The following day I awoke to a knock at my door.
"Wake up sleepyhead," Anna chimed, carrying a tray loaded with toast, scrambled egg and a fresh pot of steaming coffee.
She sauntered in wearing a sheer nightie and on catching my expression she laughed, "Oh, you're surprised with me after last night?"
She set the tray down and sat on the end of my bed with her hands clasped in her lap. The thin silk made a half-hearted attempt to cover her up, but she hadn't bothered to wear a bra, and I rather thought that was the way she had intended it. My eyes roved over her body, drawn to her enormous breasts and large turgid nipples surrounded by pink areolas like a bee is drawn to nectar. They hung low with their weight and wobbled invitingly whenever she moved.
"I see something has attracted your attention," she giggled.
Embarrassed and incredulous I asked, "You don't mind me looking?" Was God once again smiling on me?
"Of course not silly," she replied with twinkling eyes and a full smile, "why do you think I wore this?"
She pulled the nightie taught which made it fully transparent and leaned forward.
"Anyway, I thought it might help you rise and shine, we wouldn't want you to be late for college would we?"
My penis had instantly sprung to attention with her blatant exhibitionism and wanton abandon. She laughed and smiled like a little girl and then jumped up and let herself out of my bedroom. A few moments later, the shower flicked on downstairs and I hungrily set about the scrambled eggs on toast, finishing it off with a blast of strong coffee. Enlivened by Anna's display, I skipped out of the room and was on my way to the hall when I heard a soft voice purr, "Oh Luke dear, would you pass me a towel? Silly me, I must have left it on the toilet seat and it's too cold to get out of the shower to fetch it."
I pushed the door open and crept in, not sure how to avert my eyes. I needn't have bothered though because, without a shred of concern, Anna chirped up, "Oh you're such a dear." The steam and condensation hid some of her body but not nearly enough to obscure her enthusiastic smile. I involuntarily smiled back fascinated by her hands which were massaging a thick lather into her plump breasts that flopped from side to side as she worked. Although she appeared to be concentrating on an invisible spot on the bathroom floor, a mischievous gleam lit up her eyes and I suspected that this was more than just an impromptu happenstance.
"Just there on the seat," she said directing me to the towel behind me.
I peeled my eyes away from her body and spotted a thick pale cream bath towel neatly folded on the toilet seat and picked it up.
As I turned around she chirruped, "Just hang on a second."
Again she didn't catch my eye, innocently distracted by her new task which was to lather her hairless vagina with long stroking motions that parted her womanhood as she worked up and down her thighs.
Looking up from her work, she asked innocuously, "Can you unfold it please?"
I opened the towel and held it out as she stepped out of the shower. Water cascaded off her breasts and body as she gently shook off the excess, then satisfied, she took the towel and to my surprise, began dabbing her hair rather than covering her nakedness. She now wore the unashamed impish grin that she had the previous evening as her hands fussed with her hair displaying her ample breasts with wonderful effect, and all the time smiling in delight at my awkwardness.
"Anything wrong?" she asked in mock confusion.
She laughed again, gay and girlish and entirely happy. She bundled up her hair, holding me with her eyes whilst maintaining her constant patter of conversation that she used to divert attention from the underlying sexual chemistry that bubbled between us. My arousal was sudden and vigorous which was no doubt the outcome she had desired for her gaze sank to the swell in my pants, remained there for a second or two, before returning to my face to hold me again with her inscrutable poker face.
"Oh, could you be a dear," she asked, satisfied that her hair wouldn't spill out, "and get me another bath towel, there should be one on my bed."
Eager to perform, I bounded across the landing as best I could despite my engorged nether regions and opened her bedroom door. It smelt of her - roses and jasmine. The room had the same aspect as my bedroom, situated as it was directly beneath it, watching over the back garden. On the bed was the aforementioned towel, and beside it, arranged no doubt for my appreciation, a gift box with a neatly folded cupless black bra and matching panty set.
I returned and offered up the second towel which she used to pat the water off her pert breasts. She took quiet pleasure in this, aware of the effect on me, and only when they were perfectly dry did she run it down her trim waist, pausing mischievously on her lush labia that framed her pink slit. Satisfied that she had done all that she could to torture my poor erection, she handed it back to me and asked in all innocence, "Dry my back?"
Happy to comply, I rubbed the towel over her, lingering on her firm buttocks. To help me, or perhaps to add to the growing tension in my throbbing cock, she bent from the waist, propping her elbows on the sink. I knelt to massage her buttocks apart to reach all her nooks and crannies and brushed it over her drawstring anus and pursed lips. She appeared not to notice but once I had dried it to my satisfaction, I noticed that her slit was covered in a thin gelatinous film that oozed down her leg. She maintained outer calm and serenity, but my mind was enthralled by lurid visions of my cock slipping inside the well of her hot vagina.
