Friday, May 19, 1:45 p.m. was a miserably hot, muggy day. Though it was still spring, it felt more like summer. We students in Professor Constance Dowdy's political science class had begun to close our notebooks, signaling to the professor that whether or not she wanted class to end, it had. Our minds were already out the door and headed into a weekend.
"All right, class," she said with obvious resignation, "That's all for today. We'll get back to our regular discussion on Monday. Mr. Lewis, may I speak with you for a moment, please?"
She was talking to me. Tom Lewis. First year, second semester university student. But what would she want to speak with me about? I thought I'd done pretty well when the professor deviated from the discussion topic scheduled for today's Law and Culture class. She does that every now and then. Today, she wanted us to extemporaneously discuss the case of a 43-year-old Texas high school teacher, a married woman, who was about to be prosecuted criminally for having consensual sex with an 18-year-old male student. Since both could consent to the sex, Professor Dowdy wanted the class to discuss the validity of the woman's being prosecuted under a different law that criminalized sexual activity between any teacher and student.
While the other luckier students quickly left the classroom, I walked to the lecture podium.
"Mr. Lewis, do you have a few minutes to talk about your comments in class today?"
"Well, Professor, I do have another class ..." my voice trailed off. I was lying. Her class was my last one for the week, and I was headed for the university's swimming pool to do some laps and cool off.
"Of course. I understand. But I would like very much to talk with you. Look, feel free to decline, but would you be willing to come out to the house tomorrow afternoon? I think you have a promising career ahead of you, and I'd really like to discuss it with you."
Now, I like Professor Dowdy, but spending a Saturday afternoon with a political science professor was not high on my activity list. True, her classes are always interesting, informative, and sometimes even fun. She's got a great sense of humor, and she's very open-minded. She's a great listener. Besides, I really need a good grade out of her class, so ...
"Sure, Professor. I don't know where you live, so you'll have to give me directions. What time would you like me to get there?"
She smiled, perhaps knowing I'd rather be doing almost anything else. Then she wrote out the directions and suggested I arrive about 2 p.m. She also told me to dress comfortably and casually since the weather had become so hot and humid.
The next day, Saturday, I did my laundry in the morning. Then I showered, as much to cool off as to clean up. I put on some cutoff jeans, a tee shirt and a pair of boat shoes and headed off to the Professor's house.
As I drove, it occurred to me that I really knew very little about Professor Dowdy. More to the point, I really hadn't even thought much about her at all. She revealed little of or about herself or her personal life in class. I guessed she was in her early- to mid --forties. She was a full professor, tenured, so she must have at least a master's degree, probably a PhD. Her attire in class was usually ankle length, loose-fitting skirts with non-revealing blouses and sweaters. She didn't wear much, if any, jewelry other than a plain wristwatch. I don't recall seeing a wedding band on her hand, but I just assumed she was married. Her hair was black, but with liberal grays she made no obvious attempt to hide. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and very little makeup. If I were to characterize her daily appearance in class, I would call it non-sexual. Then again, given society's negative attitudes about teachers being sexually involved with students, that was probably a wise career-protecting move on her part. It worked with me. Even with my 19-year-old raging hormones, Professor Dowdy had never generated so much as a hint of a hard-on.
The directions to the professor's house were accurate and easily followed. Just a minute or two before 2 p.m. I turned onto the long driveway leading to her house. In the distance I could see the shapely figure of a young woman. Professor Dowdy's daughter, perhaps? Hmm. Maybe this will be a worthwhile visit after all.
As I got closer to the house, I focused my attention on the woman. Her back was to me while she worked in the roses near the house. She was wearing a broad brimmed hat and dark glasses, a narrow yellow tube top, and very short cargo shorts. Even though I was quite some distance away, I could see the young woman had great legs and a delectable figure. Of course by that time my cock had sprung to life to affirm what my eyes had seen.
I brought my car to a stop just a few feet from her. She continued to work with the flowers while she listened to an iPod through some ear buds. That would explain why she didn't hear me approach. I got out of my car. The door's closing got her attention and she turned around and smiled at me.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Professor Dowdy?" Though it was clearly her, my exclamation sounded more like a question.
"Hi, Tom," she said cheerily. "I was so hoping you would come today."
Tongue-tied, that's what I was. Speechless. Like the dopey 19-year-old I was, I just stood there and stared at her. Shamelessly. Right at her breasts which were contained but accentuated by the very tight tube top. And her legs. God, what legs. Perfectly shaped, tantalizingly rounded thighs, with perfectly tapered calves. Her body could have generated an erection in a corpse. But I wasn't a corpse, and she noticed the effect she was having on me.
"Tom? Are you all right?" she asked more playfully than sympathetically. I suspect she was inwardly pleased at being the cause of my discomfort.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure Professor," I lied. "I'm fine. It's just that I was expecting ... I mean, you look so much younger than you are ... I mean, I don't mean that," I kept stammering until there wasn't any more air in my lungs.
She just looked at me, smiling. I prayed I would be struck by lightening, but it was not to be.
"Shall we go in the house and get something to drink while we talk?" she invited. "Tom...?" At that point, she apparently recognized testosterone-induced incoherence when she saw it. She took me by the hand and led me into the house, depositing her iPod on the foyer table when we walked by.
As we walked through the house, the furnishings and photographs suggested there was a Mr. Dowdy or at least a man of the house. No children's photos though. Just Professor Dowdy, a considerably older man, and a few pet shots.
She guided me to the kitchen.
"What would you like to drink, Tom? We've got beer, wine, sodas, some fruit juices."
"Ginger ale would be nice if you have it," I answered. My mouth was on autopilot. The rest of me was committed to her.
"Ginger ale it is, then. I'm going to have a glass of wine if you don't mind."
She got the drinks and motioned for me to follow her to the patio in back. Once I was on the patio I could see her swimming pool. Not you usual splash pool, but a lap pool.
We sat at a round glass patio table protected from the sun by a wide umbrella.
"Nice pool," I commented.
"I thought you'd appreciate it," she said, "What with your being on the university swim team. That's very impressive, you know, for a freshman to make the team in his first year."
The quizzical look on my face once again caused her to smile.
"How did I know you're on the swim team, you're wondering?" she said. "I've been watching you at the pool. When it's warm enough I swim here at home almost every day, but in winter months the school's indoor pool is much more comfortable. What do you swim in competition?"
"I do the 100-, 400-, and 800-meter freestyle," I replied.
"Impressive," she commented sincerely. "Those take a lot of stamina."
Her eyes bore into mine before she spoke again.
"My personal favorite is the breaststroke," she said rather thickly. Was she sending me a message, or was it just my imagination. She had crossed her legs, and the already short cargo shorts had ridden even higher on her thighs. Not a ripple of fat or cellulite in sight. My eyes moved more-or-less involuntarily to her tight tube top. Her nipples were more prominent than they had been earlier. Yeah, breast stroking came to mind.
