for the first time. It was an awesome, almost holy sight; and though he longed to seize them with his hands, he almost felt that doing so would be a kind of desecration. Mere mortal men weren't fit to touch such sacred objects, and for a time he was content to take in their swelling contours and shapely outlines.

But Iris herself encouraged him, saying, "Go ahead and touch them."