She affectionately rubbed a hand through my tangled hair as I carefully dried her, almost pushing my face into her hairless sex, but with calculated precision, stopping just shy so our lips never met. Her musk was heavy in the air and to add to my pleasure, she swayed from side to side, pivoting on her hips which had the curious effect of slightly parting her well-lubricated lips. I wondered whether she was inviting me to insert my tongue, but her words from the previous night still thrummed in my head and I decided not to break the spell that she was weaving. I ran my hands lithely up either side of her thighs reaching their very limit at the cool skin of her pink labia. Even so, I dabbed them softly, reasoning that this was within the rules of her game and she duly complied by arching her back and pushing her little bottom out a little higher for my delectation. Once every part of her was perfectly dry she turned around giggling, "That's fine, dear, thank you. Now off with you. A girl needs to have a few secrets you know!"
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My day at college consisted of the usual succession of classes. Anatomy was taught by Professor Alfred Garnett, a balding man who had an encyclopaedic knowledge that extended to every tubercle and tuberosity of every bone in the human body. He loved to demonstrate his knowledge using a skeleton that he kept in his office which he wheeled out on occasion for live demonstrations. He boasted that the skeleton was from a young man hung on the gallows for stealing bread from the king's kitchen. I doubted the veracity of the story, but it made the point that life was precious and not a moment should be wasted. I had heard rumours of other specimens hidden in the subterranean vault of the anatomy building and could attest that indeed ghastly things were hidden in its bowels. In my first week, I and another student called Geoffry had become lost on our way to a seminar and had wandered down to find ourselves in the basement. It was lined floor to ceiling with shelves of formalin jars preserving carefully dissected organs. Some were mouldering and cloudy whilst others were as fresh as the day they had been made. One particularly gruesome specimen that I would never forget was that of a pregnant girl who had died during childbirth. Her deathless eyes stared back at me, and her arms clutched her ripe belly that the anatomist had dissected to expose the baby as it had lain in the open uterus. Its little head was still jammed in the birth canal. Death had preserved the mother's torment too because, despite her glassy-eyed stare, her jaw had set forever in an open-mouthed rictus of pain. Other specimens adorned the cupboards and shelves -- dissected brains and shrivelled reproductive organs that must have looked better in life than their atrophic counterparts preserved in the apothecary jars. All manner of abnormal anatomy was present too. One jar stood in a corner containing a perfectly preserved dwarf staring back with the sightless eyes of the dead. Another one had a severed arm that had been ravaged by a football-sized tumour and still, another showed a man beheaded by the French guillotine with his head perched on a pedestal beside him.
On realising our mistake, Geoffry and I had crept out of the basement and pale-faced, arrived late at our allotted seminar. We had never spoken of the experience but now that I thought back my eclectic memory recalled the nameplates on each of the offices hidden down there. I owed my extraordinary memory to a rare form of childhood epilepsy that I had inherited from my father. He, like me, had grown out of it in our teenage years, but not before I had suffered several serious fits as a very young child. I don't remember much about that period in my life other than the weeks I spent in the hospital hooked up to an EEG machine. The compassion and care shown by the doctors and nurses had given me the gift of insight so that I knew that I wanted to devote my life to medicine. However, it had also given me another gift, termed synaesthesia, which was the ability to associate one sensory form with another, such as sound with vision. I subsequently learnt that this was not uncommon in young children who suffered brain injuries. At first, it manifested as the ability to see shapes and hear sounds when others spoke, which left an indelible picture in my memory, but by the time I graduated high school, it had developed into an almost photographic memory for written names and spoken language.
As I cast my memory back I saw the nameplates and every detail of each nameplate. In my mind's eye, I was back in the apothecary room where I saw in the far corner, Brandon Fielding's name in gold lettering. I didn't know why this piece of information was important, but I had come to trust my instincts. Over the years I realised that my subconscious was triggered by subliminal cues that caused it to associate obscure bits of information drawn from my vast database of memories. I knew when this was happening because I always felt anxious as it processed the data, and then at the most unexpected times, it would spit out a half-forgotten memory that I knew was important. The memory of Brandon Fielding's nameplate carried that same feeling and a chill ran up my spine.
I couldn't concentrate as I studied in the library after class, and so returned home in the late evening to a silent house that allowed me to sneak up the stairs unnoticed. I knew that something was amiss though when I reached my bedroom door as it was outlined by the glow inside. I pushed it open to be met by Brandon sitting at my desk, casually reading my notes as if they were his own. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles framing dark pig-like eyes ad sat with his head resting in his hand. He didn't bother to turn around or look up until he had finished the page he was studying, and then he did so with a leisurely pace, unaware or uncaring that I was waiting at the door.
"Do you like this room?" he asked all of a sudden with a slight slur.
He smelt of whiskey and his eyes looked far away as if he was having difficulty focusing.
"Yes, ... Sir," I replied. I don't know why I said 'Sir' other than it felt the natural thing to say.
"Anna says that she made a mistake when she let the room." He let the words hang in the air and on hearing no defence, he continued without an ounce of apology, "She meant to say 350, not 150."
He stood up using one hand on the desk to steady himself and stifled a belch.
